Bang

by Lisa McMann

  I hear a muffled sound like he’s actually doing what I suggested, which almost brings tears to my eyes, because what guy does that?

  “Jules,” he says once more.

  “Yeah?” I say again.

  He’s quiet for a long time. And then he says, “I’m really very insanely much in love with you.”

  And I can’t speak, because this big ball of tears and air is blocking my words, and finally I sniffle and I manage to squeak out, “That is the best thing anybody has ever said to me, ever. And I am insanely really very much in love with you, too.”

  We sit on the phone all quiet for a minute.

  And then, from below Rowan’s pillow, a snicker.

  I freeze. And she snorts.

  I twist around. “Oh my God, Rowan, shut up, I hate you!” I grab my pillow and chuck it at her head, but her bed doesn’t stop shaking until after Sawyer and I hang up.

  • • •

  In the morning I stumble out of bed at four thirty and kick Rowan in the butt to wake her up. Trey is just emerging from the steamy bathroom when I get there, and he looks at me with surprise.

  “What’s up?” he whispers. “You going with us?”

  I tell him Rowan’s discovery and our latest plan. He gets out of my way so I can take a quick shower. Forty-eight minutes later we three are headed out into the darkness.

  When we get to the coffee shop, Sawyer’s got a table staked out and is leaning over his laptop. We join him.

  I look at Rowan. “Spinach-and-feta wrap and a tall coffee, blacker than black,” I say.

  Rowan nods primly and turns to Sawyer. “May I take your order?”

  He gets a cute puzzled grin on his face. “Iced coffee and a sausage-and-egg sandwich.” He reaches for his wallet.

  Rowan puts her hand out to stop him. “That won’t be necessary,” she says. She looks at Trey. “Well? What would you like?” Her tone is annoyed.

  “What’s going on?” Trey asks.

  Rowan looks at me.

  I shrug. “Tell him.”

  She clears her throat, clearly not wanting to tell. “I’m buying everyone breakfast today on account of how I disrespected Jules’s love.”

  Sawyer chokes and Trey laughs out loud. “I see. Well, in that case, I’ll have a hot vanilla chai tea, yogurt, and granola. With whipped cream. On everything. And a brownie. And—okay, I guess that’s enough.”

  Rowan gives me a condescending sneer and I respond with my superior smile. She goes up to the counter.

  Sawyer recovers and starts typing again. I pull my chair closer so I can see, and Trey looks around the other side of him. “There’s a ton of private schools,” he says under his breath.

  “The oldest schools might be mostly Catholic around old Chicago,” I say.

  “Here’s one, Saint Patrick. Over a hundred and fifty years old,” Trey says.

  Sawyer pulls up the map and zooms in until he has a street view. “Nope. The building is wrong.” He looks up at me. “You know, you might be onto something. The scene of the building in the vision has a tall section. Reminded me of a church.” He digs further, and Trey and I keep track of the schools he rules out. Then he finds a list of private schools by neighborhood all within the city limits. There are dozens of them.

  It’s frustrating. “We need a better computer at home,” I say. “This is crazy. I think we’re the only kids in the entire city who don’t have laptops.” I drum my fingers on the table.

  Sawyer gently places his hand over mine, stilling my fingers, but his eyes never leave the screen and his other hand moves swiftly around the keyboard. “We can go to school at seven when the doors open and try—” He shakes his head. “Oh, that’s right. We’re not breathing, typing, or speaking a word of this there.”

  Rowan finally comes back with a tray of food, then retraces her steps and returns with the coffees.

  She joins us as we work and eat, and sits quietly, respecting our love, listening as we talk through the various options and why they don’t fit the puzzle in front of us. When seven o’clock rolls around and it’s time to head over to school, we have nothing.

  Nobody talks as the four of us walk into school, dejected shoulder to dejected shoulder: Trey, Rowan, me, Sawyer. As we reach the freshman hallway, Rowan peels away from our sad little group, but not before shoving a folded note into my hand.

  “Second hour,” she says. And then she frowns. “Put some makeup on or something, sheesh.”

