I don’t really understand why a shower feels so good sometimes, and other times it’s just a shower, but I guess I needed it to feel good today, and it does. I let out a heavy sigh, and my fingers, down at my sides, travel lightly against the current, up my thighs and over my hips, my stomach, to my breasts, and back down. When the water starts to turn cool, urgent heat keeps me warm from the inside. My head bows, streams of water pouring off my hair. I squeeze my knees shut, hands clenched between my thighs, and I just crouch there, feeling so much life and love and risk and terror pulsing around me, inside me, that I don’t know what to do with the overwhelming all-ness of it.
A painful longing takes over my skin and bones, and I move to let the water splash on my face and chest once again. It exhilarates me more and more the colder it grows, until it’s shocking enough to halt and restart my breath a dozen times, and I’m almost too cold to turn it off.
I think it shocked me into reality or something. I stand in the tub for a minute, dripping, not shivering, my cold skin glowing from the adrenaline and utter grief inside. I think about how weird it is that loving someone just makes everything hurt so much more. But I guess it’s that pain that means you’re alive, and love and pain are so . . . so twisty. I wonder if love would feel as good if there wasn’t any pain. I don’t think it could. So I guess that’s kind of what makes life worth living.
It’s so bizarre, but I feel like I grew up in this one moment.
Before my heart rate slows and my skin is dry, everything becomes so clear to me. And despite the grimness of my task, I can’t believe I’ve let so much stand in the way of this thing I have been mysteriously tasked to do.
Twenty-Two
With Mom and Dad downstairs in the restaurant and Trey and Rowan at school, I have the whole apartment to myself. I flip on the ancient computer and then rummage around for a sandwich, waiting impatiently for the weather forecast to load. Out the window, the sun shines, unless you look a little farther down the road, where in a storefront window, a crash and an explosion in a snowstorm is happening right . . . now.
The page loads and, surprise, in place of each little weather icon is a picture of an explosion. Nice touch, weird brain. At least the forecast description is still there. As of this moment, there’s only a 10 percent chance of snow showers tonight. A 20 percent chance tomorrow, and a 40 percent chance Friday, and then it looks like there might be a storm coming on the weekend. I study it, and it’s a bit of a relief that the next couple days look reasonably clear.
“Okay,” I mutter, feeling hopeful. “Okay. We most likely have some time to work with here.” But it would be really freaking nice if I could narrow down the date of this crash. That one thing would make this huge uncertainty more manageable, and it would make it easier to convince Sawyer . . .
“Oh, hell,” I say. “What am I thinking?” Convincing Sawyer will be one of the hardest things I’ve ever done in my life. None of this will be easy. Not one thing about this will be easy at all. And I’m almost certain I’ll fail.
Nine body bags in the snow.
Before I can send myself back to the overwhelming abyss of hopelessness, I grip the desk and grit my teeth and take a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “Hang on, Demarco. Just calm it down and hang on.”
First things first. I have two hours with the TV to myself, and by the time it’s over, I will know every detail of that scene backward and forward and inside out.
I flip on the TV and I don’t even have to search for it. It plays on a loop. I watch it like that for several minutes just to get back into the timing of the events. Obviously the scenes are not one continuous shot, but where exactly are the breaks? I grab my notebook and take notes about my observations:
Scene 1: The snowplow is coming down Cottonwood Street behind Angotti’s. My view is approximately from the parking lot near the Angotti’s building. While it’s dark, it’s only a little hard to see the truck, because the streetlights are on. It seems to me that the truck is going way too fast for a mostly residential neighborhood. It’s not going very straight. It crosses to the wrong side of the road and angles toward the back parking lot of Angotti’s. It hits the curb, goes over a pile of snow, and bounces roughly. That’s where the scene breaks.
As I watch, I realize a couple of things. First, how can the snowplow hop the curb like that if the plow is down? I rewind and watch again in the earliest second of the scene, and I can see in the dark that the plow is not actually down. Yet the street is pretty freshly cleared.
