Bang (3 page)

Mr. Polselli is back in his room at lunch, so Sawyer

and I eat in the caf the rest of the week with Trey, but we

don’t talk about the visions. Too many people around.

There are a few fleeting moments at my locker and a few

short phone conversations, but as the week progresses I

get more and more stressed out at the fact that I barely

get a chance to see Sawyer, much less talk about what he’s

going through.

Add to that, I’m feeling guilty about still not going

back to work. Plus I’m broke. And the sooner I get working, the sooner I’ll be able to do deliveries again now that I’m allowed to drive, which means I’ll be ungrounded

and I’ll get a real cell phone that can do more than just

make phone calls, and maybe Sawyer and I can arrange a

few clandestine meetings. Not to mention Rowan’s been

working her face off covering for me. So I ease back into

the work scene.

“It’s just like old times,” Trey says as we three head

downstairs to the restaurant together Friday after school.

Rowan is in a good mood too—she only has to get us

through the dinner rush and make sure I’m cool with

everything before she gets the night off to do who knows

what.

And it’s pretty easy rolling back into it. My body gets

tired a little sooner than it used to, and I’m not quite as

fast as I’d like to be, but the cast doesn’t really get in the

way too much and it’s actually getting me some pretty nice

pity tips.

Trey is out most of the night with deliveries while

Mom and I cover the tables and Aunt Mary works front of

house. Dad’s having one of his depression days and hasn’t

shown his face, which is actually kind of nice since we

really aren’t talking right now.

In a lull, Mom joins me in prep and we roll silverware.

“Keeping up all right?” she asks.
“Yep,” I say.
“Good.”
It’s awkward between us, too. Ever since before the

crash, I’ve thought Mom wanted to sort of confide in

me—she did already, a little, when she told me she knew it

wasn’t easy saying good-bye to an Angotti, and she wasn’t

talking about herself. But she doesn’t know I know about

Dad’s affair.

And the weird thing is, I don’t know what to do. Like

now, we could talk if she wants to, I guess. “How’s everything

going for you?” I ask. And I realize I never ask her this.

She tilts her head and smiles, seemingly pleased that I

have put aside my selfish ways for the first time ever. “Not

bad,” she says. “Old Mr. Moretti pinched my butt again. I

think he’s going senile.”

“Maybe you’re just a hottie,” I say, grinning. “He

never does that to me.”
“He’d better not or he won’t know what hit him. I

don’t want you girls waiting on him.” She pauses and

lightens up again. “If he weren’t senile I’d kick him out.

But I haven’t been pinched in public since the nineties on

the L.” She says it wistfully.
“
Mom
,” I say. I don’t want to know about her glory

days or whatever. Then I think about it. “You know, that’s

really kind of sad. You should get pinched at least once a

week.”
“You’d think,” she mutters, and then she laughs and

tosses her hair a little.
I set down a roll of silverware and glance at her.

“How’s Dad these days?” I ask, tentative. “Any chance he’s

ready to unground me yet?”
She laughs again.
“I’m seriously asking you.”
She pulls in a breath and sighs, and then she shakes

her head a little, grabbing a new package of napkins and

slicing the wrapper open with a little retractable X-Acto

knife she keeps in her apron. “Julia,” she says, turning

to me, “it’s complicated. And no, I don’t see you getting

ungrounded anytime soon.”
I scowl and glance at my lingering guests. “What’s so

complicated? You guys are—” I clamp my mouth shut,

knowing pointing fingers isn’t going to get me anywhere,

especially when I think Mom might be on my side. “Sorry.

It’s just frustrating. I don’t feel like I’m doing anything

wrong.”
“Whoa. Seriously? Leaving work, stealing the meatball truck and wrecking it, not to mention yourself, seeing a guy you are forbidden to see, and sneaking around with

him at two in the morning?”
I try to breathe. “I wouldn’t have to sneak if you guys

weren’t so—”
Ugh.
I catch myself again. “Look,” I say

as a customer catches my eye, “I just think the AngottiDemarco rivalry is so . . . Middle Ages. Or whatever.

