Crash

  She nods and smiles, tears in her eyes, dark circles even darker below them. “You were in an accident. You’re in the hospital. How do you feel?” There’s a noise from another part of the room and I turn my head in slow motion. Nothing wants to move today. It’s my father, and I’m too tired to be scared. Rowan is back there too, I see.

  “I’m okay,” I say. And before I can say “What happened?” bits of things rush back to my memory. I struggle to sit up, alarmed, but it hurts so much to move. “Where’s Trey?”

  “He’s at home,” Mom hurries to explain, reaching out and gently pushing my shoulders back down. “He’s fine. He just got banged up, some cuts and bruises. He’s sleeping. He’s . . . he’s fine.”

  I fall back in relief, and then vaguely I remember the last vision. “So . . . who’s dead? Is it Sawyer?” I close my eyes, and in spite of the fuzziness in my brain, pain sears through my chest. “Oh, God. Not Sawyer.” I don’t care if my father’s listening.

  “Honey,” my mother says, “you just need to rest now, okay? Don’t get all worked up.”

  “You have to tell me. I know someone’s dead. Who is it?”

  Rowan comes over to the other side of the bed and touches my shoulder. “It’s not Sawyer,” she says. “He’s fine.” She gives me a look like she wants to say more but can’t.

  I sigh as much as my body lets me, which isn’t very much, and I’m exhausted again. “Thank you,” I whisper. Good old Rowan.

  Mom holds a glass of water for me and I drink some from a straw. Everything takes so long to do.

  My father just stands there, looking like a big oaf.

  I gaze at him under half-closed lids. “I’m sorry about the truck,” I say, and tears start spilling, not just from my eyes, but his, too. I haven’t seen him cry in a long time.

  He comes closer and takes my hand. “The truck doesn’t matter,” he says. “You matter. I’m glad you’re going to be okay.” He swallows hard and then says in a gruff voice, “You saved a lot of people. I don’t know if you know what you did.”

  I almost laugh. “I have an idea,” I whisper. I want to know more, but my eyes won’t stay open, and once again everything is dark and quiet.

  • • •

  When I wake up again, I am alone. I open my eyes cautiously, expecting to see scene after scene reflected in the monitors and windows, but there are none. Instead, there are heart balloons and flowers by the bed. “Big sigh, Demarco,” I whisper.

  My body aches, especially when I breathe. If I yawn or cough, it feels like a knife is slicing through me. I reach for the nurse’s button and push it.

  A minute later, a petite black-haired nurse comes in, all smiles. “Well, there you are,” she says. “I’m Felicia. How are you doing? Ready for some pain meds? Let’s make your Valentine’s night a little happier, shall we?”

  “Yes, please.” It hurts so much I feel like crying.

  She pushes a button that raises the head of my bed. “Sorry I can’t just set up a morphine drip. Your parents said they didn’t want you to get addicted.” She smiles when I groan in embarrassment. “The pills take a little longer to kick in, but you’ll feel better soon.”

  “What’s wrong with me?” I swallow the pills she hands me.

  “Oh, let’s see here.” She checks the chart. “Your left arm is fractured, you have two cracked ribs, and we had to do some surgery for internal injuries. Looks like you are now without a spleen, and everything else got stitched up inside.” She smiles. “You have a killer black eye, and some other bruises and cuts.”

  “I cut my finger,” I say, remembering. I bring my casted arm up so I can look at it. There are three little blue Xs across my knuckle.

  The nurse grins. “Yes, that too. You’re definitely going to be sore for a while.”

  I put my arm back down, exhausted. “Please tell me who died. Do you know?”

  She smiles ruefully. “Everyone knows. It was pretty big news. The man who died was Sam Rutherford. He was the driver of the snowplow.”

  My eyes flutter closed, but I’m not asleep. “Shit,” I whisper. “I never thought about him.”

  “He didn’t die in the crash, though. They’re saying he had a massive heart attack before he hit you. The witnesses who saw the whole thing talked to the cops. They told them what you did. You’re kind of a hero, Miss Julia.” Felicia smiles. “The police will be by tomorrow to talk to you if you’re feeling up to it.”