  Twenty-Three

  Five things Rowan rocks at:

  1. Writing fake notes from our mother

  2. Disrespecting my love

  3. Being on time

  4. Flying under the radar

  5. Picking gorgeous boyfriends

  There are many things Charles Broderick Banks is not. He is not Italian. He’s not grumpy. He’s not hard on the eyes. He’s also not American born. He’s South African–Irish-English, he says. The lilt in his voice is swoony. No wonder Rowan is in love.

  Rowan and I huddle at a cubicle computer desk, and I take him in: his deep umber eyes, his sun-bleached blond hair, and his tanned, lightly freckled skin that makes him look as if he just came home from a trip to the tropics. He has an adorable little scar on his head that looks like an inch-long part in his hair. His smile is warm and sweet, and I watch my little sister’s face come to life when she talks to him. He and Rowan chitchat awkwardly at first with me there, but soon they are bantering back and forth.

  He seems to know only the nice things about me, and he asks me pointed questions. “How’s your arm? Do you get your cast off soon?”

  “Soon,” I say. “Next week. It doesn’t hurt at all anymore. I practically forget it’s here except when I need to, you know, bend that wrist or something.”

  He grins. “Rowan says you’re very brave.”

  I blush. “Oh, really?” I glance at her and she smirks.

  “She’s also very mean,” Rowan offers. “She made me buy everyone breakfast this morning.”

  “I’m sure you deserved it,” he says.

  “Okay, I approve of this boy,” I say.

  “Approved!” he says, doing an English version of the Target Lady from Saturday Night Live. And then he turns his head away from the camera, distracted by a distant voice.

  I look at Rowan. “Uh-oh? Or no?”

  She shakes her head and listens. “No, it’s his tutor. Oops, my bad. It’s his mom.” She watches for a second until a tall blond woman appears. “Hi, Mom B!” She waves at the screen.

  “Hey, Ro,” the woman says. She’s wearing designer workout clothes drenched in sweat but still somehow manages to look gorgeous and radiant. “Who’s this?”

  I wave weakly. “Hi, um, I’m Rowan’s sister.”

  “Oh, Jules. Cool—heard a lot about you.”

  I nod and smile. So it seems.

  “We’re excited to see Rowan again. Thank your mom and dad for us—I left a message the other day but I know they’re really busy.”

  I glance at Rowan as her face turns red. The little weasel erased it, I’ll bet.

  Mrs. Banks continues. “We’ll be waiting at Baggage Claim, and it’s a direct flight so there’s no way she’ll get stranded somewhere. Just follow the signs to Baggage Claim, hon.”

  “And I’ll call you when I land,” Rowan says, like they’ve rehearsed this.

  “And me,” I say.

  “Yes, I’ll call you, too.”

  Charlie gives his mom a look, and she waves. “Okay, gotta go. See you Sunday.”

  Rowan calls out her good-bye, and she and Charlie share a private joke I don’t get, and they’re all just . . . carefree and having fun, and the biggest stress weighing on them is wondering if rain will delay the flight.

  I sit back in my chair, working my fingers through a tangle in my hair, and just watch them. And I can’t wait to have so few worries. I can’t wait to have fun again. I can’t wait to have that kind of light, easy banter with the guy I love.

  Af
ter a while I excuse myself to let them do their mushy talk in private, ahem. On the walk back to class, I find myself wondering if something horrible will happen while Rowan is gone. Worrying that my parents won’t know where to find her or how to contact her. I clench my jaw and force the thought away. Because that can’t happen. It can’t and it won’t.

  My stomach hurts.

  Twenty-Four

  At lunch we don’t talk about anything much. We all just sort of sit there feeling glum. Sawyer holds his spoon in front of him, staring at it.

  “It’s in your spoon?” I ask.

  He nods. “It’s upside down, though, because of the scientific nature of spoon reflections or whatever.”

  Trey grunts like he knows what that’s called, but he doesn’t offer up a term, and I don’t care enough at this moment to put forth the effort to ask. Instead, I ask the broken-record question, “Do you see anything new?”

  “Actually . . . ” Sawyer trails off and keeps looking at the spoon. “Hm.”

  I sit up, watching him, and Trey raises an eyebrow.

