Crash (Visions (Simon Pulse)) (8 page)

“Nobody,” Trey and I say together.

Rowan shoves my shoulder. “You guys are so mean. Move it. It’s my turn in here.”

Trey and I escape. He takes off to meet Carter for his ride to school, and I cautiously flip on the TV while I wait for Rowan to finish getting ready. I watch a full five-minute weather segment plus commercials, with no sign of any explosions anywhere. And a bonus—the forecast changed, like it tends to do around here. Now the weatherwoman is predicting clear skies for two days.

“Big sigh,” I whisper, and I’m flooded with relief. I really think it’s over. Even if I’m about to be known at my high school as the weirdest freak on the planet, at least I’m not truly insane. And at the very least, if Sawyer dies, it won’t be my fault.

Jeez. What kind of sick person thinks like that?

On the billboard, I see Jose Cuervo for the first
time in weeks. It’s the most hopeful-looking thing I’ve ever seen in my life. “I love you, Jose,” I say as we pass it. Rowan doesn’t hear me. She’s got her earbuds in, listening to something while she layers on more makeup in the sun visor mirror.

“Hey,” I say, poking her in the shoulder when we’re stopped at a light.

She pulls an earbud out. “What? Don’t freaking bump me.” She wipes lip gloss off her chin and starts over.

“Sorry. I just wondered how you’re doing.”

Rowan turns her head and frowns. “What?”

I laugh and shake my head. “Why are you suddenly so into makeup? Do you have a boyfriend?”

Her mouth opens like she’s going to say something, then she closes it and says, “No,” in a voice that doesn’t want to be questioned further. She puts her earbud back in.

“Okay.” I feel a little twinge in my heart for her. And then I picture us as spinsters living together forever, her being all sweet one minute and grouchy the next, her face perfectly made up just in case, and me leaving myself notes with sliced-vegetable lettering on the cutting board.

•       •       •

As usual, I ditch Rowan once we get to school—not that she minds—and keep my head down, avoiding eyes. Avoiding anyone talking with anyone else, because I’m pretty sure they’re talking about me. I don’t even dare take my usual glance to where Sawyer should be standing. Instead, I just stare into my locker and wait for the first whispers to reach my ears.

I grab the books I need and give myself a little pep talk, then slam the locker door and head to first hour. I keep my eyes on the floor, shoulders curved inward, and travel through the crowded hallway like a lithe bumblebee, zigging and zagging and curving around people, one purpose in mind—getting through the morning, one period at a time. Then the dreaded lunch hour, and finally the afternoon.

And I make it through okay, only once narrowly avoiding Sawyer when I see him coming toward me
after school. I duck into Mr. Polselli’s psych classroom until he passes.

“Hi,” Mr. Polselli says. He’s grading papers at his desk.

“Oh, hi,” I say.

“How’s your paper coming along?”

I totally haven’t started it. “Fine.”

“What’s your topic?”

“Um, I think, maybe, I’m not quite ready to tell you yet,” I say with a guilty grin.

He laughs. “I see.”

“But I do have a question. About a . . . possible topic. If a person, like, sees visions or whatever, does that mean they’re, you know, insane, or crazy or anything?”

“Depends.”

“Oh.”

“It could mean that. But it might not.”

“Oh. Well, do you know if . . . if people who see visions, do those visions ever, like, happen?”

“What do you mean?”

“Like can people see something in the future and know something’s going to happen, and then it actually happens?”

He tilts his head and looks at me over his reading glasses. “Where are you headed with this? You mean like fortune-tellers? Psychics?”

I look at the floor, which has black scuff marks all over it. “I guess.”

“There’s a lot of debate about that. You could
probably
do some research on it and find out, you know.”

I nod. “Okay. Yeah, I know. I will. Thanks.”

“Anytime.”

“See you tomorrow.”

Mr. Polselli smiles and pushes his glasses up, resuming his grading. I check the hallway to be sure Sawyer is gone and make my way to the parking lot.

When I round the corner of the building, I run into him. Not literally, thank dog. But now that I think of it, I owe him a crash.

He’s standing next to his car, his door open and his arm draped over it, talking to two of the girls—Roxie and Sarah—who were in my family’s restaurant the night Angotti’s was closed for the wedding reception. He’s giving them that charming smile.

