One

My sophomore psych teacher, Mr. Polselli, says knowledge is crucial to understanding the workings of the human brain, but I swear to dog, I don’t want any more knowledge about this.

Every few days I see it. Sometimes it’s just a picture, like on that billboard we pass on the way to school. And other times it’s moving, like on a screen. A careening truck hits a building and explodes. Then nine body bags in the snow.

It’s like a movie trailer with no sound, no credits. And nobody sees it but me.

• • •

Some days after psych class I hang around by the door of Mr. Polselli’s room for a minute, thinking that if I have a mental illness, he’s the one who’ll be able to tell me. But every time I almost mention it, it sounds too weird to say. So, uh, Mr. Polselli, when other people see the “turn off your cell phones” screen in the movie theater, I see an extra five-second movie trailer. Er . . . and did I mention I see stills of it on the billboard by my house? You see Jose Cuervo, I see a truck hitting a building and everything exploding. Is that normal?

The first time was in the theater on the one holiday that our parents don’t make us work—Christmas Day. I poked my younger sister, Rowan. “Did you see that?”

She did this eyebrow thing that basically says she thinks I’m an idiot. “See what?”

“The explosion,” I said softly.

“You’re on drugs.” Rowan turned to our older brother, Trey, and said, “Jules is on drugs.”

Trey leaned over Rowan to look at me. “Don’t do drugs,” he said seriously. “Our family has enough problems.”

I rolled my eyes and sat back in my seat as the real movie trailers started. “No kidding,” I muttered. And I reasoned with myself. The day before I’d almost been robbed while doing a pizza delivery. Maybe I was still traumatized.

I just wanted to forget about it all.

But then on MLK Day this stupid vision thing decided to get personal.

Two

Five reasons why I, Jules Demarco, am shunned:

1. I smell like pizza

2. My parents make us drive a meatball-topped food truck to school for advertising

3. I haven’t invited a friend over since second grade

4. Did I mention I smell like pizza? Like, its umami*-ness oozes from my pores

5. Everybody at school likes Sawyer Angotti’s family’s restaurant better

Frankly, I don’t blame them. I’d shun me too.

Every January my mother says Martin Luther King Jr. weekend gives us the boost we need to pay the rent after the first two dead weeks of the year. She’s superpositive about everything. It’s like she forgets that every month is the same. Her attitude is probably what keeps our business alive. But if my mother, Paula, is the backbone of Demarco’s Pizzeria, my father, Antonio, is the broken leg that keeps us struggling to catch up.

There’s no school on MLK Day, so Trey and I are manning the meatball truck in downtown Chicago, and Rowan is working front of house in the restaurant for the lunch shift. She’s jealous. But Trey and I are the oldest, so we get to decide.

The food truck is actually kind of a blast, even if it does have two giant balls on top, with endless jokes to be made. Trey and I have been cooking together since we were little—he’s only sixteen months older than me. He’s a senior. He’s supposed to be the one driving the food truck to school because he has his truck license now, but he pays me ten bucks a week to secretly drive it so he can bum a ride from our neighbor Carter. Carter is kind of a douche, but at least his piece-of-crap Buick doesn’t have a sack on its roof.

Trey drives now and we pass the billboard again.

“Hey—what was on the billboard?” I ask as nonchalantly as I can.

Trey narrows his eyes and glances at me. “Same as always. Jose Cuervo. Why?”

“Oh.” I shrug like it’s no big deal. “Out of the corner of my eye I thought it had changed to something new for once.” Weak answer, but he accepts it. To me, the billboard is a still picture of the explosion. I look away and rub my temples as if it will make me see what everybody else sees, but it does nothing. Instead, I try to forget by focusing on my phone. I start posting all over the Internet where Demarco’s Food Truck is going to be today. I’m sure some of our regulars will show up. It’s becoming a sport, like storm chasing. Only they’re giant meatball chasing.

Some people need a life. Including me.

We roll past Angotti’s Trattoria on the way into the city—that’s Sawyer’s family’s restaurant. Sawyer is working today too. He’s outside sweeping the snow from their sidewalk. I beg for the traffic light to stay green so we can breeze past unnoticed, but it turns yellow and Trey slows the vehicle. “You could’ve made it,” I mutter.

Trey looks at me while we sit. “What’s your rush?”

I glance out the window at Sawyer, who either hasn’t noticed our obnoxious food truck or is choosing to ignore it.

Trey follows my glance. “Oh,” he says. “The enemy. Let’s wave!”

I shrink down and pull my hat halfway over my eyes. “Just . . . hurry,” I say, even though there’s nothing Trey can do. Sawyer turns around to pick up a bag of rock salt for the ice, and I can tell he catches sight of our truck. His head turns slightly so he can spy on who’s driving, and then he frowns.

Trey nods coolly at Sawyer when their eyes meet, and then he faces forward as the light finally changes to green. “Do you still like him?” he asks.