Crash (Visions (Simon Pulse)) (3 page)

I slip back out to the living room and cue it all up again, staring at the TV like I’m in some kind of weird hypnotic zone, not seeing the movie at all. I rub my bleary eyes and hit slow play, and it’s there like before. A few seconds later there’s the close-up of the three body bags, and then it’s over and the commercial starts.

I rewind to see if I can pause the scene on the body bags close-up, which I hadn’t really noticed before in the regular-speed version. It’s like a hidden frame at regular speed, too fast for the human brain to comprehend.

I hit the slow-play button and then wait for it, and pause it at the exact right moment. It’s a slightly blurry shot, but it’s obvious what I’m looking at. I scan the picture, noting that one of the bags isn’t zipped up all the way. The plastic is folded over at the top corner, and the head of the dead body is exposed. I’m strangely drawn to it out of curiosity, rather than repulsed by it.

I squint for a better look. And then my heart bangs around in my chest and I lean forward, get down on the cluttered floor, and crawl to the TV to get a better look.

And then I suck in a scream.

The dead face belongs to Sawyer Angotti.

I scramble to my feet and stumble back to the chair, grab the remote, and hit the power button so many times I actually turn the thing off, then on, then off again before my brain can compute that I’ve gotten rid of the image from the TV.

My heart won’t stop freaking out inside my chest. “No way,” I whisper, as if that will take away the scene I just saw. “No way, no way, no way.”

I pinch my arm to make sure I’m not having a nightmare, and it hurts, so I think this is real. I pace in the
narrow carpeted space that isn’t covered by hoards of junk, talking to myself, trying to calm down. But I can’t.

Why am I seeing this?

What the hell is going on?

I go back to the remote and turn the TV on, flinching and shuddering as I delete the movie. Then I delete a bunch of other stuff that Rowan will kill me for, but I can’t help it. I need to get these images away from me. I need to get this scene off my TV, off my billboard, out of my local theater, and make it go away.

When I hit the power button again, I’m enveloped in darkness, and I can’t stop thinking about dead bodies lying in wait under Dad’s piles of junk. It’s like a nightmare, only I’m not asleep, my mind playing tricks on me. I skitter to my room and get into bed where it’s safe, pulling my blankets up to my chin and hugging my pillow. My Sawyer pillow.

•       •       •

I toss and turn, checking the clock every few minutes. Willing my mind to go blank, willing myself to go to sleep, which makes it even more impossible. I have this ridiculous urge to call Sawyer to make sure he’s alive, but tell myself I’ll be mortified at school tomorrow if I do that. I mean, I just saw him alive this morning! There’s no way he could be dead.

After a while I hear Mom coming up the steps. She
clatters in the kitchen, and then I can hear her moving things around in the living room, probably throwing junk away. A while later she makes her way to her bedroom, where she and Dad will sleep until nine thirty or ten, and then she’ll get up and do the restaurant thing all over again, with or without my dad.

Eventually, I calm down. Sometime after two I drift off, the vision following me into my dreams.

Six a.m. comes fast. We three kids all stupidly
get up at the same time every morning—hey, old habits are hard to break; besides, we miss each other
so much
after literally hours of being apart. Automatically Rowan and I kick ourselves loose from our blankets and race to the door. I whip it open, and there’s Trey emerging from his room. Expertly, and almost quietly, we jostle and shove each other in the packed hallway as we jockey for the first slot in the bathroom. Trey shoves his butt against my hip and throws me off balance, knocking me into Rowan, who almost pitches a whole stack of Christmas cookie tins over—holy shit, what a racket that would be! I swallow a snort and Trey strikes a triumphant Gaga pose in the bathroom doorway before sliding in and closing the door. It’s
kind of like we live in that
Silent Library
game show and we’re all trying to be superquiet while competing to win at a ridiculously noisy challenge, which makes everything so much more hilarious.

But once I have a minute to remember what happened last night, the fun evaporates and I start getting this recurring wave of nausea. I can’t handle the thought of breakfast right now, so I pocket a granola bar for later. After an hour, when I’m waiting for Rowan to finish her makeup so we can go, I cautiously flip on the TV, hoping I can find the news and not a creepy encore of last night. Thankfully, there’s just some morning talk show. No mention of explosions or body bags. No weird vision taunting me.

