Crash (Visions (Simon Pulse)) (13 page)

She shakes her head, all worked up. “You are going to be the death of me,” she says. “And your father. And your little sister. What kind of example are you?”

Oh, that’s so, so nice. “Well, maybe you’d better ask my
little sister
—” I start to say, but then I soften when I see Rowan’s face, her wide eyes begging me not to tell her secret.

“Ask her what?” my mother says. “She’s not the one in trouble here.”

“Ask her . . . why . . .” I falter, unable to think.

Rowan steps up. “Ask me why I didn’t tell you she was leaving,” she says. “Jules told me she was leaving to look for her . . . thing. And I didn’t think to tell you. And she was just . . . being . . . noble by not ratting me out. Or whatever.”

I hold Rowan’s gaze for a minute, both of us knowing our story sounds ridiculously contrived.

Mom’s not buying it. She shakes her head. “You’re in cahoots. I don’t believe either of you anymore.” She turns away and takes her next order from Tony, leaving Rowan and me standing there, afraid to even look at each other. We both disperse and get busy, working like our lives depend on it.

•       •       •

When the rush is over, Trey pulls me aside. “What are you doing?”

I’m tempted to say I’m waiting tables, but the look on his face tells me not to screw around. “Nothing. I don’t know. I had to check something so I left. Mom’s pissed.”

He frowns. “Are you still seeing those . . . crashes?”

“Yes,” I say. “And it’s just one crash. I see one crash, the same one, over and over. Snowplow hits the back of Angotti’s, and the place explodes. Dead bodies. Happy?”

He shoves his hands in his pockets and bites his lip. He can’t look at me. “Jules, I think it’s time . . .”

“Look, I know what you’re thinking. Just give me
through Saturday, okay? If it’s still happening on Sunday, I’ll do whatever you want. We can tell Mom, I can go see a shrink—whatever you want, okay? Promise. I just need to get through Valentine’s Day.”

Trey looks into my eyes, and I can tell he’s trying to see if I’m lying.

“I mean it,” I say. “Please. Just, like, three more days.”

“Are you going to follow the house rules and stop doing weird shit?”

I hesitate. “I can’t say for sure,” I say quietly. “And I also don’t think I’m crazy, Trey. Not anymore.”

His forehead wrinkles in alarm. “Oh, that’s just great.”

“No, I know what you’re thinking, but I feel perfectly normal otherwise. I think . . . okay, this is going to sound really weird, I know, but I think I’m seeing something that hasn’t happened yet. Something that’s going to happen. Like a psychic thing.” I pause, trying to gauge his reaction. “So when this event does happen . . . it should hopefully all be over for good.”
Unless there’s another crash after this
 . . . . But I don’t say that. I can’t stand the thought of that. Besides, I need to get through this one first.

Trey looks dubious. Finally he says, “How do you know it’s happening on Valentine’s?”

I bite my lip and look down at the carpet. Shake my
head. “I’m still figuring it out. But I promise I’ll tell you once I do know. Deal?”
Please.

He sighs heavily and throws his hands in the air. “Sure, whatever. Okay. So Sunday, we’re telling Mom.”

I grip his forearms and grin wide. “Yes. Thank you.”

“Just . . . be safe, okay? I’m watching you. Don’t go anywhere without telling me. Or, I know—why don’t you just stay home like you’re supposed to.”

I nod to appease him, and for the first time in my life, I look my dear brother, my best friend, in the eye, and I lie my face off. “I will.”

When I finally get a free minute, I step outside to
take out the trash and call Angotti’s using star 67 to hide my number, knowing it’s a lost cause but feeling like I have to try. Luckily, a woman answers.

“Angotti’s!”

“Good evening. I need a reservation for eight people this Saturday night at seven,” I say, trying to sound rich and important.

She nearly laughs. “For Valentine’s Day? We’ve been booked solid for weeks. The only time I have open is at eleven in the morning. I’m very sorry.”

I squinch my eyes shut. “I can assure you we’ll make it worth your while. I need the two window tables, please. Seven p.m. Six forty-five would also work if seven isn’t available.”

