13: IS CRAZY CONTAGIOUS?

I was an hour late to dinner and starting to think I might be losing my mind. That I was even considering the idea that what Mickey was going through could somehow be real was the initial tip off that I might be losing it ... then things got weird. Or I guess, weirder. When I left the hospital, I had this nagging feeling, like I was being watched. I tried to brush it off, but my paranoia only grew.

Then I caught sight of a black sedan in my rear view mirror. It was following me, turn for turn.

Though I was devoting serious thought to the possibility that I might be losing my mind, that didn't stop me from driving around aimlessly for an extra half-hour. The sedan dropped off eventually, around the fifteen minute mark, which was around when I decided to actually head for home. I was berating myself all the while for letting my imagination get the best of me like that, but I couldn't help but remember what Mickey had said. Her words about 'other threats.'

I shoved those thoughts as far back as they would go as I walked into my house. It was only as I stepped through the doorway that I realized my mother must've been worried sick, and no sooner had the door shut behind me than was that confirmed.

"Jason Caesar Thomas!"

Though usually I would've flinched at the use of my full name, this time I just stood there. I felt a strange sense of calm wash over me as I watched my mother storm out of the kitchen and into the foyer, the look in her eyes fierce — not just in anger, but concern. "Where in the world," she demanded, stopping in front of me with her hands on her hips, "have you been?"

I killed a smart-mouth comment in my throat before it had a chance to escape. Instead, I forcibly swallowed before trying to conjure up some kind of apology. "Mom, I ..." I trailed off, but my breath seemed to stick in my throat. My thoughts were a mess in my mind, and I couldn't seem to find the words to apologize. Or say anything.

Mom's face became crestfallen in an instant as she watched me stand there with a blank face. Without another word she reached for me and hugged me as tight as she could.

"I'm sorry," I managed once she had pulled away.

She nodded once, sternly, before pointing at me in warning. "Don't you ever do something like this again," she said sternly. "I'm not going to ask where you were this time, only because of how completely hectic this past week has been. But Jason ..."

I nodded quickly. "I won't, Mom," I said quietly.

She nodded again, turning away from me. "You'd better not. Now come on," she was already heading back to the kitchen, "your brothers are having dessert, and they missed you."

I headed after her slowly, still trying to sort my thoughts out. The loudest one was the persistent question of Am I losing it too? It proved to be the most difficult to ignore, and it was because of that that I was in a daze once I was in the kitchen. I was quickly knocked out of said daze when two pairs of arms wrapped themselves around my legs.

"Luke, Carter," Mom sighed, "you said you wanted ice cream. Please finish it before climbing on your brother."

Luke let out a huff — he'd always been the most dramatic one — before turning his huge brown eyes up at me. "You're gonna come sit, too, right Jase?"

"Yeah, right Jase?" Carter persisted, flashing me a smile, dimples and all.

I smiled in return, ruffling their hair before scooting them back toward the table. "Yeah, I'm coming to sit, goofballs," I assured them.

A chorus of celebration went up at that, and the two of them rushed off as fast as their little legs could carry them, clambering into their seats. They continued eating their ice cream before I could even sit down, and once I had, they both started talking at once. The joy of having twins for younger brothers is that silence does not exist, as they so often liked to remind me.

"So today—" Luke began.

"—we did a science experiment with Oreos!" Carter said around a mouthful of chocolate ice cream.

"Yeah!" Luke nodded seriously, before shoveling more ice cream into his mouth. "We learnin' th' phases 'f th' moo'!" he said around the mouthful.

"Phases of the moon, huh?" I echoed, smiling amusedly at both of them.

They nodded vigorously. "'S important stuff," Carter told me seriously. "Our teacher said so."

"Ah, yes," I nodded somberly. "Third grade learning is all foundational, you know."

"What's foundational mean?" Carter asked.

"Sounds like fountain," Luke volunteered. "Does it mean fountain, Jase?"

Mom had given me a look when I'd sat down without grabbing a plate and food, and she was continuing to give me that look now. Her arms were crossed over her chest, and her eyes were narrowed. "No, Luke, it doesn't mean fountain," I said, before mouthing to her, "Not hungry."

Mom's brows arched at that, a clear sign she wasn't buying it, but she didn't push the matter either. Instead she went about beginning to put the food away.

"Oh." Luke shrugged at that, apparently not interested in the legitimate definition of the word, and continued to eat his ice cream.

The doorbell rang then, and before I could get up to answer it, Mom waved me off. She slid the tupperware into the fridge before moving off to answer the door, leaving me with the boys. "What else did you do in school today?" I asked, propping up my arms on the table as I watched them.

Carter pointed a finger at Luke, "He punched Hunter!"