I stop short, then divert my path to get to my giant meatball truck, which is so inconspicuous I’m sure no one will notice me driving it out of here. I glance at him and he’s looking at me, frowning, talking to the girls. They turn my way, and I barrel down a row of cars to the back of the parking lot, my face burning.

Rowan is standing—no, hopping—outside the truck, waiting for me. “Finally!” she says. Then she narrows her eyes and looks past me. “What does he want?”

I turn around, and Sawyer’s jogging toward me. Alone.
My eyes pop open and I get this twisty thing in my gut. I look at Rowan. “Get in the truck,” I say, unlocking her door. “Now.”

“Sheesh,” she says, but she gets in and closes the door, then stares at us. I turn my back to her as Sawyer slows to a walk a few feet away.

I shift my weight to one hip and lean against the door. “What.”

He stops and flips his car keys around his finger a few times. His breath comes out in a cloud. “Yeah, um, sorry my dad freaked out and called your dad. I couldn’t stop him.”

I just look at him and hug my books to my chest. “My dad flipped out.”

“I figured.”

“I shouldn’t have gone to your place.”

He shrugs. “You’re pro’ly right.”

“I told my dad it was for an assignment for psych class.”

He drops his gaze and gets that half grin on his face. “I’m not actually taking psych.”

“Great.” I’m such an idiot. I squint at the snow-covered pavement, which is brighter than white today because the sun’s actually out. It’s cold enough that it hasn’t melted. But heat climbs up my neck to my cheeks when I think about how mad my father was.

Sawyer kicks a hunk of dirty snow from under my truck and says nothing.

“So, okay, then,” I say. Every second that passes, I feel more and more stupid, and I don’t like the lump that’s forming in my throat. I try to clear it, but I can’t control it. It’s getting bigger. “I guess I don’t really need the drama,” I say, “of a . . . a re
strain
ing order, y’know, against my whole
fam
ily.” The words are getting louder as an anger I didn’t know I had builds up inside me.

He looks at me with alarm, neither one of us expecting this, but I can’t stop. “So I guess after all those years of secret friendship, which you totally threw in the trash after I, like, was so scary that I
smiled
at you in public, in front of your dad, and then had the
audacity
to enter your restaurant almost four years later and throw everybody into a wild fit . . . well, I guess I’ll just see you, you know,
never
. Oh, and thanks for telling everybody I’m insane.” I reach blindly for the truck door and open it.

“Jesus, Jules.” His arm shoots out and he pushes the door shut. “I said I’m sorry. And . . . holy shit, I don’t really know what to say about all of that in the middle there . . . I—I didn’t know you ever thought about that anymore.” He blinks his long stupid lashes at me. “But I promise I didn’t tell anybody you’re insane.” He steps back and straightens his jacket collar. “I figured it was, I don’t know. Just weird.”

Angry tears burn at the corners of my eyes, and I will them with all my might not to fall. I glance through the window at Rowan, who’s sitting up, looking like she’s ready to jump out of the vehicle and attack. I shake my head at her, trying to reassure her with a shaky smile. “Okay, fine,” is all I can think of to say. He thinks I’m weird. “I need to go.”

“And I—don’t know what to say about the rest.”

“Yeah. You said that.” I reach for the door handle again.

“So, you know,
are
you?” He shoves his dangly keys into his coat pocket suddenly and coughs.

I look at him. “Am I . . . what?”

His face is red and he can’t look at me. “Never mind. I’m an idiot. See you.” He turns to go.

And then I get it. “Am I insane? Is that what you mean?”

“Forget it, Jules. It was a stupid thing to say,” he says over his shoulder as he starts walking.

“Oh my God!”

He walks faster to his car. And I stand here like a total loser, watching him go.

I don’t blame him. He doesn’t believe me. I never expected him to believe me.

And he’s obviously right in thinking that.

•       •       •

From that moment, I’m bombarded with the vision once again—my peace didn’t even last twenty-four hours. I drive home and every stop sign, every store window, and the billboard are covered in the scene of the crash. Rowan tries to find out what’s going on, but I drive in stony silence. Eventually she’s smart enough to shut up.

