Bang (7 page)

“Let’s just talk about it a little more before you

decide,” I whisper once the teacher lets us loose to work

on our own. Trey and I share a table, which is, according

to our stunned classmates, something no brother and sister have ever before done willingly in the history of education. I don’t get why not, but whatever.

Trey pretends I’m not there.
I don’t know how to handle him when he does the silent

treatment—it may be a stereotype, but we Italians aren’t

exactly known for our ability to keep our opinions quiet. All

I know is that if I poke him a little, he’ll start in on me, and

that’s when we can actually accomplish something.
“What if we
do
know one of the victims?” I whisper.

“Does that change anything?”
He frowns at his misshapen bowl, then scrunches up

his nose and smashes the clay into a ball and starts over.
I try again. “What if you save someone and he turns

out to be the guy of your dreams?”
He turns toward me. “For shit’s sake, Jules,” he hisses.

“This is not a romantic situation in any possible way.

Grow up.”
Yow. I stand abruptly and walk over to the paint

shelf, pretending to pick out colors for the fake fruits

I’ve been making to go in Trey’s dumb lopsided bowl

that he keeps destroying, all of which will one day be

buried under a sea of bullshit crud collected by my

father. I think about painting my fruit Day-Glo colors

so they’ll be easier to find when my mother’s looking for

something to put on top of my casket after I get shot to

death. And then I start thinking about actually getting

shot if things don’t go well, and I really start creeping

myself out.
I’m pulled back to reality when I realize somebody’s

calling my name. I whirl around, and it’s the art teacher

telling me and Trey to go to Dr. Grimm’s office—the

principal. Yeah, that’s his real name. Thank dog he’s not

an oncologist.
Trey’s puzzled glance meets mine, and then in an

instant my heart clutches, because I realize if they want

both of us it’s not just because of my stupid scratchfest

with Roxie. It’s got to be something serious with Rowan

or Mom or—or Dad. Fuck.
I stumble out of the room after Trey, and I feel like

the world is coming up around my head like water. When

we’re alone in the hallway, both of us walking faster than

normal, I say it. “Do you think Dad . . . did it?”
Trey’s teeth are clenched and he replies in monotone.

“I don’t know.”
How awesome is it being a kid who’s always wondering

if one day she’s going to come home from school to find

out her dad offed himself?
We round the corner near the office, and inside,

through the glass wall, I see a cop. “Oh, Christ,” I say, and

I feel all the blood flooding out of my head. “Do you see

Mom anywhere?”
“No.”
We reach the door and Trey pushes it open and I stare

at the cop and then at the secretary and I can’t help it.

“What’s wrong?” I say, breathless. “Is Rowan here?”
The secretary, Miss Branderhorst, frowns at me like I

did something wrong.
Trey whips his head around as somebody enters the

office behind us.
It’s Sawyer.
He looks as puzzled as we are.
The cop asks us our names, and then the principal comes

out, and they make us go back into his office, and the only

thing I can think of is that my dad went postal and took out

Sawyer’s parents and
then
killed himself.
Mom
, I think, and

now I’m freaking myself out and telling myself to calm down.
We sit in chairs, and none of our parents are there,

most likely because they’re dead, and then the cop says,

“Where were you at lunch today?” And this is weird, but

right then I realize he’s the guy who fills in once a week for

our regular beat cop, Al, by the restaurant, and somehow

knowing that makes me feel better.
“Wait.” Sawyer holds his hand out. “Um, did somebody die? Why are we here?”
Principal Grimm interjects. “Mr. Angotti, kindly

answer the question.”
Trey sits up, his eyes sparking. “You’re not going to

tell us if somebody died?”
“Nobody died,” the cop says.
“Jeeezabel,” I say, slumping back in relief. “You gave

us a heart attack.”
The cop and Principal Grimm exchange a look. And

then the cop repeats the question. “Where were you at

lunch today?”
“We ate lunch in the cafeteria. Together,” Trey says.

“And then we wandered the halls until the next period

started like everybody always does. Are we in trouble or

something?”
The cop looks at me. “What did you talk about?”
“What?” I ask, confused as hell, and then my blood

runs cold. Somebody overheard something. I sense Trey

stiffening in the chair next to me.
“We received a 911 call from a student who says he

overheard you three talking about something suspicious.

