Crash Page 5

  She sighs. “Fine. Just get here.”

  “Roger that.” I hang up and turn back to Sawyer, who is still smiling.

  “Is something funny?” Now I’m back to almost furious again. I start walking to my car.

  He shrugs. “It must be fun to work with you.”

  “Oh yeah, I’m a real hoot,” I say, opening my car door and knocking my boot on the runner.

  “I think you guys . . . you and Trey, and your little sister—”

  “Rowan,” I say automatically.

  “Rowan,” he says with a nod. “It’s cool you all get to work together. I’m stuck with the proprietors.” He says the last word with sarcasm.

  And that’s the moment when I picture him at the hostess stand at his parents’ restaurant, by the jar of suckers, and that’s when I remember the phone call, and that’s when I see the body bag in my mind’s eye. My mouth opens slowly, as if it’s deciding whether to say the words my brain is telling it to say.

  “You know . . . ,” I start to say.

  At the same time, Sawyer says, “About last night . . .”

  And we both stop and start again.

  “I shouldn’t have called you,” I say.

  “I called you back. After.”

  I blink and look away. “I know.”

  He lifts an eyebrow. “You didn’t answer.”

  “I thought . . .” But I can’t remember anymore.

  “It was nice of you,” he says. “Kind of weird, but nice. I’m sorry I accused you of spying. Knee-jerk reaction. Or maybe just a jerk reaction. It was stupid.”

  I swallow hard, and now I picture those gorgeous lashes on his dead eyes. “Sawyer,” I say, and his name sounds so weird when I say it out loud.

  “I don’t like this thing, you know,” he says. “I miss . . . I mean, I wish . . .”

  “I know.” I look at the ground, my courage gone. He misses . . . what? He misses me? He misses the way things used to be? Did he really almost say that?

  Now I can’t tell him what I desperately need to say, what I told myself I’d say. Because if I do, he’ll walk away from all of this thinking I’m a total mental case. And that would end everything. Every last pillow dream, every hope for that first kiss.

  But he could die before any of that could ever happen. I’m so confused I don’t know what’s the right thing to do.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket. “I have to go,” I choke out.

  He looks at the ground. “It’s cool. I’ll . . . see you?”

  Dear dog, I hope so.

  Fourteen

  The rest of the night is a mess. Immediately every poster in every store window, every stop sign, every TV in every house I deliver to is showing me a truck crashing into Angotti’s. It’s like each object that is created to communicate any sort of visual message is coming alive, screaming at me to do something, to warn the victims, and they won’t let up.

  I can’t concentrate on my orders. The Traverse Apartments fiasco put me way behind, and customers start calling to complain. Dad is overanxious and fidgety every time I drive up. Trey’s trying to calm me down on the phone but I can’t talk to him and drive on snow at the same time, so I just give up. I can’t tell him what’s wrong when he asks, even though I really wish I could. I’m getting a massive headache.

  When the marquee at the Park Theatre blinks a fluorescent picture of the crash for the entire thirty seconds I’m stuck at the stoplight nearby, I think I’m going to lose it. This weird fear churns in my chest, and I can feel a flutter there, like my heart is racing, trying to urge me to go, go, go. “Stop it!” I scream from the driver’s seat. I pound the steering wheel with my gloved hands. “Just stop.”

  But it doesn’t stop. It gets worse. Every window in every house I pass has the scene plastered over it. Every poster on every telephone pole has changed its picture from whatever lost pet it was in search of to the explosion. I have to stop several times just to get a grip and figure out where the hell I’m going. I start lagging even farther behind, until it’s all just so hopeless.

  With one pizza to go, I can’t take it anymore, because maybe all of this bombardment means the crash is happening right now, tonight. And somehow it’ll be my fault.

  Instead of delivering it, I turn down the street and head to Angotti’s.

  • • •

  The building is still standing and there’s plenty of parking out front. It’s late, almost eleven. I call Trey and tell his voice mail that I’m fine, tell him that I have to make an extra stop and not to worry, all the while watching shadows of the Angotti’s staff move from room to room through the front window. It’s funny in a not-at-all-funny sort of way—this is the one window that doesn’t have the explosion plastered all over it.

