“So, uh, that got a little out of hand,” Trey says when he gets to our table in sculpting class. “Sorry about that. It was all in fun.”
“I know.”
“Why are you being so quiet?”
“I’m not sure.”
He nods, and we sit there in silence for once, working side by side making a bowl and painting fruit, both of us knowing that scary junk is coming, and the world is so much bigger than this place, and these people, and a stupid rivalry.
• • •
We meet up at the library after school and Trey wisely goes to look for books for his research project, leaving me and Sawyer alone on the couch in the library loft.
And the dude, to his credit, looks way more distraught about what happened at lunch than he is over the visions that are driving him crazy. “I’m sorry I never told you I made out with Roxie,” he says. “We were never a couple, I don’t care what she says. We made out twice at the beginning of ninth grade, more just to experience things and mess around.”
I listen and say, “You didn’t have to disclose any of that to me, you know. People have pasts. It’s not a big deal. I mean, I guess my reaction was more because of the way she was approaching it, and approaching, um, you. And just pretending I wasn’t there and throwing it in my face.”
“Boobs first?” He laughs.
I smile. “Yeah, you noticed? It’s kind of sad, actually.”
He nods. “She has no self-confidence. And . . . I think I took the joke too far. I kept expecting her to get it, but she got so hung up on whether she’d—well, yeah. You were there.”
“Yeah.” I shrug. “Well, thanks for explaining, and, you know, I’m not mad or anything, I just don’t like her. She used to be my friend and now she’s just . . . sad. And mean.”
“So . . . you still like me?” he asks with a grin. He slips his hand in mine.
“A little,” I agree.
By the time Trey comes back, Sawyer and I are both on computers. I’m researching private schools; Sawyer’s trying to get close-ups of every frame in his vision. “When I was watching it in my spoon and everything was upside down,” he says, “I thought I saw something through the window.”
Trey looks at Sawyer’s screen automatically, even though he and I both know we can’t see anything. He laughs. “You picked ‘Surprised Kitty’ as the video to channel it?”
Sawyer is concentrating too hard to laugh. “Yeah. I mean, why not entertain you guys?” He hits pause and stares, then takes a screen shot that only he can see and starts enlarging it.
I go back to looking up schools and start bookmarking them so I can show them all to Sawyer at once. And then he mutters, “Yesss,” and starts scribbling things on a notepad. “There’s the road in relationship to the building. Now I’m getting a bigger picture.”
Trey and I look over and wait for him to finish. We haven’t had a “Yesss” in forever. I squeeze my eyes shut and hope for a major breakthrough.
But when I open my eyes again, I see Trey looking at his phone and muttering, “Shit,” and I see Sawyer looking at the stairway and getting to his feet.
Because guess who’s here? Yay, it’s my dad.
Dad reaches the top of the stairs and spies us. Trey types something quickly and stashes his phone, and he stands up, so I stand up too.
“Hey, Dad,” Trey says. He puts his hands in his pockets. “What’s up?”
Dad stares at me, and then he looks at Sawyer.
“Hi, Mr. Demarco,” Sawyer says. His voice is calm.
I don’t say a word.
Dad looks like he’s trying to hold it in. His face is red. But he won’t make a scene in a public place. Not in front of potential customers. He doesn’t answer Sawyer, which feels kind of jerkish to me. Instead, he looks back at me and says, “Tree research. Is that the same as chess club?”
“Dad—” I say.
“Don’t bother,” he says, and I’m a little freaked out that his voice is so quiet. “Both of you, it’s time to go. Julia, you’re coming with me. Trey, come on. You take the truck.”
“No, sorry, Dad. I’m still working—” Trey begins.
“You’ll get home in ten minutes or you’re grounded too, like this one.”
“Dad, I’m eighteen,” Trey says. “I’m graduating from high school in two and a half months.” He sits back down. “You can’t ground me.”
“Watch me.”