Scene 2: It appears that this scene immediately follows scene 1, but the viewpoint is different. I see the snowplow from the back this time, as if I’m standing in the rear of the parking lot, and the plow is still rocking after jumping the curb and snow pile. It has a clear path to the restaurant, which is now in sight, and I can see people in the window. The snowplow doesn’t slow down at all. It hits the building, and the people inside never even appear to see it coming until that last second. Some glass flies before I see fire and the rest of the place exploding. Then smoke and pieces of brick and glass falling all around. That’s the end of scene 2.
As I watch this scene over and over, I take note of the height of the snow piles in the parking lot—there’s been a decent amount of snow plowed along the parking lot edges, and it’s almost all white, not too dirty, which makes me think it’s quite fresh. I stare at the pile height and try to find something physical I can compare it to. I crawl up close to the TV and look hard. There’s a No Parking sign on that side of the road. The snow comes about a third of the way up, I guess, but it’s hard to tell. On the opposite side of the street I see the top of a fire hydrant sticking out. I draw a picture of it in my notebook, showing where the snow line is. I bite my lip in anticipation, feeling the tiniest bit of hope that I’ll be able to narrow down the day this happens by taking a daily drive up that street and seeing where the snow level is.
Scene 3: It’s a simple scene. My viewpoint this time is from the rubble, it seems. There are nine body bags in the snow. They are laid out on the far edge of the parking lot, along the avenue parallel to Cottonwood Street. There’s a band of yellow police tape attached to the maple trees that line the road on that side. There are people in stride and standing about, but their heads and shoulders are all cut from the scene, which centers on the bags. There is a wisp of smoke, and while I don’t see any emergency vehicles in this shot, the snow has a red glow to it in one spot, and blue in another, which makes me think lights are probably on. Vehicles are still there. Then the final frame—a close-up of the three bags on the right. The one on the end is open, and Sawyer’s dead face is visible.
It stops me cold, even though I’ve seen it at least a thousand times by now. There’s something about today, about the good night’s sleep and the shower and the personal pep talk and the notebook, writing down details, that finally makes this seem very real. “This is happening,” I say, staring at the screen, and for the first time I’m deeply convinced. It’s not a joke. It’s not a mind game. And what’s more, I’m starting to think I’m not insane—or I’m caring less about my own personal crap and how this crash will affect me. “This is really going to happen, Demarco. You’re going to have to do something.”
Of course, if you ask any psych student, they’ll say that’s the first sign you’re insane—that you think you aren’t. There’s no real win in the insanity department. And I realize, as I sit here staring at Sawyer’s closed eyes, that even on the totally off chance I can get Sawyer out of that building at exactly the right time to save him, it won’t matter much, because he’ll be so traumatized about losing everything else.
And everyone else.
Who else is in those body bags?
The enormity of the task overwhelms me again, and I can feel my gut begin to twist. It makes me want to crawl back into bed and hide, pretend this isn’t happening. Instead, I crouch down on the living room floor, among the hoarded junk, and wrap my arms around my knees, rocking back and f
orth a little, thinking. Thinking it all through.
Wondering if there’s a way I could shut the whole restaurant down for one night so the plow crashes into a vacant building. Maybe I could somehow break the big window or cut the electricity. But I know that wouldn’t keep the family from being in the restaurant—that’s exactly where they’d all flock to so they could figure out how to fix things. So there goes that idea.
But then a brand-new wonder hits me.
Do the body bags in the snow mean it’s inevitable? Will those nine people die no matter what I do or don’t do? Is it really their time to go, or can death be prevented? I don’t know.
I just don’t know.
Twenty-Three
I’m staring at Sawyer’s dead face for the zillionth time when I hear people coming up the steps. Rowan and Trey jostle each other in the tight entrance, taking winter gear off. I push play and wonder what TV show I’m actually watching—what they’ll see and hear. To me, the crash scenes loop as usual with no sound. I guess this means I won’t get to watch anything again until this is all over.