  For a moment, watching the peaceful movement inside and for once not being bombarded with hyperexplosions at every turn, I talk myself back out of it. I think maybe I need more sleep. Maybe I just need to . . . I don’t know. Talk to somebody about this vision. A professional.

  The thought of telling someone what’s been happening scares me to death. I imagine how they’d look at me. I imagine them pushing a panic button under their desk to summon security, or telling me they’re taking me to get a Coke but really they’re delivering me to doctors with white coats who will grab me and bring me to some asylum where they’ll stick electrodes or whatever on my temples and armpits and do weird testing and shave my head and shit like that. And I’ll have a toothless roommate who is seriously insane and who wants to kill me.

  I feel my throat tighten and burn as tears run down the back of it instead of down my cheeks. I sit outside Angotti’s and try to give myself a pep talk. What’s the worst thing that could happen if I go inside and talk to Sawyer? In my mind, I list them.

  • • •

  Five bad things that could happen:

  1. I go in and tell Sawyer and he thinks I’m insane and tells everybody, and my life is over

  2. Sawyer’s parents shoot me dead on sight (not a bad option at this point, actually, now that I think about it)

  3. The whole fucking crash happens and the place explodes while I’m inside

  4. That’s really all I can think of at this point because of all the panic and such

  5. As if three bad things weren’t enough

  My phone rings while I’m sitting there, and it’s Trey. I squeeze my eyes shut and take a breath, then turn off the phone and shove it into my pocket. I look over at the last delivery, growing cold on the seat next to me. “Sorry, Mrs. Rodriguez,” I say. “I hope you don’t stay up too late waiting for it.” I wonder idly what my father will do when I get back home after not delivering it. It’s weird how little I care about that now.

  Finally I grab the handle and shove the car door open. I step out into the slush and close the door softly behind me, and then walk stoically toward Angotti’s front door.

  Fifteen

  A little bell jingles when I open the door, and a beautiful, plump middle-aged woman looks up from behind the cash wrap.

  “We’re just closing down the kitchen,” she says apologetically. And then she narrows her eyes and stares at the Demarco’s Pizzeria logo on my hat. Her voice turns cold. “Can I help you?”

  “Is Sawyer here?”

  She doesn’t answer at first. Maybe she’s trying to think of an excuse. “I’ll check,” she says finally. She goes to the nearby swinging door and opens it a crack, never taking her eyes off me. “Sawyer,” she calls out.

  “Yeah, Ma?” I hear, and I look down at the carpet. What the hell am I doing?

  “There’s a young lady out here to see you.”

  He doesn’t say anything. I imagine him pausing, wondering what amazing babe it could possibly be coming by to see him. Picturing how disappointed he’ll be to see me.

  He comes out and slides past his mother. His eyes open in alarm when he sees me, and he comes over. “What are you doing here?” he whispers. He looks over his shoulder at Mrs. Angotti, who
is watching us very closely.

  “I have to tell you something. It’s really important,” I say.

  “It couldn’t wait until school?” he asks, incredulous. “You had to come here?”

  And now I start doubting myself again. But then I glance outside and see snow falling. Across the street, the Walk sign blinks an exploding truck. It’s now or possibly never.

  “It can’t wait,” I say simply, and look up at him.

  The alarm in his eyes turns to concern. He keeps his voice low. “Let’s step outside.” He looks over his shoulder again at his mother and says gruffly, “I’ll be right back.”

  I don’t look at her. I don’t want to see what she’s thinking. I don’t want to know the degrading thoughts she’s had about me since before I was born. I reach for the handle and go outside. Sawyer follows me.

  When the door closes, he keeps his back to the restaurant. “What the hell, Jules?” There’s anger in his voice. “You can’t just show up here. Not wearing that. Not at all.”

