“Shit,” I mutter. “Rain plus warmth equals snow melted by this weekend.” I look at Sawyer. “How bad has the vision been, exactly?”
Sawyer stares at the computer. His hand shakes on the mouse. “Bad. It’s everywhere.”
“Car windows?”
“Sometimes.”
“Mirrors too?”
“Yes.”
I stare at him. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I—I thought I was telling you.”
“Well, yeah, but you didn’t say it was getting so intense. That means it’s happening soon!” My whisper is on the verge of breaking decibel records.
He turns to me, his eyes weary and red rimmed. “I know. But there’s no fucking information here, okay? I can’t do anything unless it tells me how to find it!”
“Sawyer, there has to be something there. That’s the way it works! You have to look for stuff!”
“That’s the way it worked for you,” he says, no longer whispering. He pushes his chair back. “You keep telling me I’m doing it wrong, but you don’t see it. You don’t know. There are no body bags, no faces I can recognize, because the faces are all blown to bits. Okay? There’s nothing there that I recognize. You had a building that you could figure out. You had a face you recognized, and that helped you put it all together. Me? I don’t have jack shit.”
I stare at him. He stares back. And I think about what I just said and close my eyes. “God, you’re right,” I say finally. “I’m sorry, Sawyer, I don’t know what I’m saying.”
The intensity on his face wanes a little, but he leans forward and adds, “Don’t treat me like I’m stupid just because my vision is different from yours. I get what we’re trying to do here. I’m doing my best.”
I hang my head. Dear dogs. What am I doing to him? Nothing like adding another layer of pressure—as if the vision wasn’t enough. “Sorry,” I say again.
He gives me a rueful smile. “S’okay. I know you’re worried too. You must feel pretty helpless.”
I nod. “Anyway,” I say.
“Anyway,” he agrees. “Okay, so I liked the questions you were asking earlier. That was helpful.”
I nod again. And I like that we just talked this out. No big fight, nobody getting all hurt feelings or acting passive-aggressive or whatever . . . it’s nice. As nice as it can be, anyway. “In this frame, are there any buildings?”
“No. But there’s a road. More like, um, not a public road with painted lines or anything—it’s like a private paved road.”
“Like a school would have. Makes sense. Any signs? Street signs, big cement block signs, school marquee-type signs in the distance?”
“There’s a little stop sign down at the end of the road. Not like full size.”
“Can you see the sky?”
“The sky? Yeah, I guess. It’s dark, cloudy.”
“No sign of a sun or sunset or anything?”
“No.”
I take a few notes. “Any idea what kind of tree that is?”
He squints. “It’s got really thin branches. The trunk is sort of squat and rounded and the branches are like long, narrow fingers going everywhere.”
I frown. “Like a weeping willow? All hanging down like hair?”
“No, more like . . . hmm. Like the kinds of trees that line downtown streets, you know? They aren’t like hulking oaks or maples; they’re daintier, low to the ground, like a big bush.”
“A flowering tree, maybe?” I tilt my head, trying to picture it. “Here, can you draw?”
“Not well.” But he takes the pencil and tries.
“What if you hold up the paper to the monitor and trace it?”
He glances sidelong at me. “Smart.” He does it, and it’s so weird to see him tracing something I can’t see. The bare branches look like fish skeletons. “I don’t know what good this will do.”
“I know. Probably none. But at least we’re accomplishing something. How’s the vision now—if you look out the window, is it there?”
He turns his head and looks. “No, not at the moment.”
I smile. “Good.”
“So we’re doing something right?”
“I think so.”
“About time.”
We go through the vision frame by frame until it’s almost five and I have to go. Sawyer drops me off a block from the restaurant. “Thanks,” he says. “It’s nice talking things through, you know? My family always just yells.”
“It was really nice. Sorry I was in your face.”
He leans over and we kiss, slow and sweet, and then I get out and head to work, wondering if Depressed Dad is oblivious to my nonappearance or if Angry Dad will be waiting by the back door for me.