When we pull in the alley where we park the beast, Trey is standing there waiting where he always is so we can keep up our “all going to school in the giant truck of balls” ruse. I turn off the engine and look hard at Rowan. “Don’t you ever tell Mom and Dad that I was anywhere near Sawyer Angotti, you hear me?”

Her eyes widen and she shrinks away from me. “Okay. Gosh, I never know what’s happening around here.”

“I mean it.”

“O
kay
,” she says again.

“Good.” The three of us get out of the truck and walk in the back door, where Tony is whistling, Mom is adding fresh herbs to a giant pot of sauce, and Dad is nowhere to be found.

All afternoon and evening, the vision beats me
over the head every chance they get, and it’s exhausting. It’s clear to me now that telling Sawyer was a good thing, but it wasn’t enough. Apparently I have to get him to actually believe me too. And I’m guessing I have to get him to do something about it, which will be absolutely impossible. This is an evil game that is impossible to win.

And the thing is—that helpless, empty thing that makes me want to curl up in the corner and bawl my eyes out—it’s that I know I can’t make it happen. There’s no way I can convince Sawyer or anybody that this crash will take place, and that nine people, including him, are going to die. And I think part of it is because I don’t quite believe
it myself. But if I don’t believe this vision is destined to happen, then I have to believe I’m crazy.

This feels so much bigger than me, bigger than anything I can do, and I’m swallowed by it. Just thinking about facing Sawyer again, knowing he won’t ever believe me, knowing if he mentions my weirdness to anyone it will ruin any reputation I have left, knowing that his family could so easily do something drastic that will make my father crack, just like my grandfather did, and knowing we could lose everything, scares the hell out of me.

I don’t know what to do.

And for the first time, I think about real depression, the disease, and what that must feel like. I mean, my grandfather killed himself—he had a wife and kids and grandkids, and a business that he loved, and he just ended it all. Those good things in his life weren’t enough for him. They couldn’t stop his disease. To him, things seemed to crumble when Fortuno Angotti flourished. Only they didn’t fall apart, they just stayed the same. And I guess that felt like failure to my grandfather. His insides, his brain, couldn’t take it.

I heard my aunt Mary say once that my grandfather was a selfish person, hurting people like that, and I thought she was right. I’ve thought that about my dad, too. Lots of times.

But I don’t know about that anymore. Everything about this, about mental illness, is so complicated. I just don’t know.

•       •       •

The rest of the week, I am a zombie. I do what I need to do to get through the day. Talk if I have to. Get my homework done, not really caring if I do it right, seeing crash after crash after crash like I’m stuck in one minute that keeps repeating. On slow nights I send Rowan upstairs and work alone, keeping my mind occupied as best I can. Because I don’t want to think about anything. I try to ignore the vision like I’d ignore a bug splat on the windshield. And I fail. It buzzes between my ears and crawls under my skin and coats the insides of my eyelids. The days blur together and soon it’s another weekend. I ignore Trey’s quizzical glances and Rowan’s concerned looks and questions. I know I need to do something.

Maybe my grandfather knew that too. But he couldn’t.

My father can’t.

And I can’t.

•       •       •

One morning I wake up to Rowan’s alarm and stare at the wall. And it all becomes real. Nine real, human people, people with families and friends and jobs to do, will all die. And I am helpless, and I will never be the same again,
and it doesn’t matter that I actually told Sawyer what to expect, because if he doesn’t believe me I’ll still feel like it’s my fault. The weight of this responsibility is so heavy, so crushing, I can’t move.

“I’m sick,” I tell Rowan when she stumbles out of bed. “Tell Trey he needs to get you to school today.”

“What’s wrong?”

I just close my eyes and moan. “Everything.”

“You need me to get Mom?”

“No, don’t wake her up. I’m okay, just sick.”

I hear Rowan hesitating at the door. “I’ll leave her a note to call in to school for you.”

“Thanks,” I say.

She closes the door.

Trey comes in a few minutes later. “Hey,” he whispers.

I pretend to be asleep. There’s a rattle of keys sliding off my dresser, and then he’s gone.

Later, when my mom peeks her head in, I ignore her, too. Soon I hear Dad lumbering down the hallway, which means he actually got out of bed today.

I’ve taken his sickness from him. What a thing to pass down to the next generation.