That brings us back. “So we have two shooters now,” I say, opening up the note Sawyer gave me this morning. Trey shushes me as a group of freshmen walk by. One of them eyes us in fear.

Sawyer waits until they’re gone. “Yeah.”

“And you don’t know what school,” Trey says. “That’s . . . impossible.”

“We need help, man. You’re the only one who will believe us.”

I watch conflict wash across Trey’s face.

“Guys,” he says, “look. I’m not trying to be all superior or grown up or whatever, but this is insane. Insane. How bad . . . I mean, the visions—I guess they’re pretty bad.”

“They let up a little when I manage to figure something out. But yeah. It’s about fifty million times worse than having the theme song from ‘Elmo’s World’ stuck in your head for a month straight.”

Trey glances at the clock. “I think . . .” He gives me a guilty look, and then his gaze drops to the floor. “Look. I think it’s too big for two teenagers. Or three. And, Sawyer, you should try and just get through it until it happens, and then hopefully it’ll go away.”

The bell rings.

“But, Trey,” I say, “it’s a lot of people. It’s their families. Their lives.”

“You don’t know them.”

“We don’t know that for sure,” I say, my voice pitching higher. “Besides, I feel like it’s my fault. I mean, Sawyer didn’t do anything to deserve this stupid vision, except somehow he caught it from me. I have to do something—” I grab his shirtsleeve as he turns to go to class. “Trey, come on.”

“Come on, what? It’s too dangerous. You’re being irrational. I’m sorry about the noise in your head, Sawyer, and I hope it goes away soon, but, well, we almost died once already. If we manage to survive this, it won’t be for long, because our parents will murder us.” He starts walking quickly. “Get to class,” he says over his shoulder to me.

Sawyer and I look at each other. “I’ll work on him,” I say.

“No. It’s cool. I’ll . . . I’ll see you.”

“I’m planning on the library if you can make it.”

Sawyer’s face sags. “I—I don’t think so. Not today.” He turns and goes toward his next class, and I go to sculpting. With Trey.

Eighteen

“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.