Do you want to tell me what you were talking about?”
I keep the puzzled look on my face. “Let’s see, we

talked about the weather warming up, we talked about our

work schedules—me and Trey at Demarco’s Pizzeria, and

Sawyer at Angotti’s Trattoria—” I add, in case it helps.

“And, gosh, I don’t know,” I say, looking at the boys on

either side of me. “My psych project, maybe? TV shows,

video games?” I start throwing out random things, hoping

one of them will save me.
“Call of Duty,” Sawyer says. “You ever play?” He looks

at the cop. “It’s kind of violent, but . . .”
The cop doesn’t answer. He looks at me and my cast,

and then at the scratches I almost forgot I have on my

neck. “You’re the Demarco kids who saved this guy’s parents’ restaurant,” he says, flicking a thumb at Sawyer.
“Yes,” Trey says. “Well, it was mostly Jules.”
I blush appropriately, for once. “You’re our beat cop

when Al has his days off, aren’t you?” I ask.
“Police officer,” Principal Grimm corrects.
The cop grins for the first time, rolls his eyes without

the principal seeing. He pockets his little notebook and

adjusts the gun on his belt. “Yeah, I’m your fill-in beat

cop,” he says to me, and then he turns to the principal. “I

think we’re done here.”
The principal’s eyes flicker, but he nods. “Thank you,

Officer Bentley.”
The cop leaves, and then the principal looks at us. He

clasps his hands together. “Well. You may go.”
We all stand up and file out to the reception area.

Principal Grimm flags down Miss Branderhorst to write

us excuses to get back into class.
Once we’re in the hallway and my heart starts beating

again, I let out a staggered breath. I don’t dare say anything or even look at Trey and Sawyer. When we turn the corner, Sawyer puts his arm over my shoulders, and then

Trey puts his arm over my shoulders and Sawyer’s arm,

and I reach around both of their waists, and we don’t talk.

Not a word.
Except for when Trey says, “All right. I’m in. But only

to keep you bozos from getting killed.”

while I drive Rowan home.

She observes me loftily. “Are you going to tell me what

happened to your neck?”
My fingers automatically reach up to touch the

scratches. “Oh. Stupid Roxie took something and I accidentally scratched her trying to get it back, so she lunged at me and scratched the hell out of my neck.”
“Wow. Well, I guess she’s probably jealous.”
I raise an eyebrow, check my speedometer, touch the

brakes just slightly. “Of what?”
“Come on,” Rowan says. “Pay attention for once. She’s

been in love with Sawyer for years.”
“Years? How would you know?”
“The same way you sophomores know more about

the junior class than you know about the freshman class.

Everybody watches up.”
I’m a little surprised at how delicious this news feels.

“I thought they were just friends.”
“Please. Is
anyone
just friends? There are always other

motivating factors in relationships. Maybe not constant,

but consistent.”
I look at her.
She looks back at me, her face certain.
I shrug, wondering how she became such a philosopher all of a sudden.
“So now what?” Rowan says.
“Now what what?”
“Now what are you guys doing? You, Trey. Sawyer.

Something’s up.”
“Nothing. Don’t worry about it.”
She flips the visor down and examines her face. “My

flight is Sunday morning,” she says. She rummages through

her backpack and pulls out a pair of tweezers, then starts

plucking invisible hairs from her perfect eyebrows.
I haven’t thought about her flight. Or about her secret

visit to see Charlie. I haven’t thought about her at all lately.
She continues. “So I’ll need a ride to O’Hare Airport

while Mom and Dad are at mass.” She’s never flown

before, and she says it like she’s bored.
“Impeccable timing. When do you come back?”

“I’ll be back Friday before dinner service. You’re welcome.”
I laugh. Sometimes Rowan just leaves me speechless.

“Okay,” I say. “What do you want me to, like,
say
to Mom

and Dad when they get home from mass to find their

youngest child missing? I mean, can I tell them the truth?