  I’m glad I didn’t cause the driver’s death, but I still feel terrible about it. I nod. “I guess that’s fine.”

  “And meanwhile, there’s been a sweet, very worried young man in the waiting room since last night hoping to visit you. One of the witnesses. His name is Sawyer. Do you want to see him?”

  My good eye opens wide. “He’s here?”

  “Yes.”

  Ohh, dogs. My good hand flutters to my hair, which is all matted and gross. “What do I look like?”

  Felicia smiles warmly and says, “You look like a girl who just saved that guy’s life.”

  I press my lips together and nod. “That’ll do. Yeah. Send him in.”

  Thirty-Five

  He peeks his head in the door, and it’s so weird to see him in this situation, with me lying here all vulnerable like this. His dark hair is disheveled and he’s wearing an Angotti’s shirt, as if he came straight from work.

  There’s a look on his face that is so pained, I almost feel like I should offer him some meds—they’re starting to kick in, numbing some of my aches.

  He sees my eyes are open and he stops and just stands there, six or eight feet away, like he’s feeling bad for intruding. “Hey,” he says, and his voice cracks on that one syllable, and then he’s bringing his hand to his eyes, and his shoulders start to shake. I watch him react, and a lump rises to my throat. I am overcome.

  “Oh, hell, Jules,” he says after a minute. “Oh my God.” It’s all he can say.

  “I must look really terrible to get that reaction,” I say, slurring my words. I’m starting to feel a little loopy from the drugs. “Come and sit. Aren’t you supposed to be at the dance or something?”

  He comes over and eases into the chair by the bed and just looks at me, all this pain in his face that won’t go away.

  “Hey.” I reach out my right hand toward him. “Why so serious?” I tease.

  He takes my hand in his, holds it to his warm cheek, and leans in and hesitates, then gently strokes the hair off my forehead.

  “I just—” he says, and the words are so hard for him that I want to find my Crescent wrench and yank them out. But I stay quiet. Because the truth is, he thinks he owes me this. I understand that. And he does owe me, but not for saving his life. He owes me something else.

  “I—” he starts again, and this time he continues. “I’m so sorry. Jules, I’m . . . God, I was so wrong, and I didn’t believe you and I should have, and I feel so . . . so guilty about it, I feel terrible about everything. About not believing you, and about the last few years, which . . .” He sighs and shakes his head. “I’m just ashamed of the way things have been, and . . . the way I treated you.”

  I touch my thumb to his lips and he closes his eyes.

  And then he goes on. “When they couldn’t get you out at first, you almost died, and they had to use the Jaws of Life . . . and Trey was begging the paramedics not to take him away because he couldn’t leave you . . . I mean, I just wanted to die too. And I can’t believe I let this happen because of our stupid families.”

  I blink hard. Jaws of Life? I almost died? “So that was me in the second bag,” I murmur.

  “What?”

  I try to focus on him, but I’m starting to get sleepy again. “In the final vision, there were still two body bags in the snow, but one of them went away.” I close my eyes and can’t open them again. “That must have been me.”

  Sawyer squeezes my hand and presses his lips against my fingers. “I’m sorry.”

  “Hey,” I say. The t
houghts and words I mean to say are jumbled up in my head, and none of them come out at all, and then I’m slipping away again.

  • • •

  The third time I wake up, I see the face I’ve needed to see this entire time.

  “Hey, good morning, Baby Bop. All purple and green.”

  “That’s not nice,” I say, grinning sleepily. “That’s a great, um . . .” I point to his neck. “What’s the word?”

  “Scarf?”

  “No.”

  “Noose?”

  I laugh. “Ow. No, like Fred What’s-His-Name wears.”

  “Who?”

  “You know. From Scooby-Doo.”

  He raises an eyebrow. “Oh, an ascot.”

  “That’s it. Is it new? Oh, hell, this joke isn’t even funny anymore.”

  He adjusts the white brace around his neck. “You like it? It came free with the whiplash and approximately two trillion dollars in hospital costs. My sister’s a crazy driver.”

