I wait, shocked at myself.
After a long pause, he says, “Wow.”
“Yeah? So?”
“So basically, what you’re saying is, my mother actually did see you in the parking lot tonight.”
My eyes spring open, and before I can think, I yell, “Ugh! My God! You are such a jerk!” And I slam down the phone in disgust.
Then I realize that slamming it didn’t actually hang it up, so I pick it up again and jab the off button really, really stinking hard, and bang the phone down into its cradle again.
I stare at the desk, and all I can do is shake my head at myself. “You? Are bumblefucking nuts, Demarco.”
• • •
Five reasons why I, Jules Demarco, am nuts:
1. I just screamed at the boy I love
2. I just told the boy I love that I love him. Ugh.
3. I pretty much admitted that I was lurking in his parking lot
4. And tried to make his mother look paranoid
5. Then there’s that vision thing
You know, though, there’s something really energizing, or, no, that’s not even the right word—empowering, I suppose one of those Dr. Phil speaker types would say—about screaming at someone, and almost not caring what they think anymore. Because what’s happening here is so much bigger than all of that. After nine years of loving Sawyer Angotti, and worrying about everything I say and do in or near his presence or in the presence of anyone who knows him, and being mad and embarrassed at myself repeatedly for laughing too loud, or saying something that wasn’t good enough for his ears to hear, I feel pretty freaking awesome.
Awesome enough to think about putting a big sign on my head that says, “Yeah, I love you. So the hell what?”
Before I head to bed, I go back to the phone and grab Sawyer’s cell number from the caller ID, enter it into my cell phone contacts, and erase the number from caller ID memory.
Because I just might need it one day.
Twenty-Five
I catch the scenes on TV while waiting for Rowan to finish up in the bathroom. And they’re everywhere I go. I have to be careful driving now—all the road signs are stills of the explosion or of Sawyer’s face, so I either have to recognize the sign by shape or go by memory of where stop signs are, and remember what the speed limit is through residential areas. The trip from home to school is an easy one, but this could be a problem the next time I do deliveries.
However, I don’t spend a lot of time thinking about road signs. I don’t even bother to look at Sawyer once I get to school, as much as it pains me. I don’t think all that much about what people might be saying about me behind my back, and to my own amazement, I care even less. All day at school my mind is occupied with details. What am I missing? How can I figure it out? Even brief thoughts of Rowan vid chatting with her boyfriend during second hour don’t sway my focus.
And then, in the middle of fifth period, when I’m going over the details of last night’s visit to the parking lot, what I need to do hits me like a freight train.
Between classes I text to Trey and Rowan: “Rowan, go home with Trey. Have to stop at library for stupid research paper.” I almost run over my former friend Roxie and her BFF Sarah, who are standing in the middle of the hallway as I type. My shoulder brushes Roxie’s armload of pink and red construction paper and sends it sliding across the floor in all directions.
“Watch it, freak!” she says.
I almost apologize. I almost help her pick it all up and let her call me a freak and just take it, take it, take it—that’s the Demarco way. But instead I look at her, and at Sarah, and back at Roxie again. “That’s insane freak,” I say. “Get it right.” And I keep walking.
After school I high-five Trey and head out the door, right past Sawyer and his group of friends, including Roxie. He raises an eyebrow at me, and I shrug. Yeah, I love you. Yeah, I was in your stupid parking lot. So the hell what?
That stomach flip is still there, big-time. But my sudden decision to be the insane freak at school makes me feel like a totally different person—like nobody can touch me, because I’m on my own.
Oh yeah, baby. I’m on my own.
• • •
At the library I make a little wish as I head to the computers. I don’t know if this is going to work, but I’m going to try. I find a vacant station in the corner, away from others, and sit down. I pull up an entertainment website and click on the first TV video I see—some reality show called Skinny Wallets, Fat Love. It doesn’t matter what it is. The video loads a hundred times faster than it would at home, and I push play.
“Nice,” I mutter as the all-too-familiar scenes play out. I maximize it and expertly hit pause at just the right place, the frame where we’re looking into Angotti’s dining room. I squint, trying to see past the snowflakes, past the people in the window, to the interior wall, where the giant antique clock hangs.
I take a screenshot and zoom in, hoping I can still make out the whole pixilated mess.
And there it is—the clue I’ve been searching for.
It’s the giant clock on the wall, and its hands rest on four minutes past seven. And since Angotti’s isn’t open for breakfast, it’s definitely got to be in the evening.
“7:04 p.m.,” I whisper. I stare harder, trying to make out the second hand, but it’s no use. The exact second won’t be known, but getting it down to the minute is pretty awesome.
“Jules, you are a genius,” I whisper. “Now you just need to synchronize.”