Fifteen
Lucky for me, no one notices me slipping in because my parents are too busy admiring the shiny new ball truck in the back parking lot. I dump my coat and backpack, throw on an apron, and go out back to join them in the cold. The giant meatballs are the same, but the lettering and logo on the side of the truck are fresh and bold. Inside it’s pretty much brand-new, customized to Dad’s requests, with all-new cooking equipment and fixtures and extra storage from what we were used to. It’s actually pretty nice, as food trucks go. Here’s hoping it puts Dad in a better mood.
“I hear it’s warming up this weekend,” I say, trying to pretend I’ve been here all along. “Can’t wait to try it out. There’s a food truck festival in the city. Heard about it on Twitter.”
Trey snorts and gives me a look.
I grin and shrug, rubbing my arms to keep warm. My cast snags my sweater, not for the first time. Annoying. I frown and poke the yarn into the new hole with my pinkie. “I’m going inside to see if Aunt Mary needs help,” I say.
“Me too,” Rowan says.
We run in together.
“Is Dad pissed?” I ask.
“No, he didn’t say anything. Giant balls saved the day,” Rowan says. We clear the snow from our boots.
“Sorry to put you guys in an awkward position again.”
“Don’t worry,” Rowan says, hanging up her coat. She looks over her shoulder at me and fluffs her hair before she puts it up into her usual work ponytail. “I’ll get you back.”
The first customers are arriving as we check in with Aunt Mary, and my mind strays to Sawyer and the new scenes. It’s frustrating, not being able to see the vision. I feel like I’m removed from it in a big way. Like it isn’t really happening because I can’t see it, and this is just a puzzle I need to solve. Like eleven gunshots are just ricocheting in some movie I haven’t been to.
But it’s real. It’ll happen to real people, and to their real families, whether we’re there or not. It’s the kind of horrendous tragedy that makes national headlines. And somehow, in my mind, a guy with a gun that could go off in any direction and end lives in an instant seems so much more random and dangerous than a single snowplow hitting a single building. Like the snowplow is easier to control than one person’s arm.
Around nine we have a lull, so Mom and I are starting cleanup in the kitchen. When I feel my phone vibrating under my apron, I grab the bags of trash and run them out to the Dumpster.
“Hey,” I say. “I have about ten seconds.”
“Okay. Something wasn’t sitting right, so I went back to the library after I dropped you off. I watched the vision again, then rewound all the way and realized there’s a single frame so quick I missed it—it was just a little flash right after the short scene with the grass and sidewalk. And it took me forever to land on it just right, but finally I did, and there’s a building.”
I suck in a breath. “Okay?”
“It’s an old building with ivy on it. I can only see part of it. I sketched it. I’ll bring it tomorrow.”
“ ’Kay. Gotta run. Good job.” I slide the phone into my pocket again as Trey pulls up after finishing deliveries. I toss the trash into the Dumpster with my good arm and meet Trey on the way to the door.
“Slow nigh
t,” he says. “Nothing new come in?”
“Nada. You get to help us clean up.” I grin.
Before we go inside he pauses, his hand on the knob, and turns to look at me. “Is there something going on with you and Sawyer besides . . . you know. The usual kisskiss stuff?”
I try to stop my eyes from darting around guiltily, but I’ve never been good at lying to Trey. “Well, I’m not pregnant, if that’s what you’re wondering. Again. Be sure and tell Dad and everyone.”
He laughs. “No, I wasn’t thinking that. Sawyer just looks . . . ”
“Hot?”
“No. Well, yeah, but—”
“Sexay?”
He sighs. “Stressed out.”
I just press my lips together in a grim smile and shrug.
After a minute, Trey nods. “Okay.” He starts up the steps to the restaurant and turns. “Well, if you ever need an ear.” I can tell he’s trying not to look hurt.
“Thanks, big brother,” I say, and reach out to squeeze his arm.
He messes up my hair. “Dork,” he says. He turns the handle and we go inside.
• • •
At night, when I lie in bed staring at the ceiling and watching the blinking lights from the sign outside, I think about what schools might be composed of old-looking buildings with ivy on them. The last thought I have as I drift off: Probably in the city.
