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
“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
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