Crash (Visions (Simon Pulse))

by Lisa McMann

  When I’m setting down their drinks, a shiny, dangling heart turns on its twine and catches the light, sparkling. I fight off the twinge of longing inside. Maybe BFF Sarah is right, and I’m sad and pissed that nobody ever asks me to go to any dances. And that I’m almost seventeen and I still haven’t had my first kiss. I stare at the heart for a second and then turn away before the patrons think I’m weird.

  And then, halfway to the kitchen, it hits me. I stop, stand, and pivot to look at it once more as it catches the light. “Shit,” I whisper. “Really?” I drop off my tray and run through the kitchen, past Tony and Dad, and out the back door, almost wiping out in my haste to get into the door to the apartment, and race up the stairs.

  I flip on the TV and watch the scenes unfold, pause on the dining room window, and stare at it. Crawl up to the screen and stare harder. “Oh my dogs,” I say. I turn the TV off, grab the spare delivery-car key, my coat, and the Marilyn wig, and fly back downstairs, outside, to the car, and take off, not even caring if anybody’s watching me, or if anybody needs a pizza delivered. Because this can’t wait.

  Twenty-Seven

  I pull into the parking lot of Angotti’s as dusk turns to dark. On my head is the platinum-blond wig, and I’m trying hard not to think about there being any bugs in it. I have one directive—I need to get to approximately where I’d be standing if I had been recording the scene, about twenty or thirty feet from the building and slightly off to the side closer to the back door. I need to have that perspective. I turn the engine off and hop out, holding my wig on my head and using the car as cover.

  In my vision, there are light fixtures in the window, hanging from the ceiling—I could see them through the window. I remember noticing they weren’t there the first time I came here to look at everything, but that was because it was the night of the wedding, and I assumed the tables were all rearranged.

  But they’re still not there. Nothing’s hanging in the window. People sit there eating, but the lights are either recessed or too high to be seen.

  Or maybe they weren’t lights at all.

  Maybe they were decorations.

  “Valentine’s Day,” I murmur, and the missing piece falls into place. “Snowstorm forecasted for this weekend. Those were decorations hanging down, not lights. Jeez.” I shake my head. “This whole thing happens on Valentine’s Day?” A surge of fear pulses through me. “Could the timing be any worse?”

  As I stand there in the shadows, the back door to the kitchen swings open hard, slamming against the block wall and ringing out into the quiet night. It’s Sawyer. “Let it go,” he’s saying to the bright beam of light that follows him. His voice is angry. “I’m telling you, don’t engage with that son of a bitch. You’re just enabling him.”

  The blond girl I saw the other night follows Sawyer out and slams the door shut. She stands on the step lighting a cigarette while Sawyer tosses broken-down cardboard boxes into the recycling bin. “I can’t help it,” she says. “He drives me insane.”

  Sawyer closes the recycling bin and joins the girl on the step. He shoves his hands in his pockets and bounces on the balls of his feet. I shrink back into the shadow of the car. I don’t think they can see me out here, though in retrospect, I should have chosen Elvira rather than Marilyn.

  “If you try to argue with him, he’ll engage. He’ll bring out his whole tradition and honor bullshit and use that as an excuse to be a bastard. And everybody else just looks the other way.”

  She takes a long, angry drag on the cigarette and, as smoke trickles out the corners of her lips, says, “What do you mean, engage?”

  Sawyer stops bouncing and turns to face her. I strain to hear. “I mean he’ll probably fucking hit you, Kate, okay? So just . . . don’t.”

  I lean forward, as if that’ll help me hear them, but a car pulls into the parking lot and their words are muffled by the noise of the tires. It sounds like she says “You marry me, one chicken?”

  And while the driver parks, Sawyer says something like “I make you table, butterface.”

  “Shut up!” I hiss under my breath at the offending car. The driver turns off the engine and gets out.

  The girl takes another drag. She and Sawyer just stand there and nod at the guy as he approaches the customer entrance and goes inside.

  Kate blows out smoke and drops her cigarette butt to the ground. She stomps on it and twists it out slowly. “He hit you, then.”