“No, you watch me. Watch me sit here and do my homework like an excellent student. What the heck is wrong with you? I’ll be home when I’m finished with it, and I’ll get a good grade like I always do, and then I’ll go to work for you and do a good job there, too. But right now, I’ll sit with Sawyer Angotti if I feel like it, so don’t even go there. This stupid rivalry ends with your generation. It doesn’t exist in mine.”
Dad’s face twitches. He gives Trey a long, hard look that scares the crap out of me, and then he looks at me. “Come on, Julia.”
I stand there. And my face is hot, and I feel like yelling, and my stomach hurts.
“Julia,” my father says again, his voice ending on a strained note, and I can tell he’s about to blow a gasket.
I press my lips together and swallow hard. I shake my head. And I don’t move. We stare at each other for the longest five seconds of my life. And then Trey says, “Jules, go with Dad.”
I glance at him and frown, but his face is set. I look at Sawyer, and he nods in agreement with Trey.
And I’m like, what the heck? I can’t even think clearly. I feel like a total baby. I know I’m going to get reamed the whole way home. And I have a life too—why should I have to go with him?
“Julia!” Dad barks, and now people around us are looking, which I’m sure Dad will blame me for later.
“Fine.” I throw the meatball truck keys at Trey’s face, grab my backpack and coat, trying to shove my arm through the hole but my stupid cast keeps catching on it. When I give up and move around the table, Dad tries to take my arm. I yank it away from him and run down the steps, leaving Dad following me, and Trey and Sawyer standing there watching over the loft railing. I can’t even look at them because I don’t want them to see me cry.
• • •
We get into Dad’s car, and I’m immediately aware of how seldom I ride anywhere with him. I can probably count the number of times on my fingers. He hardly ever goes out, and when he does, my mom almost always drives.
He leans forward, squinting at the windshield and muttering under his breath as he eases out of the parking space. And for a split second, his mannerisms are so familiar. With a chill down my spine, I realize he reminds me of me, trying to drive when I had a vision clogging my windows and mirrors. I watch him in horror. Could it be?
And then he starts in on me. “I don’t know what to do with you,” he says. “You lie to us about everything. I told you that you weren’t allowed to talk to that one.”
“Will you stop calling him that? Sheesh, Dad.”
“Don’t talk when I’m talking!” he roars, his booming voice taking over. “You need to go back to respecting me!”
“You mean being scared of you?”
“Dammit, Julia!” He slams his hand into the steering wheel and for a second I’m scared he’s going to drive us off the road. He comes to a hard stop at a light and I’m tempted to just jump out, but that would only prolong this and make it all worse.
I sit there, silent, so he can talk more. Yell more. Like a big hypocrite, he hollers about trust, trust, trust, until I want to throw up, because he has never trusted me, and I no longer trust him. I close my eyes and rest my pounding head on the window. And he goes on and on about what a bad child I am.
And the truth is he’s right about the things I did. I lied to him and Mom. I saw Sawyer when I wasn’t supposed to. I faked some school projects so we could find time to work on saving some lives. But as long as my parents are being overprotective nutcases, I will have to continue disobeying them, I guess. Because
I’m not able to let people die when I can stop it from happening.
Now, shall I try and explain that to Dad?
We pull into the parking lot behind the restaurant. I get out without a word and close the door. It seems like he’s done yelling. I stopped paying attention. But before we walk into our apartment door, he says, “I’ll talk to your mother about what your punishment will be. Be back down for work in five minutes.”
And I look at him. “You’re not even going to let me say anything?”
His jaw is set. “What do you want to say that I don’t already know? That you’re pregnant, too?”
I almost laugh, because he just can’t let that idea go, but it also makes me furious because he thinks he knows me, and he thinks I’m out there banging people left and right, and he’s just so wrong and that’s so not me in any way, and it hurts. “Three things, Dad,” I say, winding up. “I want to say three things.”
He folds his arms and waits like he’s doing me a big favor.