Sixteen
In the morning I’m on the computer early, researching Chicago’s oldest school buildings still in use. I scribble notes to myself—“Lincoln Park. Old Chicago. Survived the big fire? Grass. Bushy trees. Private road. Small stop sign.”
Not all of the older schools I can find have pictures online, and besides, our stinking slow connection makes it impossibly hard for me to load anything, so I give up on that and start to list school names on a different paper. “Drive by: Lincoln Park HS. Lake View HS. Wendell Phillips Academy. Robert Lindblom Math/Science Acad.”
And then I add questions.
1. Victims are presumably high school age, not middle school, right? Can tell by clothes/dress/size? Maturity—boobs/facial hair? Note clothing of each victim—for identifying before.
2. Close-up of whiteboard—forgot to tell you about zooming the pic to read the writing.
3. . . .
It’s right about here that I realized these notes could be vastly misunderstood, maybe even peg me as plotting a school shooting if they end up in the wrong hands, and I nearly choke at the thought. What a kick in the teeth. I debate ripping this up and swallowing it vs. burning it, and then decide I’m being irrational and just fold it up and put it in my pocket.
In the five seconds that remain before Rowan drags me out the door, I leave a note on the kitchen counter by the sink. “Going to library after school for tree research. Our lame Internet connection is too slow—can’t get my homework done.”
“Tree research?” Rowan asks as we three climb into the car.
“Yeah. It’s for a . . . project.”
Trey turns his head sharply to stare at me. “I don’t remember having to do any tree project in tenth grade,” he says. He looks back at the road, but I can feel an accusation in his posture.
I shrug. “Maybe it’s new.” My hands start to sweat.
“Look,” he says, glancing in the rearview mirror, “I know something’s up. You’re a terrible liar. And you’re starting to piss me off.”
I sigh. “Nothing’s up. Not with me. Okay? Sawyer needs my help on something.”
Tension strains the silence.
“It’s not my thing to tell,” I say.
After a few quiet minutes, we’re at school and Trey parks the car. We all climb out.
“Go ahead, Ro,” he says.
She rolls her eyes. “You’d better include me this time if it’s something exciting and dangerous, that’s all I can say.” She shrugs her backpack strap higher on her shoulder and walks toward the school.
Trey comes around the front of the car and stops me, a shock of his sleek dark waves falling over one eye. “After all I did for you, and for him, I think I deserve to know what’s going on. Or you can forget about me covering for you like this day after day. Okay? I’m done.”
He stares at me for a long moment, black eyes piercing into mine, and then he turns on the wet pavement and strides through the parking lot, leaving me standing there looking at the rivulets of water migrating from the shrinking piles of crusty, dirty snow.
• • •
Inside, Sawyer hands me a folded piece of paper, and I hand him one in return. We both open them and read them, standing together at my locker. I skim his long, detailed outline, my eyes growing wider as I read. When I get to the bottom, I look at him. “Seriously?”
He nods, staring blankly at the paper I gave him, and then he looks at me. “There’s no way we can do this alone,” he says in a low voice.
“I’ve been thinking about that. What about . . . Trey?” I ask.
He nods again. “I don’t know who else to go to.” His voice is hollow, and his hand drops to his side like he’s too tired to hold the paper any longer.
“No, this is good,” I say. “Really. He already knows something’s up.” I fold the notes he gave me into a tight square and put them safely in my pocket. “I’ll talk to him and see if we can figure out a time to meet up so we can explain—”
Just then Roxie and BFF Sarah come up behind Sawyer. Roxie slaps Sawyer on the butt, and when he turns, Sarah grabs the paper from his hand.
“Ooh, a love note!” She laughs.
Sawyer tries to grab it but Sarah hands it off to Roxie. And because of my paranoia this morning, and because it’s so stupid rude anyway, I lunge for the paper, grasp Roxie’s shirt collar with my good hand, and pull the paper from her with my other hand, leaving only a tiny bit between her fingers and, unfortunately, a large scratch on her neck from my fingernail.
