Rush by Jonathan Friesen Page A

“Thirty-eight years fighting blazes—my gut is why I’m still alive. You’re just a boy.”
    Silence. Scottie releases my shoulders and turns. I look from Dad to my brother. Their backs are turned, and they don’t budge, and it seems a good time to leave.
    â€œIf you two don’t mind, I’m gonna—”
    Dad flings his arm toward me, shoos me like a fly. “Go on back to your trash heap.”
    I snap, as certain and permanent as bone, and I want to smack him.
    Scottie reaches out and grabs my shoulder. I pull away, and he grabs again, and hugs me, hard and real.
    I go weak and lower my head onto his shoulder. Whenever I see a group part for Scottie, hear them shut up when he opens his mouth, my chest wants to burst. That’s my brother. The brilliant one. Scottie’s the right look and the right word at the right time. Always. But I hate him. I have to hate him, ’cause if I don’t, I’ll shrivel up and die.
    I lift up my head and tense until he lets go.
    â€œGo home, Jake.” Dad nods toward the door. “Scottie and I need to finish this.”
    I back out and pound down metal steps. I don’t know what’s happening in there, but I can’t be near it.
    I drive my treasure into the mountains, heap the scraps next to the ramp, and pound planks into place.
    The club full of Immortals. My kind of place.
    But soon the sky opens. I wrap my tools as rain falls in sheets, and I slowly wind down toward home.
    I pull in the drive, walk toward the door. It doesn’t feel right.
    Above me, a crash. The barrel of Scottie’s bat smashes out the bedroom window and shards of glass rain onto the lawn beside me.
    I slowly push inside.
    Dad calmly walks by, says nothing.
    I reach for his arm. “Why is Scottie—”
    Another crash from upstairs, and Dad pauses, stares at the floor. He turns, his eyes glazed and his voice a monotone. “The body was facedown, floating in the caves.”
    The most terrifying scream fills the house—nonhuman, filled with emotions I don’t know. But it is human. It’s Scottie. And I want to run, toward him, away from him, just run.
    Dad swallows hard, rubs his face with his hand, and tells me the only thing I don’t want to know.
    â€œIt was Kyle.”

CHAPTER 9
    I CAN’T SLEEP.
    One day Kyle’s walking into my house; the next he’s bloated and dead.
    I get out of bed, step out of my room, and walk down the hall. Mom’s flower-print chair, the only remnant of her left in the house, faces out the oversize window. I sink into the cushion, put up my feet, and stare out. It’s dark at Salome’s—a safe dark.
    I run fingers along the radiator and pause. I’ve reached the spot rubbed gray, where no white paint remains. Where ten-year-old hands once tied quick knots out of bedsheets. It was a fast rappel down the side of the house and a race across Salome’s yard, and it was worth it.
    â€œHow did you get up here, Jake?”
    â€œI slid down the sheets and climbed up your bricks. Wanna come out?”
    â€œIt’s ten, no, it’s eleven o’clock, and if Mom checks on me . . .” She stares out her window. “How do you climb bricks?”
    â€œFast. You have to move fast.”
    â€œYou have to leave fast. I think Mom’ll be mad.”
    â€œYeah, okay. I just wanted to say good night.”
    â€œYou came all the way over to say good night?”
    I nod my head.
    â€œThat’s nice.”
    I scamper down, run home, and pull myself up the sheets, arm over arm. Salome is still watching. I know she is, and I want to make sure she sees how strong I am.
    The moon shines full, and I rise. “Good night, Salome. I . . . will see you tomorrow.” I amble toward my room and freeze. Light glimmers from beneath Scottie’s door, and I turn the knob, peek in.
    He places clothes into a suitcase: no duffel stuffing like when Dad was called