I plunge into the rage headfirst. “One,” I say, “I’m not pregnant. I’m not sure why you constantly think I am, but I am not sexually active, so you can just knock it off with that.” I can’t look at him. “Two, I know about your affair, so it’s kind of hard to take you seriously on this whole trust thing. And three?” I forgot what three was. And then I remember. “Three. Find yourself another slave. I quit.” And before I can allow the shock on his face to poke into my conscience and make me feel bad, I turn on the wet cement step, open the door, and run up the stairs and into my room.
Twenty-Six
Trey knocks on my bedroom door ten minutes later. “It’s me,” he says.
“Come on in.”
He stands there. “You okay?”
“Yeah, but I’m in deep shit. You’re home early.”
“Sawyer was worried Dad was going to hit you or something. I told him Dad has never done that, but Sawyer was pretty jittery. I think he feels bad we told you to go with Dad.”
“Yeah, what the hell was that?”
“Sorry. I suggested it because I figured it might save you a little grief in the end.”
“Well, it didn’t.”
“We’re not at the end yet.”
“Let me know when we get there, will ya?”
He laughs softly. “I will once I take my metaphorical beating. He’s pretty pissed at me.”
I don’t say anything. All I can think about is Dad and his stupid affair, and how Trey and Rowan don’t know, and I don’t know if I should tell them. And I wonder if Dad will kill himself now that he knows I know.
It’s the constant question. And then I worry that Dad’s going to think Mom told me and be mad at her. I flop down on my bed, finally beginning to realize the scope of what I’ve done. “I quit,” I say.
Trey looks at me like he didn’t hear me.
I answer his look. “I quit. My job, I mean. I told Dad I quit.”
“Holy shit.”
“I know.”
“What did he say?”
“I didn’t really give him time to answer. He yelled the whole way home.” I sigh deeply. “At least now I can work with Sawyer more. If Dad doesn’t chain me to the house.”
Just then we hear pounding up the stairs. It’s not our parents. Three seconds later the bedroom door flies open and Rowan is standing there in her work clothes, bug-eyed. She looks from me to Trey to me again. “What the heck?” she asks. “Dad’s on a rampage. Sorry I couldn’t warn you in time. I didn’t know he’d left until later.”
Trey explains. “Rowan texted me that Dad was on his way, but by the time I got it he was already coming up the library loft steps.” He looks at Rowan. “Who’s working?”
“Dad’s in the kitchen. Mom and I are in the dining room. Aunt Mary’s up front.” She looks at me, her face showing hurt for the first time. “How could you quit? I’m leaving Sunday. Now who’s going to cover for me?”
I shake my head. “I’m sorry, Ro. It all happened really fast. Dad went nuts and I just lost it, I guess.”
“He’s superpissed at you, too, Trey. What did you do?”
Trey rolls his eyes. “I think I humiliated him in front of an Angotti. He told me to go home. I said no. He tried to ground me.” Trey laughs bitterly. “He’s really losing it. He can’t get a handle on that stupid rivalry. Okay, so somebody stole your recipe. Get over it. Make up a new, better recipe.”
I bite my lip and look at the floor. I know it’s more complicated than that. And I’m starting to wonder if there’s even more shit going on with Dad. But as mad as I am about the way he’s treating me, I don’t think I should say anything, especially about the affair. I’ve made enough messes for now.
Rowan looks at her phone. “I gotta get back down there,” she mutters.
“Hey, Rowan?” I say as she turns to leave.
“What.” She’s still upset with me.
“They’ll figure something out. I’ll help them if they need me. If Dad’ll let me. They can get Nick or Casey or hire somebody else—they’re business owners. Stuff like this happens. But I’m still sorry for letting you down.”
She scowls. “It’s fine. I don’t actually blame you.” She pauses once more. “Dad told Mom that you’re not pregnant. I take it he accused you of that again.”
I nod.
“Well, I understand why you’d quit.”
“Thanks.”
“What did any of us ever do to make Dad not trust us? I don’t get it.” She disappears, nimbly zigzagging through the cluttered hallway, and then we hear her feet on the steps once more.
