Gasp (Visions) - Lisa McMann Page 0,12
Aunt Mary shoots a look of mock disgust in the direction of the breezeway. It’s good to be laughing.
I hear the screen door slam shut and hope it’s not Ben running for his life.
And if it is, I hope Trey is running with him.
Eleven
School is weird but we get through the first day, and the second, and the third. People are being nice—for now. But I know how this goes. In a few more days, when their pinprick-size moments of sympathy run out, they’ll be talking behind my back again.
After school on Thursday I find Sawyer and we linger outside the meatball truck for a minute while Rowan and Trey climb inside.
“Anything you guys need?” he asks me, like he’s asked every day this week.
“Nah. We’re good.” He’s already done enough. “Do you have plans tonight?”
He shifts. “I was thinking about going back to UC to talk to the guy we missed. Clark, I think his name is.” He hesitates. “You probably can’t come along, right? I mean, I totally understand if—”
“Yeah,” I say. “I mean no, I can’t. Whoever has the vision curse is going to have to wait.” I can’t believe I’m saying that, but that’s just how it is right now.
“I figured. You don’t mind if I just try to keep things moving while you handle your family stuff, do you? I’m just . . . getting a little anxious about it.”
I frown at the ground. I want him with me. It’s selfish, I know. “Yeah,” I say. “Go.” I try to sound like I really mean it. Because I should really mean it. Just because my whole life burned up doesn’t lessen my responsibility for this vision thing. “I wish we knew how to stop the visions,” I say.
Sawyer looks at me. “Do you? Because if we stop it, chances are more people will die.”
“Yeah.” I scrape the toe of my new used shoe along the asphalt. “I guess I’m just full.”
He seems to know what I mean by “full,” even though I’m not quite sure myself. Full of shock, full of sadness, full of stress. Too full to deal with the vision. He brushes my hair from my shoulder and caresses my cheek like his hand belongs there. “It’s okay. I’ll keep searching.” He lifts my chin and puts his soft, cool lips on mine.
And then he’s gone, and I’m in the food truck with my siblings, riding to Aunt Mary’s. I lean my head against the window as we pass the Jose Cuervo billboard, which looks just as it should.
• • •
When we walk into Aunt Mary’s breezeway, I can hear the cousins running around, arguing. Trey presses his eyelids shut and shakes his head slowly. Rowan flashes an annoyed look. We have nowhere to hide, and this is getting old. Our home is the living room. I try to be thankful for Aunt Mary and Uncle Vito for opening up their house to us, and for keeping their kids mostly out of the living room so we can feel like we have someplace to call our own, but it’s hard.
We venture up the two steps into the main part of the house and around the corner into the kitchen and see a stranger sitting at the table with Mom and Dad. Mom’s lips are pressed together so firmly that they’re gray, and Dad is staring straight ahead, a vacant look in his eyes. It’s frightening.
“What happened?” Trey asks them above the noise of the cousins.
Mom snaps her chin toward us. She looks right through us and shakes her head ever so slightly. Dad doesn’t blink.
I stare, and then I grab Trey and Rowan by the elbows and push them toward the living room.
“What the hell,” Trey mutters.
“No idea,” I say.
“It looked bad,” Rowan says.
Later, when we’re trying to do our homework, I look out the window and see Dad driving off in the delivery car. Mom comes into the living room, fists clenched like she’s going to lose it. She looks at us, and we look at her, and she says, “They believe the fire began upstairs, not in the restaurant.”
My eyes widen. Nobody says anything, waiting for Mom to continue.
She does. Her voice is low. “It looks like it started from a worn extension cord in the living room next to some of Dad’s . . . stuff.”
My heart leaps to my throat.
“With all the hoards of newspapers and books and recipes,” she continues, her voice straining, “well . . . there