  “It’s weird,” Sawyer says. “My eyes focus on different parts of it than they did before. I think . . . I think . . . ”

  Roxie and BFF Sarah come up to the table. “Admiring your reflection?” Roxie asks. Her neck scratch is practically gone. Mine are still ugly. They stay hidden under my collar.

  Sawyer doesn’t look up, so Roxie sticks her boobs out, being way obvious, and I almost laugh at how stupid it is to do that, like a peacock making sure everybody sees his feathers. Only they’re not beautiful, colorful feathers, they’re just boobs. Trey actually does laugh, in a snorty fashion, and he rolls his eyes. But he can get away with that. He’s a senior. He has nothing to fear from her.

  Sawyer turns his head and looks at Roxie’s boobs, seeing as how they’re practically in his face, and, well, because he’s a guy. He wears a slightly bewildered look and then raises his eyes to meet Roxie’s. “Oh, hey,” he mumbles. “What’s up?” He scoots his chair over so he doesn’t actually get an eye poked out, and he glances at me with a worried expression like he thinks I might punch him in the face.

  Body language is so interesting, isn’t it? We’re learning about it in Mr. Polselli’s class. I observe. Roxie takes the tiniest step back and her shoulders relax. “Not much. Just haven’t seen you in a while.” The boobs deflate slightly, which makes me stop worrying about one of them accidentally bursting. And neither Roxie nor BFF Sarah so much as glances at me, but they both look at Trey and Sawyer. I smile at Sawyer when he catches my eye, and he relaxes. And it’s weird. I think I’m supposed to be jealous, but I’m not. I don’t think I’m very good at being a stereotypical girl.

  “I’ve been pretty busy,” Sawyer says coolly. He shrugs and takes a small bite of his burger. “Attack anyone today?”

  “Well, let me tell you,” Roxie says, ignoring his disdain. She shoves her butt against Sawyer in an attempt to get him to slide over so she can share the edge of his chair. He stops chewing but doesn’t move over, leaving Roxie and her butt hovering weirdly. I just keep watching, and it’s like I’m invisible or something. Like I’m not even there. I glance at Trey, who is now finishing up his lunch and ignoring the girls.

  “Can you see me?” I ask him.

  He looks. Narrows his eyes. “Only if I squint really hard.”

  I nod. “That’s what I thought.”

  “It’s kind of a cool superpower, if you ask me. Invisibility.”

  “Yeah, you know? You’re right. Right, Roxie?”

  No response.

  “I don’t think she can hear invisible people,” Trey says.

  I shrug. “So that’s two superpowers for me, if you really think about it.”

  Trey chugs down the rest of his iced tea and wipes his mouth with his napkin. “I’ll give you that.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Who’s the other one again?”

  I glance up. “That’s BFF Sarah.”

  “BFF is her first name?”

  “Ah . . . yes. Yes, it is.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Not much different from a name like J.T. or R.J. or C.J.”

  “Except there’s no J.”

  “True.”

  Sarah turns sharply and frowns at us. “You guys are beyond weird.”

  My eyes open wide. “You can see me?”

  She shakes her head, disgusted, and tugs at Roxie, who, after being denied, is now leaning over the table, talking to Sawyer about Spring Fling, which is like prom but not really, because it’s only for freshmen and sophomores and it’s lame.

  “So you want to go with me?” Roxie asks him. “I got my license. I’ll pick you up.”

  “Um . . . Rox . . . ”

  “It’ll be like old times, you know? We can make out behind the bleachers like when we were a couple.” She’s speaking really loudly. And finally the jealous factor kicks in. And it kicks in hard. Because I don’t know what she’s talking about.

  “Roxie, what the heck—” Sawyer begins, and I hear anger in his voice.

  I stand up and push my chair back, the heat rising to my face.

  Trey touches my arm. “I think we need to just sit and watch this, don’t you?”

  BFF Sarah crosses her arms, bored.

  Roxie smiles at Sawyer.

  Sawyer looks at me, his lips parted, eyes apologetic. “Please don’t go,” he says.

  I sit down again. “Yeah,” I say to Trey, “you’re right.”