Trey stands up. “I should go down too.”
I look up at him. “Everything’s such a mess.”
He nods. “You should call Sawyer. He was figuring stuff out, remember?”
I’d forgotten. “Yeah, okay,” I say.
When he leaves, I pull out my phone.
Twenty-Seven
Sawyer’s working and can’t talk. We make a plan to meet at the coffee shop again before school. I hang around feeling useless, getting all my homework done in record time, making a veggie omelet for dinner, and getting on the computer to research more schools since that’s all I know to do to help Sawyer.
When I’ve exhausted everything I can think of, I sit down in the living room chair and watch TV. Local Chicago news pops on and I watch it idly. There’s something about the food truck festival this weekend, so I pay attention, wondering if Dad signed us up. And then I remember I don’t work at Demarco’s Pizzeria anymore, and I feel really lonely all of a sudden.
When the segment is over I mute it and stare at the screen, thinking about how I’ve messed everything up. My eyes focus on the TV when there’s a piece on the University of Chicago, which is where Trey once thought about going until he found out how expensive it is. A reporter stands on the grounds, talking about who knows what, and then the headline pops up. “Vandalism over Spring Break.” The camera pans wide and some of the campus is visible, and then my eyes open wide. I lunge for the remote and hit the record button, begging it to get the whole segment. Then I fumble for my phone and call Sawyer.
“Hey,” he says.
“Where are you?”
“I’m—”
“Come over. Right now. Can you?”
“I, um, are you kidding me?”
“No. I think I found the school. I have it on my DVR. It’s not a high school, Sawyer—it’s the University of Chicago!”
“The—okay, but what about your parents?”
“They won’t be upstairs before eleven. Come!”
“I’m—I’m turning around. I’m five minutes away. Meet me at the door to your apartment.”
“Awesome.” I hang up and run to the bathroom to make sure I look okay. And then I go back to the TV and rewind to make sure I actually got what I need. I do—I have the whole show. While I wait, I cue it up so Sawyer can be in and out of here quickly. And then I look around the living room like I’m seeing it for the first
time.
“Oh, dear dog,” I say. “Oh. Dear dog.” It’s mortifying. No one has ever seen this. No one.
“Whatever,” I mutter. This is more important. And I head downstairs to wait.
Sawyer comes out of nowhere, a sudden face in the door’s window. I open it quietly and wave him inside.
“Two things,” I whisper as we creep up the stairs. “We have to hurry. And . . . my dad is a hoarder. I’m not sure if you knew that. It’s a train wreck in here, I’m just warning you, and I’m really embarrassed, but I want you to know the rest of us don’t live like that. It’s part of his . . . illness.”
He nods. “It’s okay,” he says. “I knew. You mentioned it in the hospital.”
We weave through the apartment, Sawyer pretending like it’s the most normal thing in the world to have piles of Christmas lights and bulbs in the dining room but nowhere to put a tree.
In the living room I grab the remote. “Watch,” I say. “About a minute in, the camera pans and there are buildings with ivy and a whole row of those trees along a street.” I turn on the sound for the first time and hit play. And the segment runs. “Say stop if you need me to,” I say. “Can you even see it, or is it the vision?”
“No,” he says. “I can see it.” Sawyer stands there, coat still on, and watches. The reporter is talking about recent vandalism—graffiti painted around campus. The students are on spring break this week. She’s talking about having time to clean up before school is in session again. And then she says something about the beautiful campus’s botanical gardens and redbud trees that are just about to burst into bloom. The camera pans, and Sawyer leans forward, staring, straining as if that’ll make the camera go where he wants it to go.
“Stop,” he says.
I press pause.
“That’s it,” he says. He stares at it, taking it all in. “This is it. It’s one of those buildings for sure—look at the ivy. These are the right kinds of trees. The snow is almost gone.” He looks at me. “And the road. You’re a genius. How did you know?”