Rowan and Trey come in and see me. Rowan glances at the TV and frowns. “You must be very sick to watch that crap,” she says. “Sheesh. Turn it down. The customers will hear.”
I shrug. Curious, but too lazy to try and figure it out, I turn the TV off. “I’m feeling a little better.”
“Good,” Trey says. He has a new, concerned look in his eyes, and he’s trying not to be obvious about monitoring me. I wonder what he’s thinking. I smile at him like we share a secret, and I think that reassures him.
“So, school tomorrow, maybe?” he asks.
“Maybe.”
“Hey, are you, like, pregnant or something?” Rowan says out of the blue.
“Oh my gosh,” I say, giving Trey a look. “Where would you possibly get that idea?”
“I heard Mom and Dad whispering last night.”
“Great. Can one of you please hurry up and assure them that I am not pregnant? I have never even kissed a boy.” I hesitate. “No, don’t tell them that. Mom’ll tell everybody who walks in the door.”
“You don’t have to be kissed to get pregnant,” Rowan says. She pulls a piece of gum out of her backpack and shoves it in her mouth.
“I’m aware of the process, thank you,” I say.
Trey laughs. “Apparently, so is Rowan.”
Rowan blushes furiously. “Shut up.”
Trey pushes her shoulder and she pretends to fall over. “I’m heading down in a minute,” he says to me. “I’ll make sure everybody in the restaurant knows you are not pregnant.”
“This is all really embarrassing, you know,” I say. Trey leaves and I call out after him, “How is it that everyone in my family thinks I’m out having sex? I don’t ever leave this place. There’s no time to get pregnant around here!” I look at Rowan.
She’s watching me, grinning.
“Go,” I say. I point to the door. “Don’t you have to work or something?”
“Somebody around here has to. Lazy butt.”
“Go!”
She leaves to change clothes, and I sit here again to stew over what to do. I look outside in the waning afternoon light on a cold, snowless day and again feel relieved that I’ve got a bit of time on my hands to work with.
I’m just not sure how to tackle the next thing on my list—convincing Sawyer that something bad is going to happen, and watching him look at me like I’m nuts, all while avoiding threats from his father that could make my father kill himself.
This is where the whole love-and-pain thing comes in, right here. But I’m newly determined, and I can’t let my heart stop me from totally alienating the boy I love . . . or soon all I’ll be loving will be the memory of him.
Before Rowan goes down to the restaurant, she peeks into the living room again, and hesitates. “Hey, Jules?” she says in an earnest voice.
“What’s up?” I say. I pat the arm of my chair, which is the only place she can sit. She comes over and perches next to me, and I put my arm around her waist like when we were younger. “You okay?”
She nods. “I guess. I just . . .” She looks at me. “What do you think about long-distance relationships?”
I stare at her and skip over the formalities. “What? Why? With who?”
“I don’t know, just in general—”
“Who?” I demand.
“A guy.”
“How did you meet this guy who doesn’t live near us?” I know my voice is getting loud, but I have a weird feeling. “Not on the Internet or anything, right?”
She scowls at me. “Yeah, his online username is ChildPredator77. I sent him pictures of my naked budding bazooms and he wants to meet me behind the Dumpster at Pete’s Liquor to give me candy. Jeez, Jules! Of course not. I’m not stupid.”
I sigh in relief. “Okay. Wow. Sorry. Of course you’re not stupid. So how . . . ?”
“Soccer camp during fall break.”
“Oh.” I search my memory, trying to recall if she ever talked about a boy. “Have you been in contact with . . . wait, what’s his name?”
“Charlie. Yeah. We video chat during second hour almost every day.”
I blink.
“I have study hall in the library. He’s sort of homeschooled. I met his parents when they picked him up.”
My lips part but I can’t think of anything to say.
She turns to look at me. “They’ve invited me to come for spring break.”
Silence.