  But I can’t concentrate on what anybody else is saying right now, because all I see is Sawyer and Roxie making out behind the bleachers. And I feel like a stupid fool. Because I thought somehow Sawyer would have waited for me like I waited for him. I thought our first kiss was our first kiss. And it’s not; it was just my first. And even though it’s ridiculous for me to expect that he hasn’t kissed anybody else, because we’re sixteen, for crying out loud, it still makes my throat ache.

  When I can focus, I watch BFF Sarah grow impatient and walk away.

  And I see Sawyer’s mouth moving, and Roxie scowling and getting angry. But I can’t comprehend anything.

  After a minute, I look at Trey. “I really need to go,” I say in a low voice.

  “If you leave now, she’ll feel like she won something. Just stay here and talk to me. Ignore them. She’s looking to get a rise out of you, so don’t let her. You and Sawyer will work this out. He’s a good guy, remember?”

  “I know.” But he made out with Roxie. He was a couple with her. How did I not know this? Maybe because I’m a freaking outcast, huh? Pretty stinking likely.

  “So, about that other thing,” Trey says, keeping my gaze locked on his. “Let’s meet up after school and do the library again. I need to do some research for a term paper anyway. Sound good?”

  “Sure,” I say, my voice hollow. They’re talking about me now. I stare at Trey, and he keeps talking. And then he laughs, and I think it’s because Roxie just suggested Sawyer was gay and having a secret relationship with Trey, and I was acting as his beard. I can’t help it—I have to tune in.

  Sawyer looks hard at Roxie for a long moment. And then he says, “Yes, okay, I admit it. I’m gay, and I’m in love with Trey.”

  Roxie stares at him. “You are not.”

  “You just said I was. And, well, it’s true.”

  “I made out with a gay?”

  The immediate area goes silent. Heads turn, everybody looking to see who the newly outed gay guy is. I hate this. I glance at Trey, who seems to be enjoying this immensely.

  “Well, I’m not just any old gay, I’m Sawyer the gay.” His lip twitches. “That’s what we call each other.”

  “True story,” Trey adds. “But I rejected him.”

  “He did, yes. Multiple times, in fact.”

  “But he’s still very much in love with me, and I like that, because it kind of feels like I have power over him. It’s a form of torture, and it’s fun.”

  Sawyer nods.
Then he shakes his head. “Not fun for me, I mean. For him.”

  A few people around us start snickering.

  Roxie’s face turns red. I think she figured out they’re teasing her and sort of throwing her own actions in her face, but she says through gritted teeth, “So are you gay or not?”

  Sawyer drops the shtick. “Really? You’re asking me this?”

  “Obviously.”

  Sawyer gives her an incredulous look. “Okay, well, then I . . . I am.”

  Her eyes bulge. “Were you gay when we made out?”

  Sawyer holds his straight face. “Not before, but after . . . well, then I was.”

  A few people laugh, and Roxie falters, and I feel sorry for her. Not because she’s gullible. But because it means so damn much to her to know if she made out with a gay.

  “Okay, that’s enough, guys,” I mutter.

  The bell rings. People around us turn back to gather their stuff. Trey squeezes my shoulder and slips away. Roxie stomps off, and I stand there, looking across the table at Sawyer, who is searching my face with his eyes. And I don’t know what to say, except “I guess I’ll see you at the library after school.”

  He sighs and looks down at the table. “Yeah. Okay.”

  I stand there a second more, and then I take my tray away. I have to run to make it to class on time.

  Twenty-Five

  And here’s the thing. I hate that junk. I hate that whole whatever you want to call it—the misunderstanding-slash-thing-between-us story line. It’s on every TV show, in every book you read, every movie. Something always happens to put this stupid wedge in the budding relationship, and the people don’t talk about it so they just keep being misunderstood, and by the end of the movie, maybe it all works out and maybe it doesn’t, but I hate it and I wish this kind of crap didn’t happen. Why can’t the two lovers just be together? Why can’t the fucking plot of the fucking story of everybody’s life just be like, hey, you finally find the person you want to be with, and you just be with them, and that part is the good part? And the conflict is something else, like a crash and an explosion, or a school shooting, but you’re just still together with that person as a team and you both fight together against some other enemy? Why does this have to happen? Because it’s very clear to me that we just. Don’t. Need this. Right now.