Bang (6 page)

In the morning I’m on the computer early,

researching Chicago’s oldest school buildings still in use.

I scribble notes to myself—“Lincoln Park. Old Chicago.

Survived the big fire? Grass. Bushy trees. Private road.

Small stop sign.”

Not all of the older schools I can find have pictures

online, and besides, our stinking slow connection makes

it impossibly hard for me to load anything, so I give up

on that and start to list school names on a different paper.

“Drive by: Lincoln Park HS. Lake View HS. Wendell

Phillips Academy. Robert Lindblom Math/Science Acad.”

And then I add questions.
1. Victims are presumably high school age, not

middle school, right? Can tell by clothes/dress/size?

Maturity—boobs/facial hair? Note clothing of each victim—for identifying before.

2. Close-up of whiteboard—forgot to tell you about

zooming the pic to read the writing.
3 . . .

It’s right about here that I realized these notes could be

vastly misunderstood, maybe even peg me as plotting a

school shooting if they end up in the wrong hands, and

I nearly choke at the thought. What a kick in the teeth. I

debate ripping this up and swallowing it vs. burning it, and

then decide I’m being irrational and just fold it up and put

it in my pocket.

In the five seconds that remain before Rowan drags

me out the door, I leave a note on the kitchen counter by

the sink. “Going to library after school for tree research.

Our lame Internet connection is too slow—can’t get my

homework done.”

“Tree research?” Rowan asks as we three climb into

the car.
“Yeah. It’s for a . . . project.”
Trey turns his head sharply to stare at me. “I don’t

remember having to do any tree project in tenth grade,”

he says. He looks back at the road, but I can feel an accusation in his posture.
I shrug. “Maybe it’s new.” My hands start to sweat.
“Look,” he says, glancing in the rearview mirror, “I

know something’s up. You’re a terrible liar. And you’re

starting to piss me off.”
I sigh. “Nothing’s up. Not with me. Okay? Sawyer

needs my help on something.”
Tension strains the silence.
“It’s not my thing to tell,” I say.
After a few quiet minutes, we’re at school and Trey

parks the car. We all climb out.
“Go ahead, Ro,” he says.
She rolls her eyes. “You’d better include me this time if

it’s something exciting and dangerous, that’s all I can say.”

She shrugs her backpack strap higher on her shoulder and

walks toward the school.
Trey comes around the front of the car and stops me,

a shock of his sleek dark waves falling over one eye. “After

all I did for you,
and
for him, I think I deserve to know

what’s going on. Or you can forget about me covering for

you like this day after day. Okay? I’m done.”
He stares at me for a long moment, black eyes piercing into mine, and then he turns on the wet pavement and strides through the parking lot, leaving me standing there

looking at the rivulets of water migrating from the shrinking piles of crusty, dirty snow.
•••

Inside, Sawyer hands me a folded piece of paper, and I

hand him one in return. We both open them and read

them, standing together at my locker. I skim his long,

detailed outline, my eyes growing wider as I read. When I

get to the bottom, I look at him. “Seriously?”

He nods, staring blankly at the paper I gave him,

and then he looks at me. “There’s no way we can do this

alone,” he says in a low voice.

“I’ve been thinking about that. What about . . . Trey?”

I ask.
He nods again. “I don’t know who else to go to.” His

voice is hollow and his hand drops to his side, like he’s too

tired to hold the paper any longer.
“No, this is good,” I say. “Really. He already knows

something’s up.” I fold the notes he gave me into a tight

square and put them safely in my pocket. “I’ll talk to him

and see if we can figure out a time to meet up so we can

explain—”
Just then Roxie and BFF Sarah come up behind

Sawyer. Roxie slaps Sawyer on the butt, and when he

turns, Sarah grabs the paper from his hand.
“Ooh, a love note!” She laughs.
Sawyer tries to grab it but Sarah hands it off to Roxie.

