In her bed, Rowan lifts her head off the pillow, and I can see her sleepy face scrunch up, confused. “Huh?”

I glance at her, but my mind is occupied. “Sorry. Go to sleep.”

Obediently, she drops her head back on the pillow and is asleep again a moment later. I sneak out to the living room, move a pile of newspapers from the desk chair, and flip on the computer, hoping the sound is on mute like it’s supposed to be. It takes forever, but finally the page loads. I dim the screen light and search for the weather forecast.

When I find it, I pull up the extended forecast and all I can do is stare. There’s a chance of snow nine out of the next ten days.

“Wow. That’s just great.” I’m so disgusted I turn the computer off without shutting it down properly, which would really piss Rowan off. And then I just sit there in the dark, wondering how much time I have to solve this life-or-death puzzle.

And wondering how I’m going to convince people who hate us that I’m trying to save their lives . . . because I saw a vision. A vision of their restaurant, which supposedly my family has hated for generations, exploding.

Yeah, that’s going to be easy.

Twelve

When I get up in the morning, I hardly have time to think about it, because today is one of the busiest Sundays on the pizza delivery calendar. Super Bowl.

Mom and Dad and Rowan go to mass. Trey and I won’t go anymore out of protest—if the church won’t accept my brother, they can’t have me, either. Mom and Dad support our decision. I wish they’d join us. But old habits are hard to break, and their religious fear runs deep. They’ll come around eventually, I think—I mean, we don’t really talk about it. They’re not horrible like some parents. But it still hurts Trey. Rowan wants to stay home in protest too, but they won’t let her until she’s sixteen, and then she can decide.

But I don’t have time to think about that, either. Trey and I get our homework done and meet Tony in the restaurant at ten to start making dough and chopping vegetables. My mind wanders as we work in silence, everybody a little sleepy this morning. I wonder if Sawyer is doing the same thing as I am today.

Sometimes I picture him and me working in a kitchen together like this, and we’d be laughing and flirting and leaving sweet little messages to each other on the cutting board in words made from green pepper slices. And I hate when I do that, because it hurts so much when reality comes crashing down on my little scene. It always does. I wish I could stop liking him. God! I just can’t. I pulverize the hell out of a mushroom and have to put my knife down for a minute before I cut all my fingers off.

“Everything okay over there?” Tony asks. “I feel sorry for your cutting board. He didn’t mean anything by it.”

I grin. “Yeah, everything’s great.” I shake my hands, letting the anxiety flow out of them, and pick up the knife again.

Angotti’s is bigger and has more employees than we do. I think Sawyer has two older brothers, but Sawyer is the only one left living at home, and I’m not sure if his brothers still work there. All I know is that Sawyer doesn’t have to work quite as many nights as I do, because I overhear him at school talking about places he’s gone. Dances he’s been to. Parties, and stuff like that. But I bet he’s working today.

I shouldn’t say I have to work as much as I do. Mom would give me a night off anytime if I asked. But I don’t have a life or really many friends—no close friends, anyway, unless you count Trey. So I figure I may as well earn some tips for college, because there won’t be enough money to go around for all three of us.

Today I’m actually kind of excited to work. It’s my first Super Bowl doing delivery. I remember last year Trey was insane. Our cousin Nick—Mary’s son—helped out as a backup driver like he does sometimes. This year, the backup driver is me. Last night, after my successful delivery, I told my mom I was ready. She was a little skeptical, but I think I convinced her I’m fine, so she called Nick and told him he had the night off, which he seemed really happy about.

So they need me. By the time Mom, Dad, and Rowan get down to the restaurant after mass, the phone is ringing off the hook with big preorders for later.

It’s funny—sometimes I see how it is at fast-food restaurants and on those reality cooking shows when the aspiring chefs are slammed and yelled at constantly. Everybody’s running around, not communicating, and it’s supertense. Usually somebody’s barking out orders—and everybody hates that guy. Here at Demarco’s we sort of go into superhero mode when we’re slammed, and it’s really pretty fun. Today, Trey and I play a game to try to get Rowan to laugh when she’s on the phone, because if we can really get her going, she’ll snort. “Hey, Trey, do you wanna see—” I say.

“Harry Potter?”

“No—”

“Boobies?”

I crack up, and Tony shakes his head and gives a reluctant laugh, but Rowan stays concentrated on her phone order. She’s always been wound up pretty tight, and it takes a while to get her loose enough. Apparently today is not that day. By the time the lunch crowd dwindles and we’re all in the kitchen stocking up supplies and making boxes and chopping more veggies, Rowan is answering call after call, ignoring us while we’re making dumb “dot-com” and “that’s what she said” jokes after every twelve-inch meatball sub order she reads back.

Yet, in the back of my mind, I’m agonizing. Wondering if tonight is the night.