  I can understand why he’s upset. I don’t know exactly what sort of mess I’ve just put him in, but I can imagine the scenario in reverse, and it makes me cringe. I didn’t even think about the hat. Maybe I should have called. But he was on deliveries tonight, so that wouldn’t have helped. I don’t have his cell number. It’d be the same mess. I take a deep breath. “Look, Sawyer. I’m sorry to do this to you. I know I’m probably causing a problem, but here’s the thing.” I pull off my cap and comb my fingers through my hair, trying to think.

  When I don’t continue, he folds his arms against the cold and shifts his weight. “Well?” he says after a moment. “Kinda cold out here.”

  I look at the Walk sign once more to gather strength, and then sigh and close my eyes, remembering the scene in my mind, frame by frame, landing on Sawyer’s dead face. And I look back up at him, into his eyes. “You see,” I say, and it sounds very grown-up in my ears. “I . . .”

  “What?” he says, but the edge in his voice is fading.

  “I’m just . . .” Oh, shit. What was I thinking? What am I supposed to say here? “I’m worried about your restaurant. I think . . . I mean, I have a weird . . . feeling . . . like something bad is going to happen. To it.” To you.

  In my best-case scenario, this is where he thanks me and gathers me into his strong arms, and his face hovers near mine, and we kiss for the first time.

  In my probable-case scenario, this is where he calls me a nutjob and tells me to go away.

  In my worst-case scenario, this is where the restaurant explodes and I’m in one of the body bags.

  None of those three things happens.

  Sawyer just stares at me for a minute. And then his voice comes out cold. “Is your father going to sabotage us?”

  “What?” I exclaim. “No! No, Sawyer.”

  He pulls out his phone. “Son of a bitch,” he mutters.

  “What are you doing?” I ask, grabbing his arm. “No. Listen to me.”

  He pauses. “Then, what? Are you delivering a warning from him, or a threat?”

  “Oh my God,” I say. “This is not happening. It’s neither one, Sawyer. I’m saying everything all wrong.”

  “What is this, then? What’s going on? Is he suing us? He doesn’t stand a chance, you know.”

  “Sawyer,” I say, and nothing is making sense. “Stop. Just hold on a second. This has nothing to do with my family! I—I have this vision . . . thing . . .” I trail off. It sounds absolutely ridiculous saying it out loud.

  “What?” He looks at me like I’ve lost my marbles.

  But now I’m committed. “I keep seeing a vision,” I say, trying to sound authoritative and not insane. “Over and over. You have to believe me, Sawyer, just listen. Please.”

  He stops fingering his phone, gently pulls his arm away from my grasp, and takes a step away from me. “A vision,” he says sarcastically.

  My heart sinks. I look away. In the window of the apartment across the street, I watch the scene and explain it as it happens. “Yes,” I say in a quiet voice. “It’s snowing pretty hard. A snowplow comes careening over the curb into your back parking lot. It hits the restaurant. There’s a huge explosion.” I turn back to him. “People die.” I close my lips. You, you, you, Sawyer. You die.

  He doesn’t react, waiting for more.

  “Obviously I’m aware that I sound crazy,” I say evenly, realizing my life is now over. “I can’t explain why it’s happening. I don’t ever have visions otherwise, and I don’t think I’m insane. I just keep seeing this—on billboards and TVs and stop signs and . . .” I trail off and face him once more, trying to keep my stupid quivering lip from betraying me. “I just felt like I had to tell you, because if I didn’t, and something happened to you . . . your restaurant, I mean, I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself.” And by the way, I love you.

  He stands there a long moment, his eyes narrowed, snow falling and sticking to his hair and lashes. He blinks the flakes away.

  “Look,” I say, and I make my voice sound clinical now to keep myself from losing it. “I never expected you to believe me. I just had to say something. For me.” And suddenly I know it’s over, and I’ve done my job, and that’s all I have. I nod once very quickly and add, “That’s it,” as if to signal an end to the insanity, and then turn away and walk to my car.

  He doesn’t stop me.

