Crash (Visions (Simon Pulse)) (6 page)

3. It’s a snowy Super Bowl Sunday and I’m already running forty-five minutes behind

4. Some loser (even though I’m in love with him) wasn’t watching where he was going, and I’m the one who has to suffer for it

5. That loser just delivered
his
pizza without consequence, and also? Does not have a broken wenus

“I’m fine,” I manage to say. Embarrassed, I ignore the pain, roll away from his outstretched hand, and get
to my feet, holding my sore elbow close to my side. I reach out and gingerly pick up my pizza bag. I close my eyes once again and swallow hard. The inside of that box will be pretty gross right now. I don’t want to think about it.

“I’m really sorry—I was in a hurry . . .”

It’s true that he’s being ridiculously nice about this. I almost wish he weren’t. If he were a jerk about it, I could stay furious a lot longer.

“Me too,” I confess with a sigh. “I was already off balance from the ice when you barreled through the door.”
Shut up, shut up,
I tell myself. Now I’m mad at myself for taking part of the blame.
What the hell, Jules?

It’s love!
I cry back to myself.
How can I help it?

I hate you,
I say to inner Jules.
Hate. You.

Sawyer cringes when he sees how not-floppy my bag is. “Oooh. Been there. Sorry. I really am,” he says. He dips his head and looks into my eyes.

“Yeah. Thanks.” I’ve dropped a few pizzas in my day. “Not the best day for it, but there it is.” All of a sudden I sound like my dad talking about the weather. I drop my eyes because I can’t stand to look at him being nice, knowing what I know.

“Want me to pay for it?” Sawyer comes to life and whips out a wad of tips from his pocket, and all I can do is stare at him.

“Who
are
you?” I say, almost under my breath, but he hears me, and I see his lips twitch.

“I’m just a clumsy guy,” he mutters. “I hope your parents don’t freak out.”

I narrow my eyes, not sure if he’s just concerned about me dropping a pizza and getting yelled at, or if there’s another layer there. “They won’t,” I say slowly. “Why would they? And put your money away. It’s fine. It happens. Trey will eat it.”

He laughs then. “So would I. You sure?” He looks at me, eye to eye again, and I remember his lashes from a long time ago when we were forced to share a library table doing research. His lashes are superthick, superlong, deep brown, complemented by the green of his irises. Every blink is a sweeping drama, a sexy ornament, a mating ritual. Dear dog, I’m so hopelessly pathetic, I’m grossing myself out.

I nod stupidly.

He shoves the money back in his pocket, and we just stand there, silent and awkward. Finally he says, “Need me to call in the reorder for you?”

That wakes me up. “Shit,” I say again, and dig wildly for my phone. “No. But that would definitely make my parents freak out, if that’s what you’re going for.”

He grins. I dial and turn away so his ropy eyelashes don’t distract me. “We have a situation,” I say when Rowan answers. “There’s a pie down at Traverse
Apartments. Repeat: A pie. Is down. Reorder stat.”

“Jules!” she says. “We don’t have time for that.”

“Calm it down, yo,” I say, gingerly stretching out my sore arm to see if it still works. “I’ll be back in fifteen so you can load me up . . . . I don’t know what else to say. It happened. There was ice. Sorry.”

She sighs. “Fine. Just get here.”

“Roger that.” I hang up and turn back to Sawyer, who is still smiling.

“Is something funny?” Now I’m back to almost furious again. I start walking to my car.

He shrugs. “It must be fun to work with you.”

“Oh yeah, I’m a real hoot,” I say, opening my car door and knocking my boot on the runner.

“I think you guys . . . you and Trey, and your little sister—”

“Rowan,” I say automatically.

“Rowan,” he says with a nod. “It’s cool you all get to work together. I’m stuck with the proprietors.” He says the last word with sarcasm.

And that’s the moment when I picture him at the hostess stand at his parents’ restaurant, by the jar of suckers, and that’s when I remember the phone call, and that’s when I see the body bag in my mind’s eye. My mouth opens slowly, as if it’s deciding whether to say the words my brain is telling it to say.

“You know . . . ,” I start to say.

At the same time, Sawyer says, “About last night . . .”

And we both stop and start again.