Are you going to give me all the information about where

you’ll be and stuff?”
“I’ll have my cell phone with me. That’s all they need

to know. But yeah, I’ll give you the address and stuff too

in case Charlie is secretly an ax murderer. But don’t give

it to them. Please.” She licks her pinkie and smoothes her

eyebrows, then deposits the tweezers back into her bag

as I turn down the alley behind our home and park a few

buildings away so nobody sees me—I don’t want my dad to

force me to come inside. “Maybe we can talk tonight.” She

gets out and waves, then saunters down the alley toward

the restaurant like she owns the world.
And I totally want to be her.

I meet Trey and Sawyer at the library. They’re up in the

loft on the corner couches where you can see everyone

approaching but still have a private conversation. I plop

down next to Sawyer, kick off my shoes, and curl up into

him, and he slips an arm around my shoulders and kisses

the top of my head. And I feel like this exact moment right

here, this feeling of warmth and love, is what I have been

waiting for my entire life.

Trey watches us. He smiles a small smile and doesn’t

look away. And then he sighs and leans forward, elbows on

his knees, and says, “All right. Number one: nobody here

gets hurt.” At first I think he must have new information

from Sawyer that I haven’t heard yet, but then I realize it’s

a command.

Sawyer nods. “I hear you, bro. We hear you. No crazy

stunts. No matter what.”
“Of course,” I agree.
While I was gone, Sawyer filled Trey in on a few of the

minor but important details—the tree, the grass, the tiny

stop sign, the old building with ivy on it.
I pull the note Sawyer gave me this morning out of

my pocket and hold it out. “We need to destroy this or

something,” I say. “Yours, too.”
Sawyer pulls his note out and takes mine. “We have

a shredder in the office. I’ll take care of it. From now on,

only verbal communication, and we don’t talk about g-un-s in school. Does Trey know about your secret phone?”
Trey raises an eyebrow.
“It’s just a temporary throwaway,” Sawyer says. “Don’t

bother trying to text her.”
I give Trey my new cell number and watch him enter it

into his phone. “Sawyer, can you get away from the proprietors long enough to drive by some schools? The list is in your hand—can you memorize them before you shred that?”
“Yeah,” Sawyer says. “I’ll drive around tonight and

tomorrow morning before school.” He looks at the

addresses. “Some of these are way out there.”
“Are you safe to drive?”
“So far.” Sawyer squinches his eyelids shut and rubs

them. “The vision keeps playing in the windows down

there, though, and it’s giving me a headache.” He points

to the wall of glass on the main floor below us. “And in the

face of that clock.” There’s an old school clock on the wall

opposite our couch.
“What about your windshield and mirrors?” I ask,

worried, knowing how distracting that is, and how much

worse it could be for Sawyer going out into city traffic.
“Not bad,” he says lightly. “But . . . things are getting

worse. The noise is driving me insane. I think—I feel like

it’s happening very soon.”
Trey lifts his head. “I’ll go with you to look at schools,”

he says. “I’ll drive.”
I bite my lip. I want to go, but I haven’t been pulling

my weight at the restaurant. “That’s a great idea,” I say.

I glance outside and then at the clock. “Maybe you guys

should go now before it gets dark. Do the close ones. It’s

rush hour.”
Trey gets up and blows out a sigh. “If we’re going to

do this, let’s do it hard, fast, and often.”
“Dot-com,” I mutter, getting up. “Okay, be safe.” I

give them each a hug. “Talk it through from the beginning, maybe. Trey might have some good questions that will trigger something—anything—about day, time, place.

Maybe identifying features of the . . .” I almost say “shooters,” but now I’m scared to use the word. “Bad guys,” I say. And that triggers my memory. “Oh,” I say, turning

to Sawyer. “Can you zoom in on a close-up of the, ah,

weapon
and
the whiteboard? I’m not sure if the weapon’s

information will help anything, but I thought of it earlier

when Officer Bentley was at school. I could see a logo on

his. Is there a way to trace something like that? Or, like,

figure out how many bullets a . . . thing . . . can shoot just

by looking at it?”
Sawyer looks at me with this face dotted with little

hints of surprise—in his eyes, the corners of his lips.

“Good one, gorgeous,” he says. “I’ll check them both out

in slo-mo tonight when I get home and I’ll call you.”
Big sigh.
And a question. Why does danger make love so much

more intense?