She hesitates. “I’m very sorry, ma’am, but it’s really not possible. We’re booked.”

“I’m a big customer,” I say. “May I please speak to the owner? Perhaps we can work something out so I don’t have to take my business elsewhere.”

She clears her throat impatiently, and I know now it’s Sawyer’s mother and I’m toast. “I
am
one of the owners,” she says, and I hear the authority rising in her voice, yet she remains calm. “And I’m sorry, but as I said, and as I continue to say, we are booked solid. I am unable to fulfill your needs at that particular time. Perhaps you’d like to come in Friday or Sunday evening instead?”

Trey peeks his head out the door and I wave him off. “I’m afraid that won’t work. Thanks anyway.” I hang up before she can respond, and then I go back inside. My mind won’t stop.

•       •       •

At one thirty in the morning I’m still lying awake, thinking, trying to figure out all the pieces of the puzzle. And all I know is that I just have to try one more time to convince Sawyer to believe me. And there’s only one way I can think of to do that right now.

By two I’ve managed to sneak out without waking anybody up, and I’m standing behind Angotti’s Trattoria, hoping the beat cop doesn’t decide to come by right now. I whip my head around when an icicle crashes off the building, and
my stomach buzzes. It’s warming up to the low thirties or so, according to the forecast, and the weekend snow is about to start. Out here, before the snow falls, it’s so quiet that you’d never know we’re in a suburb of the third-largest city in the United States.

I’m standing three feet from the window that will shatter. Four from the tables where the people will be sitting. I can see the clock inside thanks to the emergency lighting, and I synchronize my old Mickey Mouse watch.

Out here, a few feet to the left of the window, there’s an old gas meter and line that goes into the building—something I hadn’t been able to get close enough to see before now—and I guess that the kitchen is on the other side of it. It’s where the truck hits. That explains the explosion. I wonder what ignites everything once the gas flows freely. Or does it happen inside, maybe? I don’t really know. I don’t understand gas lines.

I stare at the back of the building, mesmerized, picturing everything and how it will happen.

In my hand is my cell phone. I’ve been holding it for practically an hour, debating, not daring to intrude again and risk rejection once more. But finally I do it. I have to. I call him, hoping he keeps his phone on all night like I keep mine. Hoping I don’t wake the whole family. Hoping.

It rings five times in my ear, and then it clicks. He says in a deep, sleepy voice, “Yeah?”

“Hi,” I say softly, and I realize I didn’t plan this out. “It’s . . . it’s me. Can you, um, come down? Out back?” I’m an idiot.

I hear a whoosh of breath, and feedback like his phone jostles, like he’s sitting up in bed, like he’s confused and thinking, and I expect a multitude of exasperated questions like “Who is this?” and “Are you insane?” But those don’t come.

A light in a window above me turns on, and I suck in a breath and crouch down against the block wall as if being smaller will hide me from the light.

A moment later he’s back. “Yeah,” he says. “Be there in a minute.”

And it’s like we’re in sixth grade again, and no time has passed, and we’re standing by our lockers planning what time we’re going to meet under the slide on the elementary school playground.

The phone goes dead. I keep it to my ear for a few seconds, and then lower it and put it in my pocket. Tiny bits of snow begin to float down, or maybe they were there for a while and I just noticed them. I shiver and do a mental count. Forty-one hours to go.

A few minutes later, carefully and almost silently, a figure emerges from the building, and Sawyer Angotti, the guy I’ve loved since first grade, comes over to me.

I stand up. Look up at him, at his sleepy eyes. He holds
a finger to his lips, tugs my coat sleeve, and gestures to the far street, whose name I don’t know. We walk together without speaking. When we get to the sidewalk along the road, he just puts his hands on my shoulders and looks into my eyes. “Oh, Jules,” he says, shaking his head. “What are you doing?” He gives me the half grin that almost kills me.

I swallow hard. Glad he’s not mad. “I had to come one last time to talk to you.”

He nods, resigned to listen. “All right, then. Go.”

