Push by Eve Silver Page A

got pushed into this game, pushed into living this crazy double life. I had no choice when Sofu died. If he makes it through the night, his chances improve. He didn’t. He died. I never got to say good-bye. I had no say when Mom died. We’ll know more after the biopsy. Yeah, we knew more. We knew she had no chance.
    But Jackson and I have a chance, and this time, I intend to have a say.
    I stand before them, chest heaving like I’ve had the roughest workout of my life. I expect their rage. I’m ready for it.
    What I get is their laughter, the sound of warmth and light rushing through my veins, dancing in my limbs.
    “Well done, Miki Jones. Your arguments have merit.”
    I stare at them, incredulous. “This was some kind of test?” I don’t even bother to try to keep the derision from my tone.
    “Of a sort. We needed to assess essential leadership skills, your ability to think quickly, make rapid decisions in the face of imminent danger.”
    Like the decisions I’ve made in the game weren’t rapid and tinged by danger.
    “We needed to complete the puzzle.”
    The burn of resentment is powerful and fierce. I really thought they would kill me. Kill Jackson.
    “The puzzle,” I echo. An image of Sofu’s collection of Japanese puzzle boxes flashes through my thoughts—boxes that could only be opened by an obscure series of manipulations. Sometimes the solution was as simple as a touch here and another there. Sometimes it was a complicated series of movements of tiny parts. With the right influence, the box would reveal its secrets. Kind of like the Committee, the game, the rules. The only way to get information is to touch the right spot, ask the right question in just the right way. But they aren’t talking about themselves or the game or the rules; they’re saying I’m the puzzle. So what secret was the Committee trying to get me to reveal?
    “This was all an elaborate scenario to see how fast I think under pressure? To assess my leadership skills?” I pause, trying to follow the tangled threads of their logic. A horrible idea pops into my head. “Was this your way of confirming my suitability as Jackson’s replacement before you release him from the game?”
    “No.”
    I process that for a second. “You never meant to let him go, did you?” I don’t even try to hide my bitterness. I’m starting to see the Committee in a glaring new light, and it’s anything but flattering. “You used him to bring me in, then reneged on your promise.”
    “He could have chosen to leave. He had only to pay the price.”
    “He did. He brought me into the game. That was the price, the trade.” Wasn’t it? I remember Jackson’s words echoing in my thoughts: You’ve taken enough. You don’t get to take this from me. “What were you trying to take from him?”
    “Memories.”
    “Of the game.” That made sense. If he wasn’t part of it anymore, they wouldn’t want him to remember. “Why would Jackson fight so hard against you taking those memories? He hates the game. Why would he want to remember it?”
    “Because in forfeiting his memories of the game, he would also forfeit his memories of you.”
    I gasp.
    “He refused his freedom because of me?” I don’t want that responsibility. But I also don’t want to imagine him forgetting me, forgetting us , forgetting sharing lunch at the top of the bleachers, matching wits . . . kissing. I don’t want him to forget loving me, even though remembering cost him his freedom. What kind of person does that make me?
    “So what now? What happens to him? What happens to me?”
    “We resume.”
    Resume the game. Resume our lives.
    “This was all a setup.” I shake my head, barely able to grasp that. “You kept Jackson here, made me think his life was in danger, made me think I had to choose between his life or mine, for a test?” I’m about to say that what they did wasn’t fair , but even thinking the word makes me want to roll my eyes at myself. Life is