Struck by Jennifer Bosworth Page A

and so do you .
    “No …”
    What can you do, Mia? Isn’t it time you found out? Or do you already know?
    Mr. Kale’s eyes were oil-dark and blazing. Mesmerizing. I tore my gaze from his, grabbed Parker’s arm, and hauled him out the door, slamming it behind us. The buzzing in my head ceased, and Mr. Kale’s voice died with it, but I kept on running, dragging Parker with me, until we reached the stairs. Then he finally dug in his heels and stopped us.
    I expected Parker to demand we go back, hear the rest, but the look on my face must have convinced him to let it go.
    “You’re white as a sheet,” he said, brows drawing together in worry. “You’re not gonna pass out again, are you? Do you need to sit down?”
    I shook my head, keeping my eyes on Mr. Kale’s classroom door, praying it wouldn’t open.
    “Can we please go home? Please, Parker?” I was begging. I didn’t care. I wanted to get as far away from room 317 as possible.
    Parker, too, glanced down the hallway at Mr. Kale’s door. Then he sighed and nodded. “Let’s go home.”

8
    “WHAT’S HE STILL doing here?” Parker asked as we turned the corner onto our street. He pointed at Militiaman Brent, standing on the sidewalk in front of our house. His posture was very bodyguard, legs wide, arms crossed high on his chest.
    When I saw him, my stomach lurched. Had something happened? Had someone tried to break in?
    I parked at the curb and killed the engine. Militiaman Brent didn’t turn around. Didn’t move a muscle. He was like one of those soldiers on guard at the Queen of England’s house.
    Parker eyed Militiaman Brent warily. “I’ll go check on Mom.” He skirted around the man, unlocked the door, and slipped inside. I grabbed the small box containing our rations off the backseat.
    “Hi, Mili—hi, Brent,” I said, approaching.
    He nodded. “Mia.”
    “Have you been here since this morning?”
    “Left at noon to go home and make a sandwich, but I came right back after that.”
    “You know, when I asked you to keep an eye on thehouse, I didn’t mean to enlist you as a permanent guard. If you have other things you need to do—”
    “Saw the kid with the glasses, the one’s been watching your house.”
    Words went solid in my throat. I had to cough them out. “Are you sure it was him?”
    “Boy about your age, here not fifteen minutes ago. When he saw me he got real nervous and walked away. He had glasses on, but not dark ones like you told me he wore. More like the ones the yuppies wear.”
    “Square with black frames?” I asked, my mouth going dry.
    “Yep, those’re the ones.”
    “And dark hair? Really, really good-looking?”
    Brent puffed out his chest and drew back his head so far that it became part of his neck. “He had dark hair, yeah.”
    I swallowed hard. It was Jeremy. It had to be.
    “You know the kid?” Brent asked.
    “I think so. I have a class with him.”
    Brent’s eyes got small. “This guy have a crush on you?”
    Heat sizzled up my neck. “No,” I said quickly.
    The corners of Militiaman Brent’s mouth tugged down. “Sounds like you got yourself a stalker.” He reached into his pocket, took out a small canister, and handed it to me.
    I read the words on the label. “Pepper spray?”
    He nodded. “All you gotta do is point and press the button. But make sure you don’t point it at your own face on accident. And try not to breathe any of it in, or you’ll feel like you took a shot of napalm.”
    “Well … thanks.”
    “You see that stalker of yours, don’t hesitate. Just spray.”
    Militiaman Brent’s words followed me up the walk and into the house. Jeremy, a stalker? No way. A guy like Jeremy didn’t need to stalk.
    When I opened the front door, I heard a strangled cry and immediately fumbled the can of pepper spray. So much for the point and shoot.
    I ran for Mom’s room.
    Mom was on her bed, knees pulled into her chest and surrounded with her arms, her whole body shuddering. She broke