“I shouldn’t have called you,” I say.

“I called you back. After.”

I blink and look away. “I know.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “You didn’t answer.”

“I thought . . .” But I can’t remember anymore.

“It was nice of you,” he says. “Kind of weird, but nice. I’m sorry I accused you of spying. Knee-jerk reaction. Or maybe just a jerk reaction. It was stupid.”

I swallow hard, and now I picture those gorgeous lashes on his dead eyes. “Sawyer,” I say, and his name sounds so weird when I say it out loud.

“I don’t like this
thing
, you know,” he says. “I miss . . . I mean, I wish . . .”

“I know.” I look at the ground, my courage gone. He misses . . . what? He misses me? He misses the way things used to be? Did he really almost say that?

Now I can’t tell him what I desperately need to say, what I told myself I’d say. Because if I do, he’ll walk away from all of this thinking I’m a total mental case. And that would end everything. Every last pillow dream, every hope for that first kiss.

But he could die before any of that could ever happen. I’m so confused I don’t know what’s the right thing to do.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. “I have to go,” I choke out.

He looks at the ground. “It’s cool. I’ll . . . see you?”

Dear dog, I hope so.

The rest of the night is a mess. Immediately
every poster in every store window, every stop sign, every TV in every house I deliver to is showing me a truck crashing into Angotti’s. It’s like each object that is created to communicate any sort of visual message is coming alive, screaming at me to do something, to warn the victims, and they won’t let up.

I can’t concentrate on my orders. The Traverse Apartments fiasco put me way behind, and customers start calling to complain. Dad is overanxious and fidgety every time I drive up. Trey’s trying to calm me down on the phone but I can’t talk to him and drive on snow at the same time, so I just give up. I can’t tell him what’s wrong when he asks, even though I really wish I could. I’m getting a massive headache.

When the marquee at the Park Theatre blinks a fluorescent picture of the crash for the entire thirty seconds I’m stuck at the stoplight nearby, I think I’m going to lose it. This weird fear churns in my chest, and I can feel a flutter there, like my heart is racing, trying to urge me to go, go, go. “Stop it!” I scream from the driver’s seat. I pound the steering wheel with my gloved hands. “Just stop.”

But it doesn’t stop. It gets worse. Every window in every house I pass has the scene plastered over it. Every poster on every telephone pole has changed its picture from whatever lost pet it was in search of to the explosion. I have to stop several times just to get a grip and figure out where the hell I’m going. I start lagging even farther behind, until it’s all just so hopeless.

With one pizza to go, I can’t take it anymore, because maybe all of this bombardment means the crash is happening right now, tonight. And somehow it’ll be my fault.

Instead of delivering it, I turn down the street and head to Angotti’s.

•       •       •

The building is still standing and there’s plenty of parking out front. It’s late, almost eleven. I call Trey and tell his voice mail that I’m fine, tell him that I have to make an extra stop and not to worry, all the while watching shadows of the Angotti’s staff move from room to room through the front window. It’s funny in a not-at-all-funny
sort of way—this is the one window that doesn’t have the explosion plastered all over it.

For a moment, watching the peaceful movement inside and for once not being bombarded with hyperexplosions at every turn, I talk myself back out of it. I think maybe I need more sleep. Maybe I just need to . . . I don’t know. Talk to somebody about this vision. A professional.

The thought of telling someone what’s been happening scares me to death. I imagine how they’d look at me. I imagine them pushing a panic button under their desk to summon security, or telling me they’re taking me to get a Coke but really they’re delivering me to doctors with white coats who will grab me and bring me to some asylum where they’ll stick electrodes or whatever on my temples and armpits and do weird testing and shave my head and shit like that. And I’ll have a toothless roommate who is seriously insane and who wants to kill me.

I feel my throat tighten and burn as tears run down the back of it instead of down my cheeks. I sit outside Angotti’s and try to give myself a pep talk. What’s the worst thing that could happen if I go inside and talk to Sawyer? In my mind, I list them.