And because of my paranoia this morning, and because it’s

so stupid rude anyway, I lunge for the paper, grasp Roxie’s

shirt collar with my good hand, and pull the paper from

her with my other hand, leaving only a tiny bit between

her fingers and, unfortunately, a large scratch on her neck

from my fingernail.
“Ow, you bitch!” she shrieks, holding her neck like

it’s way more than just a flesh wound, and then she lunges

back at me, going for my neck rather than the paper,

which I manage to shove into my pocket.
People around us start shouting and I can’t see

anything but Roxie’s flaring nostrils in my face. I think

frantically about how this all will lead to nothing good,

namely parents being called, and I sink to the floor, deadweight, praying that somebody pulls her off me as she follows me to the floor, because I’m not going to fight

back. In an instant, she digs her knee into my stomach

and rakes her fake claws down my neck. I close my eyes

and keep my flinching as invisible as possible, hoping she

doesn’t totally fuck up my innards after they’ve been trying so hard to heal. Instinctively I bring my good arm up to her rib cage to try to lessen the weight she’s putting

on me, and she jabs her elbow into my biceps, giving me

a wicked charley horse.
“Stop!” I hear, and realize it’s my hoarse voice yelling.
The whole thing lasts about five seconds, maybe a few

more than that, but it feels like an hour before her knee

is off my gut. I’m not quite flat on the floor; my head is

against the lockers and my neck is twisted. I open an eye as

Sawyer kneels down to see if I’m okay and help me up, and

I look at Roxie, who is being held back by the guy whose

locker is next to mine. Mr. Polselli stands between us, his

hand on Roxie’s shoulder, his eyes on me.
“Are you okay?” Sawyer asks.
I nod quickly, and scramble to get to my feet, embarrassed. We’re surrounded by students eager for a girl fight. “Sorry to disappoint,” I say to them, catching my

breath. I hold my cast in front of me and my good arm

pressed against my stomach and make a pained face. Hey,

I’m not stupid.
“My classroom,” Mr. Polselli barks at both of us just as

the bell rings. “Everybody else get out of here.”
Sawyer tries to come with me, but Mr. Polselli gives

him the hairy eyeball. Sawyer says how sorry he is with

his eyes, and then he frowns and grabs his books, watching at least until we’re out of sight and inside the psych classroom. Mr. Polselli’s papier mâché bust of Ivan Pavlov

stares at me.
“Roxanne, you start,” Mr. Polselli says.
“She attacked me and cut my neck,” Roxie says. “I can

feel it. See?”
“Why did she attack you?”
“Because she’s a paranoid freak,” she says. “She can’t

stand that I’m friends with her boyfriend.”
“I did not
attack
you.
You
took—” I begin, but Mr.

Polselli holds a hand up to me. Students start to come into

the room and they send curious looks in our direction.
“So she scratched you, and you scratched her back four

times. And pushed her to the ground?”
“No, she fell.” Roxie won’t look at me, but her eyes

are brimming, and I feel strangely sorry for her for the

briefest moment.
Mr. Polselli turns to me. “Julia, did you attack Roxanne?”
“No, I was reaching for something and I accidentally

scratched her. I wasn’t trying to do that.”
“What were you reaching for?”
“A note. Her friend Sarah pulled it from Sawyer

Angotti’s hand and gave it to her. They think it’s a love

note. It was something private I gave him, and she was

just, I don’t know, goofing around or whatever, and I

reacted, trying to get it back.” I pause, setting my jaw so

I don’t cry. I have never been in trouble like this before.

“I’m sorry I scratched you, Rox. I didn’t mean to. I just

wanted the paper back.” My fingers go to my own neck,

which throbs now, and I wonder how bad my scratches

are. I can feel the raised welts.
My biggest fear is that Mr. Polselli asks to see the

paper, but I’m prepared to say no—it’s not like we got

caught in class passing notes or something. School hadn’t

even started yet. But he doesn’t ask for it, and I breathe a

silent sigh of relief.
“Roxanne?” Mr. Polselli asks. “Do you have anything

else to say?”
“No.”
“It doesn’t look good for you, frankly,” he continues,

still looking at Roxie. “What I saw was you kneeling on a

girl who has a broken arm and just had surgery last month.

She’s got four scratches, you’ve got one, and yours is not

that bad.” He fishes around in his drawer and, after a minute, pulls out a rectangular glass mirror, handing it to Roxie.

“I don’t think we want to take this to the principal, do we?”
“God, no. Please,” I say.
Roxie looks at her scratch. I agree, it’s not that bad.