Trey slips past me and flies down the stairs two at a time without saying good-bye. We’ll see each other at school. We’re in the same lunch and sculpting class—which we of course elected to take because why the heck not bring our pizza-crust-making skills to a new level with clay? The other day I was making a plate on the potter’s wheel and nearly threw it up into the air when I was daydreaming about Sawyer.

My stomach clenches again.

Sawyer. Body bag. Is he dead already?

In the hallway outside the bathroom, I jiggle the door handle and whisper as harshly as I can, “Hurry up, Rowan!”

Finally she comes.

•       •       •

We ease out of the alley in the meatball truck. Today’s trip to school is brought to you by two chicks with big balls. Har har. Rowan flips down the mirrored sun visor and puts on lip gloss, then fusses with her hair. A minute later she sighs and snaps the visor back up, slouching into the seat like she’s given up on her looks for the day. She’s been fussy about her looks a lot lately. I think she’s got a crush, but I don’t say anything. She pulls out her phone and takes a picture of herself and then studies it. I smile and focus on the road.

Traffic is busy, making every block agonizingly slow, and I’m hitting almost all the lights red. I tell myself not to look at the billboard as we pass, and almost manage it. But I steal a glance at the last second, and there’s no Cuervo . . . just the crash. At school we park in the back of the lot, which is the only place the truck fits.

I sprint through the parking lot to the school, hugging my book bag and avoiding icy spots, leaving Rowan behind. Inside I speed walk to my locker and look down the hall like I always do, to where Sawyer is usually standing, hanging out with his friends, some of whom are my former friends.

I stand on my tiptoes, straining to see through the crowd.

At first I don’t see him, but then, thank the dogs, there he is in his usual spot. How weird is it that I feel my
eyes well up with tears of relief for a second? He glances my way, and I almost duck, but realize at the last moment that that would look even more stupid than me staring, so I quickly turn my head and stare into my locker, blinking hard.

And then my respiratory system checks in, reminding me to breathe before I pass out. Sweat pricks my scalp. I whip my hat off and slip out of my jacket, and then try to smooth down my flyaway hair in the little mirror I have inside my locker door.

I want to start walking to class, but my legs are still a little too weak to keep me from tripping down the hallway. The whole time I’m standing here, all I can think about is how Sawyer isn’t dead. This vision thing scared the living crap out of me for no good reason. These crazy scenes I’m seeing are meaningless. So I guess there’s maybe something wrong . . . with me.

All I know is that it can’t be a mental illness.

Not like depression. Not like hoarding.

Please . . . it just can’t be like those things at all.

I don’t look at the billboard. I don’t turn on the TV.
I don’t go to any movies. For a week, I keep my head down, go to school, go to work, do homework, go to bed. Still, every morning at school I look over at Sawyer to make sure he’s alive.

He always is.

•       •       •

Five reasons why I love a guy who won’t talk to me:

1. In first grade he always let me be the cheetah

2. He’s kind to people, even the unpopular ones, and if I ever really needed him, I bet he’d help me

3. He isn’t gross

4. He’s soft-spoken, under the radar, but
somehow everybody seems to know and like him

5. He volunteers at the Humane Society on Saturday mornings

Do I think Sawyer has something against my family? Sure, he has to. But he’s not
mean
to me—he just ignores me most of the time now. Still, when we were forced to pair up for a science project in ninth grade, we talked almost like normal, which gave me so much hope it practically killed me after the project was over and things went back to the way they were.

I don’t get it. I’m just not really into the drama of this whole family-rivalry thing. It stresses me out. I’m guessing he’s not into it either, because we never talked about it. We never discussed seventh grade and what happened. Now I sort of appreciate that about him, because it could have started a big fight, and we could have ended up having a major problem. And I know that if classmates began taking sides, he’d win epically.

Outside of forced projects, we steer clear of one another, because obviously I’m not going to follow him around. Much. It’s not like I don’t have other shit to do besides moon around after a boy. I mean, I watch him, though. Like, all the time, but I’m not a creep or anything. And I eavesdrop. That’s how I know about him
volunteering at the Humane Society. I really hope one day I’ll get over him. Sometimes I think I’m past it all, but then he does that smile and reality hits.