“Ow, you bitch!” she shrieks, holding her neck like it’s way more than just a flesh wound, and then she lunges back at me, going for my neck rather than the paper, which I manage to shove into my pocket.
People around us start shouting and I can’t see anything but Roxie’s flaring nostrils in my face. I think frantically about how this all will lead to nothing good, namely parents being called, and I sink to the floor, deadweight, praying that somebody pulls her off me as she follows me to the floor, because I’m not going to fight back. In an instant, she digs her knee into my stomach and rakes her fake claws down my neck. I close my eyes and keep my flinching as invisible as possible, hoping she doesn’t totally fuck up my innards after they’ve been trying so hard to heal. Instinctively I bring my good arm up to her rib cage to try to lessen the weight she’s putting on me, and she jabs her elbow into my biceps, giving me a wicked charley horse.
“Stop!” I hear, and realize it’s my hoarse voice yelling.
The whole thing lasts about five seconds, maybe a few more than that, but it feels like an hour before her knee is off my gut. I’m not quite flat on the floor; my head is against the lockers and my neck is twisted. I open an eye as Sawyer kneels down to see if I’m okay and help me up, and I look at Roxie, who is being held back by the guy whose locker is next to mine. Mr. Polselli stands between us, his hand on Roxie’s shoulder, his eyes on me.
“Are you okay?” Sawyer asks.
I nod quickly and scramble to get to my feet, embarrassed. We’re surrounded by students eager for a girl fight. “Sorry to disappoint,” I say to them, catching my breath. I hold my cast in front of me and my good arm pressed against my stomach and make a pained face. Hey, I’m not stupid.
“My classroom,” Mr. Polselli barks at both of us just as the bell rings. “Everybody else get out of here.”
Sawyer tries to come with me, but Mr. Polselli gives him the hairy eyeball. Sawyer says how sorry he is with his eyes, and then he frowns and grabs his books, watching at least until we’re out of sight and inside the psych classroom. Mr. Polselli’s papier-mâché bu
st of Ivan Pavlov stares at me.
“Roxanne, you start,” Mr. Polselli says.
“She attacked me and cut my neck,” Roxie says. “I can feel it. See?”
“Why did she attack you?”
“Because she’s a paranoid freak,” she says. “She can’t stand that I’m friends with her boyfriend.”
“I did not attack you. You took—” I begin, but Mr. Polselli holds a hand up to me. Students start to come into the room, and they send curious looks in our direction.
“So she scratched you, and you scratched her back four times. And pushed her to the ground?”
“No, she fell.” Roxie won’t look at me, but her eyes are brimming, and I feel strangely sorry for her for the briefest moment.
Mr. Polselli turns to me. “Julia, did you attack Roxanne?”
“No, I was reaching for something and I accidentally scratched her. I wasn’t trying to do that.”
“What were you reaching for?”
“A note. Her friend Sarah pulled it from Sawyer Angotti’s hand and gave it to her. They think it’s a love note. It was something private I gave him, and she was just, I don’t know, goofing around or whatever, and I reacted, trying to get it back.” I pause, setting my jaw so I don’t cry. I have never been in trouble like this before. “I’m sorry I scratched you, Rox. I didn’t mean to. I just wanted the paper back.” My fingers go to my own neck, which throbs now, and I wonder how bad my scratches are. I can feel the raised welts.
My biggest fear is that Mr. Polselli asks to see the paper, but I’m prepared to say no—it’s not like we got caught in class passing notes or something. School hadn’t even started yet. But he doesn’t ask for it, and I breathe a silent sigh of relief.
“Roxanne?” Mr. Polselli asks. “Do you have anything else to say?”
“No.”
“It doesn’t look good for you, frankly,” he continues, still looking at Roxie. “What I saw was you kneeling on a girl who has a broken arm and just had surgery last month. She’s got four scratches, you’ve got one, and yours is not that bad.” He fishes around in his drawer and, after a minute, pulls out a rectangular glass mirror, handing it to Roxie. “I don’t think we want to take this to the principal, do we?”