Luke punched Carter's shoulder. "You weren't supposed to tell!"

"It's just Jase!" Carter protested, frowning at Luke in return. "And you didn't have to—" he then punched Luke's shoulder, "—hit me!"

"Okay, okay," I said, suppressing my smile as best as I could, "remember how Mom feels about punching at the table."

"Sorry," they chorused, before going back to their ice cream.

I was about to ask what Hunter — one of their long-time friends — had done to deserve being punched, before Mom peeked back in. She flashed me a smile, "Mickey's here to see you," she said cheerfully. Clearly she had had an encounter with the deceptively sweet Mickey, and not the one I was now used to seeing. "She says she just needs to talk to you real quick ... something about getting all of her missed assignments for school." She didn't give me a chance to say anything after that, instead turning her attention to the twins; "Okay, boys. Bowls in the sink, and head upstairs. It's bath time!"

A chorus of groaning and grumbling followed me as I left the kitchen and headed for the living room.

Mickey was standing near the couch, looking around the room with the sharp, critical gaze I was getting more used to seeing. Her eyes cut to me once I had entered the room, and she canted her head as she watched me approach her.

"Why do I get the feeling you just lied to my mother?" I asked with a sigh, stopping in front of her and looking down at her carefully.

I hadn't seen these clothes before, I realized as I studied her. Black skinnies were tucked into knee-high combat boots, and tight fitting leather jacket had replaced her older, larger worn one. It stopped right at her wrists, instead of going just over her hands, and was fitted on her torso even without being zipped up. When she spoke, it drew my eyes back up to hers. "Because your instincts aren't entirely shot."

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. "What do you want, Mick?"

She waved a finger at me, before letting out a breath that sounded much like a growl. "My name isn't Mickey. That's why I'm here." She crossed her arms over her chest, giving the room another once over before looking back at me. "I figured out what's happening, and big surprise: I was right. Whatever bizarre mindset you are in," she waved a hand at my person in general, "is wrong."

"What are you talking about?" I asked in exasperation, carding my fingers through my hair as I tried to keep my cool. I was getting sick of this.

"I'm saying you are actually Rebel, and something in our world has gone very wrong." Everything about her was serious now, from the look in her eyes, to her voice, to the way she held herself. She wasn't tapping her fingers in impatience, or glaring at me like I'd just caused World War Three. "LASAR was infiltrated — terminated," she said, her lips pressed together. "That was part of what I've been doing ... it took me a while to remotely access the mainframe of LASAR's network, since I'm no computer genius, but once I did, I found footage—"

"Mickey," I said loudly, cutting her off and giving her a stern look, "this isn't real. You have amnesia, your name is Michelle Thea Davidson--"

"It isn't!" she retorted just as loudly as I had. Fury leaked out of her composure this time, her body shifting into a stance that suggested she was ready and willing to fight me if need be.

Size doesn't mean much in a fight. What matters is skill.

I froze, though I wasn't sure if it was because of the foreign thought that passed through my mind, or the complete wrath Mickey was portraying. When she spoke, it was through her teeth, and it was evident she was trying to maintain her composure. "You were followed today, weren't you? Because people are after us. They didn't know where we were at first, but now ... soon, I won't be able to keep doing this with you, Rebel. You need to come with me."

I somehow found it in me to ignore the fact that she knew someone had been following me. It had to be coincidence — some weird, bizarre coincidence that just further fueled this fantasy she was experiencing. I shook my head slowly. "They aren't real. Your head ... it isn't right right now, Mickey."

She scowled at me, though the anger she'd priorly erupted in slowly faded. Fire remained in her eyes, smoldering like coals, but this time she chewed on her bottom lip before shaking her head. "You can't say I didn't try," she eventually muttered, pushing her way past me and heading toward the door. I wasn't sure if her words were meant for me, or herself. She shot me a look over her shoulder once she reached the door. "When they come again, I'll be there."

"They won't," I retorted, though it came right as the door closed. I stood there, dumbfounded by the entire ordeal. I couldn't remember the last time Mickey and I had resorted to yelling at each other. But this, I reminded myself, wasn't Mickey. Not any more.

"Oh, did Mickey leave already?" Mom asked from the hallway, peering at me carefully.

I nodded mutely.

Mom hummed and nodded. "You know, Jason, I didn't know you and Mickey were taking Russian."

I turned toward her, perplexed. "What're you talking about?"

She smiled somewhat. "I heard whatever you last said to each other; it was Russian, wasn't it? It sounded like it."

I turned my dumbfounded stare to the door then. I didn't know Russian. As far as I knew, Mickey didn't know Russian. "I don't think so, Mom." Probably, she had just misheard ...

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