Mr. Polselli digs around a bit more in another drawer and

hands her a small square packet containing an antiseptic

wipe. He gives me one too.
Roxie sets the mirror on his desk out of my reach and

glances at me. I avert my eyes and fold my arms as best I

can with the cast. “Fine,” she says. “Sorry.”
Mr. Polselli looks at me, then picks up the mirror and

hands it to me. “You don’t want to go any further with this

either?”
I train the mirror at my neck and study the scratches,

four neat lines, the first three pretty heavy and the fourth just

a light scratch like the one I gave Roxie. Thankfully there’s

no dripping blood. It’s going to be interesting explaining this

one at home. “No, it’s fine,” I say. “Just a misunderstanding.”
Mr. Polselli nods. “Okay, then.” He scribbles a note on

a small pad of paper and hands it to Roxie.
She takes it. “Thanks,” she says. And without another

glance, she weaves through the aisle of students and goes

out the door, eyes still shiny, biting her lip.
Mr. Polselli scribbles a note to get me back into class,

and then he says, “She was on your stomach. Any need to

get you checked out? You had some internal injuries from

your crash, right?”
I smile, and now my eyes fill with tears because he’s

being nice, and because the danger and fear of the moment

just caught up with me. “I’m okay. She wasn’t pressing too

hard or anything.”
He looks down at his desk as a tear spills over the edge

of my lower lid and I swipe it away. “Did you get your letter back?” he asks.
I freeze. “Yes.”
He smiles. “Good.” He hands me the excused note

as the second bell rings and the students in his classroom

start to sit down. “Take a few minutes to clean up. I added

ten minutes to the excused time on your pass.”
I take the pass and the antiseptic pad. “Thank you,” I

say. “A lot.” And before another tear can leak out, I turn

and barrel down the aisle, hoping nobody’s looking at me

and my big ol’ neckful of scratches.

“Jeez,” Trey says when he sees me at lunch.

“What happened to you? Looks like Sawyer’s got either a

well-oiled hinge on that jaw or some retractable incisors.”

I sit down next to Trey as Sawyer finds us and sits

across from us.
“Random feline incident,” I say, waving him off. “One

of my fans got a little too close.”
Sawyer examines my neck, then glances at Trey. “For

the record, I did not do that.” He looks at me. “Does it

hurt? Any repercussions?”
“Yes, and no, thankfully. Polselli’s cool. He kept it

small. Good thing nobody threw a punch.” I pull the

crumpled note out of my pocket and hand it to Sawyer.
Trey swipes it.
“Seriously?” both Sawyer and I exclaim.
Trey stares at us like we’re insane. “Calm down,” he

says. “Take a moment.” He slowly hands the paper to

Sawyer. “It’s just a lingering adolescent attention-grabbing

behavior. We all do it. It’s human nature.”
I start laughing softly, insanely, at the plate of lardfilled fats on the table in front of me.
“Trey,” Sawyer says, and then he grabs my hand and

squeezes it so I stop acting crazy.
I look up.
Trey’s eyes narrow slightly. “Yes?”
“We—
I
need your help.”
Trey bats his eyelashes. “Oh?”
Sawyer flashes a grin despite the intensity of his

thoughts. “No, not like that. It’s, uh . . . God, this is going

to sound insane, but—”
Trey grows serious again. “Oh, no.” He leans forward.

“Did you just say the magic word?”
“He did,” I say.
Sawyer looks over his shoulder, making sure nobody’s

paying attention to us, and then he leans in. “Trey, ever

since the crash, I—”
“No,” Trey says. “Shit.”
“Ever since the crash, I’ve been having this—”
“No.” Trey sits back. “No, you haven’t. No.”
Sawyer sits back. “Yes.”
Trey shakes his head. “Not funny. It’s not quite April

Fools’ Day. Good practice joke, though.” His mouth is

strained. I know this look. It’s the
I’m pretending I’m not

freaked-out right now
look. A classic Demarco face.
Sawyer digs the heels of his hands into his eyes and

then rests his arms on the table and looks back at Trey. “I

wish it was a joke.”
Trey throws a nervous glance my way. I don’t smile.

