Trey slips past me and flies down the stairs two at a time without saying good-bye. We’ll see each other at school. We’re in the same lunch and sculpting class—which we of course elected to take because why the heck not bring our pizza-crust-making skills to a new level with clay? The other day I was making a plate on the potter’s wheel and nearly threw it up into the air when I was daydreaming about Sawyer.

My stomach clenches again.

Sawyer. Body bag. Is he dead already?

In the hallway outside the bathroom, I jiggle the door handle and whisper as harshly as I can, “Hurry up, Rowan!”

Finally she comes.

• • •

We ease out of the alley in the meatball truck. Today’s trip to school is brought to you by two chicks with big balls. Har har. Rowan flips down the mirrored sun visor and puts on lip gloss, then fusses with her hair. A minute later she sighs and snaps the visor back up, slouching into the seat like she’s given up on her looks for the day. She’s been fussy about her looks a lot lately. I think she’s got a crush, but I don’t say anything. She pulls out her phone and takes a picture of herself and then studies it. I smile and focus on the road.

Traffic is busy, making every block agonizingly slow, and I’m hitting almost all the lights red. I tell myself not to look at the billboard as we pass, and almost manage it. But I steal a glance at the last second, and there’s no Cuervo . . . just the crash. At school we park in the back of the lot, which is the only place the truck fits.

I sprint through the parking lot to the school, hugging my book bag and avoiding icy spots, leaving Rowan behind. Inside I speed walk to my locker and look down the hall like I always do, to where Sawyer is usually standing, hanging out with his friends, some of whom are my former friends.

I stand on my tiptoes, straining to see through the crowd.

At first I don’t see him, but then, thank the dogs, there he is in his usual spot. How weird is it that I feel my eyes well up with tears of relief for a second? He glances my way, and I almost duck, but realize at the last moment that that would look even more stupid than me staring, so I quickly turn my head and stare into my locker, blinking hard.

And then my respiratory system checks in, reminding me to breathe before I pass out. Sweat pricks my scalp. I whip my hat off and slip out of my jacket, and then try to smooth down my flyaway hair in the little mirror I have inside my locker door.

I want to start walking to class, but my legs are still a little too weak to keep me from tripping down the hallway. The whole time I’m standing here, all I can think about is how Sawyer isn’t dead. This vision thing scared the living crap out of me for no good reason. These crazy scenes I’m seeing are meaningless. So I guess there’s maybe something wrong . . . with me.

All I know is that it can’t be a mental illness.

Not like depression. Not like hoarding.

Please . . . it just can’t be like those things at all.

Seven

I don’t look at the billboard. I don’t turn on the TV. I don’t go to any movies. For a week, I keep my head down, go to school, go to work, do homework, go to bed. Still, every morning at school I look over at Sawyer to make sure he’s alive.

He always is.

• • •

Five reasons why I love a guy who won’t talk to me:

1. In first grade he always let me be the cheetah

2. He’s kind to people, even the unpopular ones, and if I ever really needed him, I bet he’d help me

3. He isn’t gross

4. He’s soft-spoken, under the radar, but somehow everybody seems to know and like him

5. He volunteers at the Humane Society on Saturday mornings

Do I think Sawyer has something against my family? Sure, he has to. But he’s not mean to me—he just ignores me most of the time now. Still, when we were forced to pair up for a science project in ninth grade, we talked almost like normal, which gave me so much hope it practically killed me after the project was over and things went back to the way they were.

I don’t get it. I’m just not really into the drama of this whole family-rivalry thing. It stresses me out. I’m guessing he’s not into it either, because we never talked about it. We never discussed seventh grade and what happened. Now I sort of appreciate that about him, because it could have started a big fight, and we could have ended up having a major problem. And I know that if classmates began taking sides, he’d win epically.

Outside of forced projects, we steer clear of one another, because obviously I’m not going to follow him around. Much. It’s not like I don’t have other shit to do besides moon around after a boy. I mean, I watch him, though. Like, all the time, but I’m not a creep or anything. And I eavesdrop. That’s how I know about him volunteering at the Humane Society. I really hope one day I’ll get over him. Sometimes I think I’m past it all, but then he does that smile and reality hits.

• • •

Saturday morning, on our way into the city for the lunch rush, I make Trey drive past the Humane Society to see if Sawyer’s car is there. It is. I don’t know why I keep worrying about him when ignoring all of this is what I really want to do, but I can’t shake that image of his dead face from my mind.

“What’s going on with you?” Trey asks after a while.

“Just tired,” I say automatically. It’s the stock answer in our house whenever we don’t want to talk. Everybody understands tired—nobody questions it, nobody tries to talk you out of it.