Shakespearian. Overdramatic. It’s ridiculous that Dad

can’t get over it.”
“It would have been a lot of money,” Mom says.
“Only if Dad had the drive to actually manufacture

and sell the stinking sauce, like Fortuno did.” I pause. “Or

do you mean the money you would have gotten from suing

the Angottis over it?” I set down my last roll of silverware

hard. “Customer,” I say as I walk off so she doesn’t think

I’m stomping away mad.
“Who knows? Ask your father,” she mutters under her

breath. I don’t think she expected me to hear that.

The weekend is endless. I’m working when

Sawyer’s off, he’s working or volunteering when I’m off,

and we don’t even manage to connect for a quick phone

call. I hate this. Hate not knowing what’s going on, hate

that hours and days are ticking away and we’re not doing

anything. I’m worried as hell.

The phone vibrating in my hand wakes me at two in

the morning. It takes me a second to pull out of my dream

and figure out what’s happening. I sit up on one elbow and

answer it.

“Hey, are you okay?” I whisper, my voice full of sleep

and air.
He doesn’t answer for a second and I think maybe it’s

an accidental roll-over-on-his-phone-in-the-night call.

But then he says in a quiet voice, “Jules, I’m—I’m just—

I’m freaking out a little.”
I glance at Rowan and she hasn’t even moved. “What’s

happening?” I turn my face away from the door, as if that’ll

keep my whispers from slipping under it.
“It’s, well, I had a chance to watch the vision on TV a

few times. Like fifty, I mean, and it’s—” I can hear the whir

of anxiety in his voice notching up. He takes a breath. “It’s

really horrible. It almost made me puke. I swear.”
I press my lids shut with my fingertips. “Oh, God,”

I say. There are no other words. “Are you taking notes?

Writing it all down?”
“Yeah. Some.”
I think I hear a creak of the hallway floor, but it’s nothing. I pull the blankets over my head. “What can I do?

How can I help you?”
I hear the tightness in his throat as he swallows hard,

hear the air rush from his nostrils into the phone, a tiny

blast of emotion. And then it comes again, and he doesn’t

speak, and I know he’s trying to hold it together.
“Shit, I remember this,” I say. My gut twists. “I know

how tough it is.” I cringe, thinking I sound like a condescending jerk when what I really mean to say is,
It’s okay to cry with me.
It turns out he doesn’t need my permission. After a

few minutes of him in not-quite-silent sobs and me star

ing into the caverns of my blankets, wishing I could be

with him, remembering and remembering, he blows out a

breath and says, “I don’t think I can do this alone.”

“You’re not alone, Sawyer.”

His silence tells me he feels otherwise, and suddenly

I’m furious. Not at him. At my parents, and at his parents. And at the ridiculousness of this. I can’t see or help my friend, my boyfriend, because of something gross my

father did.

“This is nuts,” I mutter, throwing my blankets off and

sitting up on the side of the bed. I can hardly contain the

surprise tsunami of anger that floods me. “Where are you?”

“In my room.”
“Do you want me to come over?” I cringe again, imagining the trouble I could get into, but the anger is bigger than that fear, and the boy across town is more important

than the man in the next room.
“No. I mean yes, of course, obviously. But no. I’m

okay now, and we don’t need any more trouble with the

proprietors. I’m just glad . . .” He trails off for a moment,

and his voice goes soft. “I’m just glad you answered. And

that you’re there.”
I can hardly stand it. “I’m here. We’ll figure out

something. I can’t take this either. I need more than a few

minutes at my locker with you.” I don’t think I would have

said that if it weren’t for the cover of darkness.
“Oh, God, Jules,” he says, and it sounds like he’s about

to break down again. “I miss you like you have no idea. I

know I sound like a basket case, and I’m sorry for—jeez,

for slobbering all over—but this has been the longest

week, and everything’s so . . . fucked-up. . . .”
“Yeah.”
“I need to tell you about it. There’s stuff I haven’t told

you.”
I nod. “I want to hear it all. I want to help you. I will

be there, helping you. Okay? I mean, do you know when

it’s going to happen? Probably not . . .”
“No idea.”
I close my eyes, feeling defeat. “We’ll get it. I just need

to figure out how to get out of here. I’m suffocating.”
“We both are.”
We’re quiet for a minute.
“Stay on the phone with me,” he says. “Please?”
“I will.” I climb back into bed and pull the blankets

over me, keeping the phone to my ear. “I’ve never slept

with a boy before,” I say.
He laughs a little and it makes me feel better for him.