  “It’s lovely.”

  Trey smiles and reaches toward me, fixes my pillows. “You okay, kiddo?”

  I nod. “They call me the girl who lived.”

  He smiles, and then grows serious. “I’m sorry I doubted you.”

  I take his hand. “You didn’t doubt me. You believed me. Or else you wouldn’t have come.”

  “Actually,” he says, cocking his head, “I was just delivering a pizza down the street and saw the truck, thought I’d say hi.”

  I roll my eyes. “So, what’s everybody saying? Where’s Mom and Dad?”

  “Mom and Dad were here overnight. You slept the whole time, they said. They just left when I came. Rowan’s home getting ready for the big day-after-Valentine’s rush.”

  I laugh and pain sears through my side again. “Stop hurting me.”

  “And the news story was interesting but fleeting. You had your fifteen minutes while under the knife, sad to say. But we were superheroes there for a minute or two.” He leans toward me conspiratorially. “You were, actually. But I was happy to take credit during your incapacitation.”

  “Oh, good job, vice president of awesome. So . . . what do Mom and Dad think about me stealing the food truck?”

  “It was a bit of a shock. They didn’t know you’d ever driven it before, so obviously they think you’re going to become a crazed food truck thief. And probably a mobster, too. An addicted one.” He gives me a sad, sideways grin. “Truth is, they think this is all Sawyer’s fault, and he’s turning you into some lovesick emo rule-breaker. I’m not sure this whole thing did your relationship any favors.”

  I let that sink in. “Oh. That’s bad.” I don’t yet know how I’m going to explain the truck. Or the relationship. I ponder it for a moment, and then put it aside for when I can think more clearly. “Did you talk to the police?”

  “Yeah. They wanted to know if the gas line shutoff was related to our adventure, because Grand Poohbah Angotti was apparently grumbling about it. I said I knew nothing of it.”

  “Are you serious?” I shake my head. “He was grumbling about it? We saved his fucking restaurant and his family, and he’s mad because he probably had to throw out a few pizzas? Besides, I don’t remember any gas meter being turned off.”

  Trey regards me. “You don’t?”

  I grin so he knows I’m teasing. “All I know is that we saw a snowplow driving crazily, and we acted on instinct when we saw it was aiming toward our rival’s restaurant. We headed it off so it wouldn’t hit people, because we are human beings like that. That’s it, that’s all. End of story.”

  “So you’re not going to mention the vision thing?”

  “What vision thing?” I smile sweetly.

  Trey laughs. “You don’t know how relieved that makes me. It’s gone, then?”

  I nod. “It’s gone.”

  “Phew.”

  “Right? Totally gone. But back to the reporters. They said what about me, exactly?” I bat my eyelashes. My lids feel all puffy and weird.

  “They said a sixteen-year-old girl driving illegally with her stunningly handsome brother—who is eighteen and available, by the way—saved the world with their giant balls. Ah-ha-ha-ha.”

  I roll my eyes.

  “They interviewed Sawyer’s parents, who actually sounded grateful, and his cousin, Kate, I think her name was, who saw the whole thing from the time we were rolling. She said if we hadn’t been there, the snowplow would have hit right where the dining room window is, right next to the kitchen. The cops said that with the gas meter and kitchen ovens going full blast, there could have been a tremendous explosion. But PawPaw Angotti said the gas had been manually shut off just minutes before, ruining some food—yes, he really did mention that on TV, making him look like a total douche.”

  “Hmm. Must have been an angel or something who turned off that gas.”

  “One of the world’s unexplained mysteries, right alongside the Loch Ness Monster and the purpose of ‘being all gangsta.’” He leans back in his chair. “Oh, and then a honey of a boy came on the interview, almost forgot. The heir to the emporium, as it were.”

  “Sawyer?”

  “Indubitably. After his little statement, I think I’m sort of back in love with him again.”

  “You jerk. Tell me what he said!”