  “You could say that.”

  “A lot?”

  He shrugs.

  “Still?”

  “No.”

  “Because . . . ?”

  Sawyer is quiet for a minute. “Because I gave up.”

  Kate stares at him. “Gave up on what?”

  He hesitates, like he’s thinking about the answer. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

  “Come on, tell me.”

  Sawyer shakes his head. “No. You done? We need to get back in there.” He takes the girl gently by the shoulders, turns her around to face the door, opens it, and ushers her in. The door closes hard behind them.

  And I stand in the parking lot, dumbfounded. Somebody hit the guy I love. I want to kill whoever it is. But first I have to save my boy. On Valentine’s Day.

  Fuck.

  • • •

  My phone rings, jolting me back to reality. It’s not Trey calling, like I expect. It’s Demarco’s Pizzeria. Which means it’s a parental unit on the other end.

  “Crap,” I mutter. Customer guy walks back out of Angotti’s with a takeout package as I answer. “Hey,” I say, trying to sound breathless. “I left something at the library—my purse. Really important—on the way home now.”

  There is ominous silence on the other end. I squinch my eyes shut. “Hello?” I say finally.

  The normally booming voice is eerily quiet. “Get back here. Now.”

  “I’m coming!” I start to say, but he hangs up.

  • • •

  I was grounded before. Now it’s like I’m the haboob of groundedness. Back at the restaurant, in between tables, Trey gives me concerned looks. My mother is worried that I’m getting addicted to something—it doesn’t matter what, she just keeps saying, “Are you addicted?” every twenty minutes. My father goes upstairs as soon as he supergrounds me, apparently overwhelmed by my disobedience, and Rowan looks like she’s going to cry because her big sister never used to get into trouble and it’s apparently scary as hell for her to see me “like this.” Whatever this is.

  And I’m floored. “All I did was leave for, like, a half hour,” I keep explaining. “I came right back. I’m not doing drugs, I’m not addicted to anything, I’m not pregnant, people. Jeez.” I feel like a broken record. “I’m sixteen, Mom,” I say to her. “Do I really have to tell you everything? I think you need to let me grow up a little, and stop . . . hovering.”

  “Hovering!” she says. “Hovering? As long as you live in this house, I’ll hover all I want, thank you very much. We feed you, we give you a warm place to sleep, you have a nice job in the family business, and what do you give back? You go off without telling anybody, you leave your customers, you cavort with that Angotti boy, and you don’t appreciate anything we do for you. And then you say ‘Stop hovering’?”

  I sigh. “Mom, please don’t yell. The customers can hear you. I’m sorry. I appreciate you. I should have told somebody I was leaving—I get that. I get that an ordinary worker would be fired for taking off like I did. I just . . . I panicked when I realized I forgot . . . something.” I take her hand. “I’m sorry, okay?”

  She shakes her head, all worked up. “You are going to be the death of me,” she says. “And your father. And your little sister. What kind of example are you?”

  Oh, that’s so, so nice. “Well, maybe you’d better ask my little sister—” I start to say, but then I soften when I see Rowan’s face, her wide eyes begging me not to tell her secret.

  “Ask her what?” my mother says. “She’s not the one in trouble he
re.”

  “Ask her . . . why . . .” I falter, unable to think.

  Rowan steps up. “Ask me why I didn’t tell you she was leaving,” she says. “Jules told me she was leaving to look for her . . . thing. And I didn’t think to tell you. And she was just . . . being . . . noble by not ratting me out. Or whatever.”

  I hold Rowan’s gaze for a minute, both of us knowing our story sounds ridiculously contrived.

  Mom’s not buying it. She shakes her head. “You’re in cahoots. I don’t believe either of you anymore.” She turns away and takes her next order from Tony, leaving Rowan and me standing there, afraid to even look at each other. We both disperse and get busy, working like our lives depend on it.

  • • •

  When the rush is over, Trey pulls me aside. “What are you doing?”

  I’m tempted to say I’m waiting tables, but the look on his face tells me not to screw around. “Nothing. I don’t know. I had to check something so I left. Mom’s pissed.”