•       •       •

Five bad things that could happen:

1. I go in and tell Sawyer and he thinks I’m insane and tells everybody, and my life is over

2. Sawyer’s parents shoot me dead on sight (not a bad option at this point, actually, now that I think about it)

3. The whole fucking crash happens and the place explodes
while I’m inside

4. That’s really all I can think of at this point because of all the panic and such

5. As if three bad things weren’t enough

My phone rings while I’m sitting there, and it’s Trey. I squeeze my eyes shut and take a breath, then turn off the phone and shove it into my pocket. I look over at the last delivery, growing cold on the seat next to me. “Sorry, Mrs. Rodriguez,” I say. “I hope you don’t stay up too late waiting for it.” I wonder idly what my father will do when I get back home after not delivering it. It’s weird how little I care about that now.

Finally I grab the handle and shove the car door open. I step out into the slush and close the door softly behind me, and then walk stoically toward Angotti’s front door.

A little bell jingles when I open the door, and a
beautiful, plump middle-aged woman looks up from behind the cash wrap.

“We’re just closing down the kitchen,” she says apologetically. And then she narrows her eyes and stares at the Demarco’s Pizzeria logo on my hat. Her voice turns cold. “Can I help you?”

“Is Sawyer here?”

She doesn’t answer at first. Maybe she’s trying to think of an excuse. “I’ll check,” she says finally. She goes to the nearby swinging door and opens it a crack, never taking her eyes off me. “Sawyer,” she calls out.

“Yeah, Ma?” I hear, and I look down at the carpet.
What the hell am I doing?

“There’s a young lady out here to see you.”

He doesn’t say anything. I imagine him pausing, wondering what amazing babe it could possibly be coming by to see him. Picturing how disappointed he’ll be to see me.

He comes out and slides past his mother. His eyes open in alarm when he sees me, and he comes over. “What are you doing here?” he whispers. He looks over his shoulder at Mrs. Angotti, who is watching us very closely.

“I have to tell you something. It’s really important,” I say.

“It couldn’t wait until school?” he asks, incredulous. “You had to come
here
?”

And now I start doubting myself again. But then I glance outside and see snow falling. Across the street, the Walk sign blinks an exploding truck. It’s now or possibly never.

“It can’t wait,” I say simply, and look up at him.

The alarm in his eyes turns to concern. He keeps his voice low. “Let’s step outside.” He looks over his shoulder again at his mother and says gruffly, “I’ll be right back.”

I don’t look at her. I don’t want to see what she’s thinking. I don’t want to know the degrading thoughts she’s had about me since before I was born. I reach for the handle and go outside. Sawyer follows me.

When the door closes, he keeps his back to the restaurant. “What the hell, Jules?” There’s anger in his
voice. “You can’t just show up here. Not wearing that. Not at all.”

I can understand why he’s upset. I don’t know exactly what sort of mess I’ve just put him in, but I can imagine the scenario in reverse, and it makes me cringe. I didn’t even think about the hat. Maybe I should have called. But he was on deliveries tonight, so that wouldn’t have helped. I don’t have his cell number. It’d be the same mess. I take a deep breath. “Look, Sawyer. I’m sorry to do this to you. I know I’m probably causing a problem, but here’s the thing.” I pull off my cap and comb my fingers through my hair, trying to think.

When I don’t continue, he folds his arms against the cold and shifts his weight. “Well?” he says after a moment. “Kinda cold out here.”

I look at the Walk sign once more to gather strength, and then sigh and close my eyes, remembering the scene in my mind, frame by frame, landing on Sawyer’s dead face. And I look back up at him, into his eyes. “You see,” I say, and it sounds very grown-up in my ears. “I . . .”

“What?” he says, but the edge in his voice is fading.

“I’m just . . .”
Oh, shit. What was I thinking? What am I supposed to say here?
“I’m worried about your restaurant. I think . . . I mean, I have a weird . . . feeling . . . like something bad is going to happen. To it.”
To you.

In my best-case scenario, this is where he thanks me
and gathers me into his strong arms, and his face hovers near mine, and we kiss for the first time.

In my probable-case scenario, this is where he calls me a nutjob and tells me to go away.

In my worst-case scenario, this is where the restaurant explodes and I’m in one of the body bags.

None of those three things happens.

Sawyer just stares at me for a minute. And then his voice comes out cold. “Is your father going to sabotage us?”

“What?” I exclaim. “No! No, Sawyer.”