He looks back at Sawyer. “No. You are mistaken. You are

not having a vision. It’s just PTSD or something. You’ve

been through a lot.”
Sawyer sighs. “Okay. Well. You would know.” He

stares at his lunch and shoves a forkful of by-product into

his mouth. His eyes get glassy and he won’t look at either

of us. He chews a few times and then just stands up and

takes his tray to the guys in dishwashing.
“He’s serious?” Trey says.
“Yeah. Thanks for making him feel like crap.”
“Fuck. What did you do to him?”
The guilt pang strikes again. I get up as Sawyer comes

back this way. “Yeah, I don’t know,” I say. “Come on. We

need to talk to him.”
Trey sighs and gets up. “Okay.” He grabs my tray and

his and brings them away while I meet up with Sawyer.
“He knows you’re serious now,” I say.
Sawyer just shakes his head. “Maybe this was a bad idea.”
“I don’t think we have a choice. Let’s just get it out

there to him, see what he says. Please—I think he’ll help

us.”
He presses his lips together. “Fine.”
I beckon to Trey.
Trey catches up to us and we leave the cafeteria

together. The clock says we’ve got about twelve minutes

before the bell rings. We walk down to the trophy hallway where only the memories of students linger—almost nobody hangs out here, they just pass through.
When we reach a quiet corner, Trey stops and faces us.

“Okay, explain. How the hell did you start seeing a vision?

What is this, some sort of contagion? A virus? What? It’s

like a bad B movie.”
“We don’t know. All I know is that I don’t have my

vision anymore, but Sawyer has one now.”
“So what is it—a snowplow hitting
our
restaurant this

time?”
I look at Sawyer. “You should explain everything.

Including what you said in your note.”
Sawyer begins. And I watch the two guys I love most

in the world talk to each other. They are almost exactly

the same height, a few inches taller than me. Trey’s eyes

are black and his hair is darker than Sawyer’s, almost black,

but they both have natural waves. Sawyer tries to fight his

hair by keeping it short, while Trey coaxes his longer locks

to curl every morning. I almost smile as I watch them.

They are both so beautiful.
But the story Sawyer tells is not beautiful. I tune in,

watching Trey’s face go from shock to disbelief. “A school

shooting,” Trey says. “God, that’s my worst nightmare.”

He shivers.
I didn’t know that. “Mine’s a toss-up between burning

and being crushed,” I murmur.
“Drowning,” Sawyer adds. “Stampede. Or . . . being

shot in the face by a fucking maniac or two.”
That brings us back. “So we have two shooters now,”

I say, opening up the note Sawyer gave me this morning.

Trey shushes me as a group of freshmen walk by. One of

them eyes us in fear.
Sawyer waits until they’re gone. “Yeah.”
“And you don’t know what school,” Trey says. “That’s

. . . impossible.”
“We need help, man. You’re the only one who will

believe us.”
I watch conflict wash across Trey’s face.
“Guys,” he says, “look. I’m not trying to be all superior or grown up or whatever, but this is insane.
Insane.
How bad . . . I mean, the visions—I guess they’re pretty

bad.”
“They let up a little when I manage to figure something out. But yeah. It’s about fifty million times worse than having the theme song from ‘Elmo’s World’ stuck in

your head for a month straight.”
Trey glances at the clock. “I think . . .” He gives me a

guilty look, and then his gaze drops to the floor. “Look. I

think it’s too big for two teenagers. Or three. And, Sawyer,

you should try and just get through it until it happens, and

then hopefully it’ll go away.”
The bell rings.
“But, Trey,” I say, “it’s a lot of people. It’s their families. Their lives.”
“You don’t know them.”
“We don’t know that for sure,” I say, my voice pitching higher. “Besides, I feel like it’s my fault. I mean, Sawyer didn’t do anything to deserve this stupid vision,

except somehow he caught it from me. I have to do

something—” I grab his shirtsleeve as he turns to go to

class. “Trey, come on.”
“Come on, what? It’s too dangerous. You’re being irrational. I’m sorry about the noise in your head, Sawyer, and I hope it goes away soon, but, well, we almost died once

already. If we manage to survive this, it won’t be for long,

because our parents will murder us.” He starts walking

quickly. “Get to class,” he says over his shoulder to me.
Sawyer and I look at each other. “I’ll work on him,”

I say.
“No. It’s cool. I’ll . . . I’ll see you.”
“I’m planning on the library if you can make it.”
Sawyer’s face sags. “I—I don’t think so. Not today.”

He turns and goes toward his next class, and I go to sculpting. With Trey.