I look down at the sidewalk. “Something bad is going to happen here,” I say, as painfully aware of his hands on my shoulders as I am of the fact that he’s not believing me, and for the millionth time I doubt myself and my own sanity. “I know when it’s going to happen now. Valentine’s night, 7:04 p.m.” I continue talking, staring blindly at his slipper shoes. “I know you don’t believe me, and it’s okay with me if the whole school thinks I’m insane. I just need to ask you to please be careful, and if there’s any way you can
not
be in the building or in this back parking lot at 7:04 p.m. on Saturday night, just even, you know, step outside the front door for a few minutes . . . please . . .” I bite my lip to stop my voice from pitching higher, into frantic mode. I can’t look him in the eye.

I hear him sigh, feel its weight in his hands on my shoulders. He rests his chin on my bowed head for a moment and pulls me closer, into him. And then he moves
his face next to mine. He smells like a man now. I wonder how long it’s been since he smelled like a boy.

My eyes close, but all I can do is stand there numbly. I wasn’t expecting this response, and I don’t know what to do with my hands—they hang stiffly at my sides. I want to wrap my arms around him, hold him, but I don’t. I can’t.

As we stand there together, bodies nearer than they’ve ever been before, I wonder how many times I will regret not holding him.

The saddest part, the part that makes the tears
rush out of the corners of my eyes as I lie in bed an hour later, staring at the ceiling, is that he thinks listening to me is enough, and believing me is too much.

In school Friday I can’t help but look for him, and I find him looking for me, his melancholy eyes sending me a weird, pitying glance, like he’s trying to empathize, and it only frustrates me.

I get it now. He’s being Sawyer, the guy who is nice to the outcasts—one of my favorite things about him. That’s the kid, the guy, I’ve always loved. But I never, ever wanted to be the target. I wanted to be the partner. He believes he’s protecting me in a way, but it feels like he’s leading me on with his listening ear, trying to be there for
an old friend who’s losing her marbles. He even sends me a text message. “You doing okay? We should talk at lunch. Under the slide?
”

And that about does me in. I can’t even answer it, because when he’s dead, I want this to be the only text in the thread on my phone.

Dear dog, I’m such a mess.

•       •       •

He finds me at the drinking fountain.

“Hey!” he says in a strangely cheerful voice. His smile isn’t the one from last night. It’s the volunteer smile, the good-student smile. The fake smile.

“Hi,” I say with as much enthusiasm as I can. I bite my lip, wondering when, between two in the morning and now, things actually changed for him. When he became distant, nice-guy Sawyer, and if he regrets going down to meet me in the middle of the night when he might not have been thinking straight.

“You doing okay?”

I smile and nod. “Mm-hmm. You?”

“A little tired.” He laughs.

My heart is breaking. I don’t want to be in this conversation. I don’t want to be his animal shelter favorite. I’d rather be ignored than that. “Yeah,” I say. My laugh is hollow, and I wonder if he notices.

“Hey, about last night,” he says, lowering his voice
considerably. “I probably can’t ever do that again, okay? So maybe don’t . . . come over. Anymore. It’s just a bad idea, you know? The family thing and all.” His face is strained, about to crack from the perma-smile. “I’d get in a lot of trouble if I got caught.”

“Sure, yeah,” I say. “Yeah, no, I won’t do that ever again. It was definitely a one time thing.” I turn my head, looking for a distraction so I can get out of here. “Just did it for old times’ sake, I guess. I don’t know. It was dumb.”

He relaxes a little, and the awkwardness, still there, has a veil over it now. “Okay, cool.” He shuffles his feet, suddenly at a loss for words. He points with his thumb down the hallway. “I’m supposed to be meeting . . . someone . . .”

“Of course, yeah. Go. Good to see you.” I wave him away and turn back to the drinking fountain.

“And—” he says in a smiley, awkward voice. “And, um, I’m not actually going to be working Valentine’s Day anyway. I’ll be at the dance. So, you know, whatever that thing is you’re worried about, well, you don’t need to worry anymore, ’cause it’s cool.”