•       •       •

Saturday morning, on our way into the city for the lunch rush, I make Trey drive past the Humane Society to see if Sawyer’s car is there. It is. I don’t know why I keep worrying about him when ignoring all of this is what I really want to do, but I can’t shake that image of his dead face from my mind.

“What’s going on with you?” Trey asks after a while.

“Just tired,” I say automatically. It’s the stock answer in our house whenever we don’t want to talk. Everybody understands tired—nobody questions it, nobody tries to talk you out of it.

But Trey knows me better than anybody. “Why don’t you ever do anything for fun?”

I snort. “When?”

“Mom will give you nights off for stuff. You know that.”

“I . . . don’t have anything else to do.”

“You could go see a movie—”

“No,” I say.

Trey glances at me at a stoplight as we near our destination. I stare straight ahead. I can’t look at him or he’ll know something’s wrong. I focus on the construction
crews along the side of the street hanging up banners for a spring flower show at the conservatory. In that instant, all the banners, as far ahead of us as I can see, change.

I suck in a breath. The banners now advertise dead Sawyer Angotti’s face.

“What’s wrong?” Trey asks. His voice is concerned.

“Nothing,” I say. I lean down and pretend to rummage around in my purse. “Seriously. I just need more sleep.”

“I don’t believe you.”

I don’t know what to say to that. Besides, it’s time to park the balls and feed some hungry people.

Every time I hand food out the window to the customers, I catch the long line of banners out of the corner of my eye and see Sawyer’s dead face. “Go away,” I mutter.

A customer looks at me, taken aback.

“Oh, no—not you,” I say. “I’m so sorry.” Great, now I’m insulting customers and talking to the banners. No mental illness here.

I keep my eyes closed for the ride home.

Back at the restaurant for the dinner rush, Dad
is in the kitchen with his chef jacket on, which is a good sign. Trey and I exchange a glance and Trey calls out, “Hey, Pops.”

Dad looks up and smiles. “How’s my boy?” His voice booms. It always has. He’s been startling innocent children for as long as I can remember. Luckily, Trey did not inherit that trait. “Did you have a good day? Where’d you end up? Any other trucks out in this weather?” He can never just ask one question when he’s feeling good.

I let Trey handle him and keep walking, grabbing a fresh apron and tying it around my waist on my way to the hostess stand.

“Hey, Aunt Mary,” I say. She’s my dad’s sister. She
reaches for me and air-kisses my cheek, then squeezes my upper arm and shakes me like she’s been doing since I was a little girl.

“So beautiful!” she declares loudly. “You have your father’s face.”

Yeah . . . uh . . . thanks. That’s not, like, a weird thing to say to a girl or anything. I smile and ask, “Is it busy? Where’s Rowan?”

“Tables seven and eight—a ten-topper. Rowdy bunch of hooligans. Maybe Trey should help her.”

I try not to scowl. Aunt Mary still lives in the last century. “I’m sure she and I can handle it fine. Trey’s doing deliveries tonight. He’s talking to Dad.”

Aunt Mary gives me a knowing look.

We never discuss Dad’s little “problem” with anybody. It’s this huge secret everybody knows but nobody talks about. Nobody’s allowed in our apartment. Nobody who knows us personally asks why. Just invoking Dad’s name is enough to stop Aunt Mary from pressing the issue. Talk about power. The guy who does the weirdest shit has all the power.

I grab a pen and an order pad, head into the dining room, and catch Rowan’s eye. She gives me a stricken look and points with a sideways nod to the big group. I look, and my heart sinks. It’s a bunch of kids from school, looking like they’re all on one giant, icky date. With a glance I
see three guys who have tortured Trey in one manner or another since middle school. Two of the girls, Roxie and Sarah, used to be my friends in elementary school, before the cliques formed. Roxie was even upstairs for my sixth birthday party, back before the formation of the psycho’s dump.

I get the status from Rowan and help her bring out the drink orders. I smile politely at anyone who catches my eye. I am not here to socialize. I am here to serve as their nanny and slave, clean up when they make a huge sticky mess of sodden sugar packets, hot-pepper water glasses, and clogged parm shakers, and smile gratefully as I watch them not leave a tip. And I will promptly dismiss it from memory the next time I see them, when they call out in the hallway, “Hey, Jules, how are the big balls treating you?” Because that is what we Demarcos do to survive and pay the bills. And we do it well.