The Jump

Contents Cover Title Page Dedication 1. Jax 2. Yas 3. Han 4. Spider 5. Jax 6. Yas 7. Han 8. Jax 9. Han 10. Jax 11. Han 12. Spider 13. Jax 14. Yas 15. Jax 16. Han 17. Jax 18. Yas 19. Jax 20. Han 21. Jax 22. Yas 23. Han 24. Jax 25. Yas 26. Spider 27. Yas 28. Han 29. Spider 30. Jax 31. Spider Acknowledgments About the Author Copyright Guide Cover Start of Content Title Page Dedication Acknowledgments About the Author Copyright III V VI 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104 105 106 107 108 109 110 111 112 113 114 115 116 117 118 119 120 121 122 123 124 125 126 127 128 129 130 131 132 133 134 135 136 137 138 139 140 141 142 143 144 145 146 147 148 149 150 151 152 153 154 155 156 157 158 159 160 161 162 163 164 165 166 167 168 169 170 171 172 173 174 175 176 177 178 179 180 181 182 183 184 185 186 187 188 189 190 191 192 193 194 195 196 197 198 199 200 201 202 203 204 205 206 207 208 209 210 211 212 213 214 215 216 217 218 219 220 221 222 223 224 225 226 227 228 229 230 231 232 233 234 235 236 237 238 239 240 241 242 243 244 245 246 247 248 249 250 
 
 Acclaimed Author of Slay and The Cost of Knowing
 Brittney Morris
 The Jump
 
 
 
 
 
 To everyone who’s sick and tired.
 We’re going to make it.
 
 
 Jax
 It’s a regular Tuesday morning.
 My mama is crocheting, my zaza is washing zucchini from the garden, my sister, Ava, is writing in her journal, and I’m trying to figure out where this QR code clue leads so my team can win this week’s cryptology puzzle and stay at the top of the Vault leaderboard.
 My fingers fly across my phone keyboard under the table as I stare absentmindedly into my almond-milk oatmeal with raisins and pepitas.
 ME: I’ve looked at everything. Code might be a dead end.
 At least I hope that’s what I typed. Autocorrect gods, take pity on me. Phones aren’t allowed at the table, or in the morning before school, but I have a clue to find.
 Just as I’m about to let go of my phone, I feel four distinct buzzes in my hand. My phone only buzzes when I get a text in all caps, and the team only texts me in all caps when they’ve got a lead.
 I have to look.
 “So, Ava-bear,” says Mama, setting her crochet project down and leaning her elbows on the table. “How’s journaling going?”
 Ava sighs and runs a hand through her long dark hair, pulling it all to one side and twisting it around itself. She’s only older than me by a couple of years, but she has the cynicism of someone twice her age.
 “I mean, it’s going,” she says, her voice a low early-morning croak. “I’m doing affirmations right now. None have come true, but they’re making me more optimistic, I think.”
 “Good.” Mama smiles, tucking a loose strand of hair behind Ava’s ear. Mama reaches into the tiny satchel at her hip, and I wonder if I have time to glance at my phone, but she’s too fast. She pulls a roller ball out of her bag, takes Ava’s wrist in her hand, and rolls the oil gently over her veins.
 “Lavender for calm,” Mama says, still smiling, “and…” She pulls a crystal on a string out of her bag and slips it over Ava’s head. “Blue tourmaline for tranquility.”
 The concentration grooves between Ava’s eyebrows melt away, and a smile spreads across her face. “Thanks, Mama,” she says.
 “I know you don’t think they work,” says Mama, pulling out another crystal on a string and turning to me, “and you probably won’t until you really need it. But even if it only works as a visual reminder of what it represents, it works.”
 The string goes over my head, and I look down at the pointy purple crystal sitting in the middle of my chest.
 “Amethyst today,” says Mama, “for protection.”
 That’s a new one.
 “Why do you think I’ll need protection today?” I ask. She shrugs and scratches around a bandage taped to the inside of her forearm, covering a new tattoo.
 “Just a feeling,” she says, leaning in and kissing my forehead. “There are a lot of protests going on downtown today—okay, Juju-bean? Be careful.”
 My phone buzzes again.
 My heart skips.
 I glance at the clock.
 7:47 a.m.
 Too early to leave for school.
 I open my mouth to make an excuse to leave the table besides the fact that I want to go look at my phone. Maybe I forgot my backpack upstairs. Shit, it’s on the floor next to me. My phone? Nah. As soon as I stand up, everyone will be able to see its imprint through my sweatshirt pocket. Maybe I need to pee? Nah, Mama knows that one well.
 Before I can think of an excuse that will work, the conversation continues.
 “She’s right,” says Zaza, glancing over at all of us at the table and setting a colander full of zucchini on the kitchen counter. “Lots of protests. Everyone’s angry