  He pauses. “Okay. In all seriousness, he said something like Julia Demarco was a real hero, putting herself in harm’s way to save the lives of diners and employees of a rival business, and that the Angottis were indebted to her and the entire Demarco family. And then he choked up on camera, which was superhot, and all of Chicagoland melted just a little bit that day.”

  “Shut up.”

  “True story. I’m not kidding. I watched it ad nauseam from the chair in the living room Friday night and all day yesterday.”

  “Did you record it?”

  “Rowan recorded it just for you.”

  I grin. “Aww. She’s so awesome.”

  “Ahem.”

  “I mean, you guys are so awesome. Thank you for coming out to find me, Trey. I’m not sure we would have made it if it hadn’t been for you.”

  “Of course.”

  It’s quiet for a moment. And then I tell him, “Sawyer came by. I guess it was last night. I’m kind of groggy on what day it is.”

  “Don’t tell Mom and Dad I told you, but he’s been here the entire time, almost. He’s in the waiting room. He sleeps there, leaves for an hour now and then to eat or shower or whatever. Then he comes back.”

  My stomach flips. “Are you serious?”

  “And please don’t mention to Mom and Dad that you let him in here. They don’t want you to have anything to do with him—they’re being really cold assholes to him, actually. Dad, mostly. I mean, obviously they’re upset about all of this, but I think it’s also the family rivalry thing.”

  I close my eyes and sigh. “So this didn’t cure anything.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe it will eventually.”

  “Why does he come here?”

  Trey snorts. “Duh. He’s into you. I talked to him. He feels guilty, definitely, but he’s always had a thing for you, I think. He told me he was sorry about fifty times. I asked him to make it up to me, but he rejected every one of my suggestions.”

  My eyes fly open. “Stay away from him, he’s mine.” I narrow my gaze and frown. “You really think he’s into me?”

  “Sister, trust me. He’s into you.”

  “Well, why the hell has he been blowing me off since seventh grade, then?”

  Trey wrinkles up his nose. “You should probably ask him yourself, but I think something strange is going on over at the Angottis that nobody knows about.”

  “You mean like maybe his dad is a hoarder with depression issues?”

  He laughs. “Maybe. Though that would be a really weird coincidence.”

  I think for a moment of the conversation I had with my mother before the crash. “Mom said I wasn’t the first person who had to say good-bye to an Angot
ti.”

  Trey sits up. “Say whaaa?”

  “She said that. Really! And I said, ‘You mean you?’ And she said it wasn’t her. So who does that leave, besides Dad?”

  Trey sinks back down. “Well, there’s me.”

  “You?”

  “No, it wasn’t me, but I don’t like to be ruled out without a scandalous discussion first.”

  I laugh again and grab my side. “Oh, my aching—stop that!”

  “I guess we have a mystery to figure out.”

  I nod and lie back, exhausted from the conversation, but not sleepy for once. “Two mysteries, even.”

  He nods and squeezes my hand. “Mom and Dad and Rowan will be back later. They’re closing up early tonight to see you. Eight o’clock. So it’s just you and me, and whoever might be out there, and I have homework I can do . . . just so you know.”

  I nod, and we share a look that says, Bring the hot boy to Jules.

  Thirty-Six

  “We need to talk about some things,” I say to Sawyer as he sits down.

  He nods. “We do.” His dark hair hangs in little ringlets on his forehead, and he appears freshly washed today, which is better than what I can say for me. He’s not wearing an Angotti’s shirt anymore, either.

  “First, I don’t want you to mope around feeling guilty anymore, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Second, what the hell happened in seventh grade that made you hate me?”

  He holds my gaze, unwavering, his green eyes sending lasers into mine. “Fair question,” he says finally. He drops his gaze to my bedside table and picks up a pen, weaving it through his fingers.

  “You don’t want to answer it?”

  “No. But I need to. I’m thinking.”

  I take in a quick breath, moved by his honesty, ignoring the searing pain that the motion leaves behind. And I stay quiet.

  “Where to start,” he says, lost in thought. “My grandfather,” he says eventually, “is a very controlling man.”

  I nod.

  “He used to hit me.”

  My eyes spring open wide. “Your grandfather? Didn’t your parents stop him?”