  He frowns. “Are you still seeing those . . . crashes?”

  “Yes,” I say. “And it’s just one crash. I see one crash, the same one, over and over. Snowplow hits the back of Angotti’s, and the place explodes. Dead bodies. Happy?”

  He shoves his hands in his pockets and bites his lip. He can’t look at me. “Jules, I think it’s time . . .”

  “Look, I know what you’re thinking. Just give me through Saturday, okay? If it’s still happening on Sunday, I’ll do whatever you want. We can tell Mom, I can go see a shrink—whatever you want, okay? Promise. I just need to get through Valentine’s Day.”

  Trey looks into my eyes, and I can tell he’s trying to see if I’m lying.

  “I mean it,” I say. “Please. Just, like, three more days.”

  “Are you going to follow the house rules and stop doing weird shit?”

  I hesitate. “I can’t say for sure,” I say quietly. “And I also don’t think I’m crazy, Trey. Not anymore.”

  His forehead wrinkles in alarm. “Oh, that’s just great.”

  “No, I know what you’re thinking, but I feel perfectly normal otherwise. I think . . . okay, this is going to sound really weird, I know, but I think I’m seeing something that hasn’t happened yet. Something that’s going to happen. Like a psychic thing.” I pause, trying to gauge his reaction. “So when this event does happen . . . it should hopefully all be over for good.” Unless there’s another crash after this . . . . But I don’t say that. I can’t stand the thought of that. Besides, I need to get through this one first.

  Trey looks dubious. Finally he says, “How do you know it’s happening on Valentine’s?”

  I bite my lip and look down at the carpet. Shake my head. “I’m still figuring it out. But I promise I’ll tell you once I do know. Deal?” Please.

  He sighs heavily and throws his hands in the air. “Sure, whatever. Okay. So Sunday, we’re telling Mom.”

  I grip his forearms and grin wide. “Yes. Thank you.”

  “Just . . . be safe, okay? I’m watching you. Don’t go anywhere without telling me. Or, I know—why don’t you just stay home like you’re supposed to.”

  I nod to appease him, and for the first time in my life, I look my dear brother, my best friend, in the eye, and I lie my face off. “I will.”

  Twenty-Eight

  When I finally get a free minute, I step outside to take out the trash and call Angotti’s using star 67 to hide my number, knowing it’s a lost cause but feeling like I have to try. Luckily, a woman answers.

  “Angotti’s!”

  “Good evening. I need a reservation for eight people this Saturday night at seven,” I say, trying to sound rich and important.

  She nearly laughs. “For Valentine’s Day? We’ve been booked solid for weeks. The only time I have open is at eleven in the morning. I’m very sorry.”

  I squinch my eyes shut. “I can assure you we’ll make it worth your while. I need the two window tables, please. Seven p.m. Six forty-five would also work if seven isn’t available.”

  She hesitates. “I’m very sorry, ma’am, but it’s really not possible. We’re booked.”

  “I’m a big customer,” I say. “May I please speak to the owner? Perhaps we can work something out so I don’t have to take my business elsewhere.”

  She clears her throat impatiently, and I know now it’s Sawyer’s mother and I’m toast. “I am one of the owners,” she says, and I hear the authority rising in her voice, yet she remains calm. “And I’m sorry, but as I said, and as I continue to say, we are booked solid. I am unable to fulfill your needs at that particular time. Perhaps you’d like to come in Friday or Sunday evening instead?”

  Trey peeks his head out the door and I wave him off. “I’m afraid that won’t work. Thanks anyway.” I hang up before she can respond, and then I go back inside. My mind won’t stop.

  • • •

  At one thirty in the morning I’m still lying awake, thinking, trying to figure out all the pieces of the puzzle. And all I know is that I just have to try one more time to convince Sawyer to believe me. And there’s only one way I can think of to do that right now.

  By two I’ve managed to sneak out without waking anybody up, and I’m standing behind Angotti’s Trattoria, hoping the beat cop doesn’t decide to come by right now. I whip my head around when an icicle crashes off the building, and my stomach buzzes. It’s warming up to the low thirties or so, according to the forecast, and the weekend snow is about to start. Out here, before the snow falls, it’s so quiet that you’d never know we’re in a suburb of the third-largest city in the United States.