  I get in and start it up, letting the windshield wipers take care of the snow and the defroster clear up the steamy glass caused by cooling pizza. All the while I pray for my door to magically open, for him to come after me. But I’m so afraid to look. Finally, when I start to appear either desperate or suspicious from sitting there so long, I pull out of the parking spot and dare to look back. He’s still standing outside, watching me go. Gathered at the storefront window now, and peering out at me, are Sawyer’s mother and two men. Next to her is a man I recognize as Sawyer’s father, and next to him is an elderly mustachioed man. And as all the thoughts of what I’ve just done numb my brain, I realize that the old gentleman standing there must be the infamous Mr. Fortuno Angotti—the man whose caricatured face adorns the Angotti’s sauce label. The man who stole our family’s recipe and drove my grandfather to his grave.

  Sixteen

  Rowan meets me at the door. “Dad’s freaking out,” she says.

  “Tough.”

  “What’s that?” Rowan points at my bag.

  “I messed up.”

  “Is that your last order?”

  “Yep, sure is.”

  Rowan grabs it and pulls the box out. “It’s . . . moist.”

  “Yup.” I shrug. I feel like crying. I’ve totally messed up two orders in one night. Not cool. Not to mention that other thing.

  “The kitchen is already shut down, Jules. What do you plan to do? Where have you been all this time?”

  “Lost in the blizzard. Couldn’t find it.” I can’t look at her. I move past her and go to the sink to wash my hands and splash some water on my face.

  “Dad’s gonna shit a brick.”

  I push my fingers into my eyes, trying to stop the guilty tears from coming. But everything is so stupid. Why did I say anything? By tomorrow, everybody at school will know I’m a mental case. Sawyer must think I’m a freak.

  “Are you okay?” Rowan asks, looking at me hard. Her voice softens. “Oh my gosh, are you crying? Seriously, you don’t have to cry about it.”

  I grab blindly for a paper towel, determined not to make a single cry noise. I blow the sob out through my lips, nice and slow, and breathe in.

  “Although,” Rowan says, musing to herself, “I would probably cry if it were me. I hate not finishing the job, you know? Makes me feel like a total failure.”

  I take another deep breath and pull the towel away from my face. “You’re not helping.”

  Trey bursts in the door with his empty bag, whistling. “Major tips, girlie,” he says to Rowan, flapping his wad of money in her face.

  “Y
ou have to share, you know.”

  “Not on Super Bowl Sunday,” he says, teasing her. He notices the pizza box sitting there and looks at me. “What happened?”

  “She got lost,” Rowan says. “Jules, did you call the people? You had their number.”

  I don’t want to lie anymore. “No. I just messed up, okay? Can you call them?”

  Trey gives me a weird look but says nothing.

  Rowan sighs deeply and grabs the phone, then looks at the ticket on the box and starts punching buttons. “Fine,” she mutters. “It’s, like, eleven p.m., my gosh, and—Oh, hi! This is Rowan from Demarco’s Pizzeria. We are sooo sorry—”

  I flee through the kitchen to the dining room. May as well face the wrath and get it over with.

  Mom is rolling napkins.

  “Where’s Dad?” I ask.

  “Upstairs. Very upset.” She looks at me like she’s waiting for something.

  “Sorry about dropping that pizza earlier and messing everything up. I, ah . . .”

  “You’re fine,” she says, waving it off. “But why don’t you tell me what else you did?”

  I stare at her. “What do you mean?”

  “You know.”

  I hate when she does this. It’s like she’s trying to trick me into confessing things, which really pisses me off because I’m a good kid. I sigh. She couldn’t possibly know about this most recent pizza fiasco yet, could she? She’s freaking jiggy with her ESP. “Mother, please. I’m tired.”

  She presses her lips together, and then says, “Your father got a call about ten minutes ago from Mario Angotti.”

  The implications are so heavy, so unexpected, I can’t even speak. I sit down hard in a chair and put my face in my hands. “Who?”

  She glares. “Mario Angotti. Son of Fortuno Angotti. Father of Sawyer Angotti, whose acquaintance I believe you’ve made.”

  “Oh, no,” I whisper. “Oh, mother-fuh-lovin’ crap.” I can’t believe they called. I didn’t do anything. “No-o,” I moan as it all sinks in. I can’t look at my mother. “What did he say?”