We whisper a little bit, and soon we’re quiet. My eyelids

droop.
In an instant, it’s morning.

“What happened to your face?” Rowan asks as

we stand in the bathroom together, putting finishing

touches on our makeup.

I glare. “Nothing.” The imprint of the cell phone

remains on my cheek, though it’s not nearly as pronounced

as when I first got up.

She narrows her eyes at me, suspicious. “You know,”

she says, “I don’t mind picking up shifts for you in case

you’re, like, feeling a little
overtired
. Or if you need to go

to the
library
for a
project
or something. I like money.”

I pause and look at her in the mirror.

“Or maybe you want to, I don’t know.

Volunteer
somewhere on Saturday mornings.”
I set my can of hairspray down. “Hmm.”
“You need to get a little creative is all I’m saying. Don’t

you want to join a club after school? Try out for a sport?”

She blinks her lashes rapidly and smiles.
I snort. “Yeah,” I say, waving my cast. “Sports.”
“Well, I’m just trying to help.” She puts away her

makeup and glances at one of the seventeen clocks—the

top one, which actually works—that the hoarder decided

would look great piled on the towel rack above the toilet.

“Let’s go.”
I nod. “Thanks.”
As we grab our coats and backpacks, I ask her, “What

do you do with all your money, anyway?”
“Save it.”
“For what?”
“My trip to New York. Spring break. I’m going to see

Charlie.” She patters down the stairs.
My jaw drops, and I follow her. “You’re what?”
She shrugs. “I already have my plane ticket.”
“You—you—” I sputter. We climb into the running

car, where Trey is waiting, tapping the steering wheel with

an annoyed look on his face. “Mom and Dad are letting

you go? I can’t believe it.”
“Letting her go where?” Trey asks. He takes off

quickly down the alley and turns onto the street.
Rowan is quiet from the backseat. I turn and look at

her, and she’s pressing her lips together.

BANG

“Oh my dog,” I say. “You haven’t told them?”

“Told them what?” Trey asks.
“Well,” Rowan says, “since I have you both here, I’m

going to need some help covering my shifts. You both owe

me plenty.”
“What’s going on?” Trey says in an outdoor voice.
I stare at Rowan. “Do you have any scope of realization

over what you are about to unleash upon us all? They’ll

call the freaking cops! Report you as a missing person!”
Trey pulls the car over on the side of the road. “What.

Is. Happening!” he shouts, eyes ablaze.
I turn my attention to Trey. “Rowan has a boyfriend in

New York and she’s going to see him over spring break.”
Trey whirls around, eyes bulging. “What?”
Rowan’s gaze settles somewhere to the left of and

below Trey’s jaw. She starts biting her lip. “I’m going,” she

says weakly.
“You’re fifteen!” he says. “Mom is going to blow a

freaking gasket. Who is this loser?”
Rowan gets her courage back. “He’s not a loser! He’s—

his name is Charlie.”
“Charles something something Banks,” I interject.
“The third,” Rowan adds, which is news to me. “His

parents invited me. They paid for my ticket but I already

told them I’ll pay them back when I get there.” She adjusts

her collar. “We met at soccer camp.”
“He has a live-in tutor,” I offer.
“Not live-in,” Rowan says.
“She’s met his parents.”
Trey blinks. And then he shakes his head. “You little

creep,” he mutters, checking his mirrors and pulling back

onto the road. “Why can’t
I
ever find a Charles something

something the Third?”
I face forward. “So you’re okay with this?” I ask him.
He gives a bitter laugh. “Fuck,” he says. “Why the

hell not.” He punches the gas a little harder than usual

and pulls into the school parking lot. “Why the hell not,”

he says again. He parks a few rows from Sawyer’s car and

looks over his shoulder at Rowan as he turns off the car

and pulls out the keys. “You’re going to be the one who

actually survives this family, aren’t you. The only one.”
Rowan just stares at him, and then he’s out and slamming

the door, shoulders curved and head bowed to the wind.
We get out. “What was that all about?” she asks as

Sawyer gets out of his car, sees me, and heads toward us.
I shrug, but I think I know, because I used to feel it

too. Trey’s jealous. “I think maybe he wishes he had something you have,” I say. But I don’t take the time to explain, because Sawyer is standing on my shadow and his ropy

lashes are about to lasso me in.
Gag. That was bad.