  I’m standing three feet from the window that will shatter. Four from the tables where the people will be sitting. I can see the clock inside thanks to the emergency lighting, and I synchronize my old Mickey Mouse watch.

  Out here, a few feet to the left of the window, there’s an old gas meter and line that goes into the building—something I hadn’t been able to get close enough to see before now—and I guess that the kitchen is on the other side of it. It’s where the truck hits. That explains the explosion. I wonder what ignites everything once the gas flows freely. Or does it happen inside, maybe? I don’t really know. I don’t understand gas lines.

  I stare at the back of the building, mesmerized, picturing everything and how it will happen.

  In my hand is my cell phone. I’ve been holding it for practically an hour, debating, not daring to intrude again and risk rejection once more. But finally I do it. I have to. I call him, hoping he keeps his phone on all night like I keep mine. Hoping I don’t wake the whole family. Hoping.

  It rings five times in my ear, and then it clicks. He says in a deep, sleepy voice, “Yeah?”

  “Hi,” I say softly, and I realize I didn’t plan this out. “It’s . . . it’s me. Can you, um, come down? Out back?” I’m an idiot.

  I hear a whoosh of breath, and feedback like his phone jostles, like he’s sitting up in bed, like he’s confused and thinking, and I expect a multitude of exasperated questions like “Who is this?” and “Are you insane?” But those don’t come.

  A light in a window above me turns on, and I suck in a breath and crouch down against the block wall as if being smaller will hide me from the light.

  A moment later he’s back. “Yeah,” he says. “Be there in a minute.”

  And it’s like we’re in sixth grade again, and no time has passed, and we’re standing by our lockers planning what time we’re going to meet under the slide on the elementary school playground.

  The phone goes dead. I keep it to my ear for a few seconds, and then lower it and put it in my pocket. Tiny bits of snow begin to float down, or maybe they were there for a while and I just noticed them. I shiver and do a mental count. Forty-one hours to go.

  A few minutes later, carefully and almost silently, a figure emerges from the building, and Sawyer Angotti, the guy I’ve loved since first grade, comes over to me.

  I stand up. Look up at him,
at his sleepy eyes. He holds a finger to his lips, tugs my coat sleeve, and gestures to the far street, whose name I don’t know. We walk together without speaking. When we get to the sidewalk along the road, he just puts his hands on my shoulders and looks into my eyes. “Oh, Jules,” he says, shaking his head. “What are you doing?” He gives me the half grin that almost kills me.

  I swallow hard. Glad he’s not mad. “I had to come one last time to talk to you.”

  He nods, resigned to listen. “All right, then. Go.”

  I look down at the sidewalk. “Something bad is going to happen here,” I say, as painfully aware of his hands on my shoulders as I am of the fact that he’s not believing me, and for the millionth time I doubt myself and my own sanity. “I know when it’s going to happen now. Valentine’s night, 7:04 p.m.” I continue talking, staring blindly at his slipper shoes. “I know you don’t believe me, and it’s okay with me if the whole school thinks I’m insane. I just need to ask you to please be careful, and if there’s any way you can not be in the building or in this back parking lot at 7:04 p.m. on Saturday night, just even, you know, step outside the front door for a few minutes . . . please . . .” I bite my lip to stop my voice from pitching higher, into frantic mode. I can’t look him in the eye.

  I hear him sigh, feel its weight in his hands on my shoulders. He rests his chin on my bowed head for a moment and pulls me closer, into him. And then he moves his face next to mine. He smells like a man now. I wonder how long it’s been since he smelled like a boy.

  My eyes close, but all I can do is stand there numbly. I wasn’t expecting this response, and I don’t know what to do with my hands—they hang stiffly at my sides. I want to wrap my arms around him, hold him, but I don’t. I can’t.

  As we stand there together, bodies nearer than they’ve ever been before, I wonder how many times I will regret not holding him.