What if it’s not Jackson? What if it’s a Drau? A shell?

For a second, I have this horrific thought that Mrs. Gertner’s a shell. And the girl at the bookstore. Maylene. Any of the kids or even the teachers at school. Any of the neighbors on my street. The postman. The—

They’re not. I’m being ridiculous. I need to keep a grip because if I don’t, I won’t survive this. And I mean to survive. It’s as simple as that.

I ditch my shoes, drop my bag in my room, but I’m too edgy to sit. Instead, I run the vacuum through the house, taking my time, following my pattern, doing each room in small, rectangular sections.

“Making chicken casserole tonight,” Dad says when he gets home. It’s his night to cook. Maybe he reads the hesitation on my face, because he offers a sarcastic smile. “Low-fat cheese, lots of broccoli, diced tomatoes, and mushrooms.”

“Sounds great.” It’s still not the healthiest thing ever, but he’s trying.

After I finish vacuuming, I throw together a salad to go along with the casserole. Dinner’s actually not half bad. We talk about a couple of movie trailers that interest us both, and I start to relax, the edge of my anxiety dulling. At least until Dad gets done talking about the trailers and starts on a new topic.

“So, that boy . . . Luka, right?” Dad says. “You want to talk about him?”

I fork in a mouthful of food to avoid saying anything. But Dad just keeps looking at me as I chew and swallow, and I finally say, “He’s just a guy I know from school.”

“Do you, um . . .” Dad carefully sets his fork down on his plate. Then he reaches for his water glass and moves it a quarter inch to the right. He clears his throat. He moves his water glass a quarter inch to the left.

I shovel in another forkful of casserole. If my mouth’s full, I won’t have to speak.

“I was about your age when I . . . Well, there was this girl. She was a couple of years older, and she had these—”

I hold up my hand, palm forward. “Don’t do it, Dad. Once you say it, you can never unsay it.” No matter how much I might wish he could.

He purses his lips and nods. “Did you, um . . . Did Mom ever . . . I mean, do you have classes about, uh, health . . . in school? I think you’re too young to . . .”

Oh no. No, no, no. My day has been bad, but this is worse.

I lift my hands and dip my head down. “Yep. School. Classes. Health classes. Got it covered.”

“Well, there are things you need to watch out for. Diseases and—”

“Wow, I forgot to tell you I saw Mrs. Gertner today on the driveway. She told me all about her hemorrhoid surgery. Fascinating stuff.”

Dad stares at me. His mouth twitches. “Preferable to what I’m trying to talk to you about?”

“Pretty much.”

He lifts his head and stares straight into my eyes. I want to crawl under the table and stay there. He takes a deep breath. “I think you should wait before you . . .” He gives a decisive nod. “I think you should wait until you’re fifty.”

“Fifty.” I sigh. “Dad, we do not need to talk about this. I know the basics.”

His expression darkens.

“Not because I have any experience,” I hasten to reassure him. I don’t. Not really. When other girls were starting to date, I was mourning. Oh, I played spin the bottle in sixth grade. Didn’t everyone? I still remember my first French kiss. I spun. The bottle pointed to Roland Davis. I puckered up and put my lips to his and he unexpectedly put his fat tongue in my mouth. I squawked like a chicken and almost hurled. Carly laughed till she cried, and in the end, I laughed too. Thinking back on it, I feel sort of sorry for Roland. I don’t think he laughed.

I got to the hand-holding stage and a few okay kisses with Sam Pitt when we went steady for a month in eighth grade. And that’s the sum total of my personal experience.

Except for Jackson, who’s never kissed me, but who’s held me in his arms and made me wish he’d kiss me.

The second that thought surfaces, I squish it like a bug. Thinking like that will only win me trouble and heartbreak. Jackson Tate is as dangerous as they come, and I’m more of a careful sort of girl.

“Just the basic textbook concepts, okay?” I add when Dad keeps staring at me.

He nods and starts eating again.

“So, how about this warm weather?” I ask, and launch into a pretty one-sided discussion of the sun and blue sky. Every once in a while, Dad adds a word or two, but I can see he’s still thinking about our last topic. After a few minutes, I jump up and clear the plates and have a genuine reason to turn my back to him as I stack the washer and scrub the pots. By the time I’m done, he’s settled in front of the TV and I can escape to my room.

“Going up to do homework,” I mumble.

I close the door behind me, sink back against it, and breathe a sigh of relief. The day’s almost done. Tomorrow has to be better. Tears sting my eyes at the thought. How many times have I told myself that? How many times have I forced myself out of bed in the morning, trying to believe that this is the day everything will be fine?

Hasn’t happened yet. Well, except for moments in the game. If I’m honest, there are times that I do feel normal there. And how messed up is that? The only time I feel really okay is when I’m in an alternate reality fighting aliens. That’s just wrong on any level.

Except, maybe it isn’t. Maybe I feel like I’m okay in the game because I’m doing something bigger than me. My sadness, my loss, they seem small compared to an alien invasion. Jackson seems to think we’re saving the world. Four teenagers, saving the world. I roll my eyes. Right.