“They offered to pay for my ticket, but that felt weird so I’m saving up my tips to go. They live in New York.” She snaps her fingers in my face. “Hello? Any reaction at all would be appreciated.”
I shake my head, dumbfounded. “But . . . a week or two ago you said you didn’t have a boyfriend.”
“It wasn’t official yet then. We’ve been taking it slow.”
“New York? Really?”
She nods. “So? What do you think?”
I say the first thing that comes to mind. “You’re fifteen. There’s no way Mom and Dad will let you.”
Rowan rolls her eyes to the ceiling. “Besides that.”
“Have you two . . . did you . . . ,” I stammer. “Um . . .”
“We held hands and kissed once. That’s all.”
“That’s all,” I echo, lost in melancholy thoughts. And then I catch myself and shoot her the best smile I can fake. “I’m really happy for you, Ro.”
“And the long-distance thing?”
I shrug. “I think if anybody can make it work, it’s you.”
She grins and hops off the chair arm. “Thanks, Jules. I was hoping you’d say that. I really like him.” She reaches down and hugs me, then hurries to the restaurant, leaving me alone to dwell in the chair as dusk settles over the hoards.
• • •
But there’s no time to feel sorry for myself. I mean, big whoop—my younger sister likes a boy and she’s making it work. Do I care that she kissed somebody before me? Hell no. Hell no I don’t. It’s not a contest. Besides, I have a lot of other, more important crap to think about right now.
Around seven, when I know everyone will be busy, I grab the meatball truck keys from Trey’s room and sneak out.
It takes me a little less than five minutes to get to Angotti’s. I park on the next block so they can’t see my truck. As I walk I pull my collar up and my hat down to my eyebrows and wrap my scarf around my face.
When I reach their enormous back parking lot, I do a snow-level check. There’s definitely a little snow piled up along the road, but it’s nowhere near a third of the way up the No Parking sign or the top of the hydrant across the street. One good snow could change all that, but it’d have to be a decent storm, I’d say.
I walk slowly up the sidewalk, studying Angotti’s from the back, trying to pretend that I’m just taking a walk on this cold evening in case any of the family or employees pop out the back door to take out trash. I get a decent look into the d
ining room window. People sit in the booths there now, enjoying pizza and beer. I look for Sawyer but he’s not in the dining room, as far as I can tell.
As I get closer, I try to remember all the things I wrote in my notebook and curse myself for forgetting to bring it with me. I stop for a moment, push my hat back, and give myself more room to breathe around the scarf, and look inside as much as I can, trying to figure out the exact layout. I should have looked a few days ago when I was inside, but I’d had other things on my mind and didn’t think of it then. And something seems off. I can’t place it, but it doesn’t look exactly the same as the scene. I can’t tell what it is. I take a few steps closer, trying to stay in the shadows so that people inside won’t notice me. I look all around the dining room, from the service station to the giant forks and knives on the walls to the antique clock with ivy all around to the arrangement of the tables. Maybe that’s what’s off—the tables aren’t quite in the same spots as in the scene I keep seeing. I narrow my eyes. But I still can’t place it.
My teeth start chattering, but I weave my way between a few cars in the lot, trying to get a closer look at the building itself. The back door flies open and I spin around, pretending to walk toward a car. I glance over my shoulder, and it’s a short-haired blond girl with heavy eye makeup carrying a trash bag. She props the door open with her foot and picks up a second bag, maneuvering them through the opening.
“The fifteenth,” she’s saying to someone in the kitchen. “No, I can totally work Saturday. Not going to the dance. I need the fifteenth off.” She lets the door close and walks over to the Dumpster, hoists the bags inside, then wipes her hands on her pants and pulls a pack of cigarettes out of her coat pocket. She flips one out and lights it, taking a deep drag.
I crouch behind a car, stuck here until she goes back in, unless I want to risk her seeing me appearing out of nowhere and walking away. A car pulls into the parking lot and I turn to look at it, its lights bouncing on me for a few seconds.