“Awesome,” he says, rolling his eyes, but I know he’s grateful. It’s not like Trey needs anybody to protect him, but with Dad in the kitchen tonight, none of us want any trouble out on the floor. And with that cast of bigots out there, there would most certainly be trouble. Trey turns around and starts helping Casey, the dishwasher, while I grab the pizza and spaghetti for table four and head back out.

Over at the group-date table, I see straw wrapper carcasses all over the floor. “What sounds good tonight?” I say, perky. I hold my order pad so they get a clue that it’s time.

“Angotti’s sounds good,” one jackass says, “but they’re closed.”

I look up sharply. “On a Saturday night? Why, did something happen?”

The guy shrugs.

I stare. Why on earth would Angotti’s be closed? Angotti’s never closes. There has to be a family tragedy for that to happen.

“Um . . . ,” Roxie says. “Hello . . .” She waves her menu in my face and I look at her, my stomach twisting. “We’ll have two large pepperoni pizzas and a supreme. Thin crust.” She hands me her menu.

I picture Sawyer Angotti’s dead face staring back at me where my grandfather’s face is.

“We don’t have thin crust,” I say in a weird, wispy voice that doesn’t even sound like me. The table wavers. I glance over at Rowan, then back at Roxie. “I have to go,” I whisper.

I drop the menu on the table and take off. As I pass Rowan I say, “Can you help them? I think I’m going to be sick,” and I just keep going, running now, through the kitchen, out the back door, calling out, “Ma, help out front, please,” before the door closes. I suck in a cold breath of air and hang on to the door handle before I go into the apartment stairwell and run up, bumping against stacks of stuff on my way to the living room. I grab the TV remote, turn it on, and pick up the phone, but my hand is shaking and I don’t know the number. I can’t think.

On TV is a gardening show. I pause and play, and it’s still the show.

I drop the remote in the chair and whirl around. “Phone book,” I mutter. I look around the room at all the junk, no idea where to start. My chest floods with panic. “Where’s the fucking phone book? God! I hate this stupid place!” I start whipping through four-foot piles of magazines looking for a phone book, knowing there are probably no fewer than fifty of them in this room, yet not a single one shows its face. I go to the little desk drawer, and it’s jam-packed with paper clips. I can’t even slam it shut, it’s so full. I pinch my eyelids, trying not to cry in frustration. Just trying to breathe and think.

And then the TV sound goes off, all on its own.

Nine

I look over at the TV screen, and there it is. Only this time it’s a longer clip.

The snowplow crosses to the wrong side of the street, careens up over the snow pile and curb of the parking lot, almost getting airborne, and lands, bouncing. Not slowing down. I see the building for a split second, the big long window, and then the crash and the explosion. Bricks and glass go flying.

And then there’s a new part: The building catches on fire, and through the dark smoke, I see the structure as if we are fleeing from the scene, and we’re panning wide. It’s a three-story. A striped awning hangs precariously from a part of the wall that is still intact. And then everything is gone, and I’m watching a commercial for bug spray.

“What do you want me to do about it?” I yell at the TV. “I’m just a kid! Leave me alone!”

I stare at the phone in my hand, and my head clears. I dial 411. “Melrose Park,” I say, my voice shaking. “Angotti’s Trattoria.” A moment later I get the automated number, and push to dial direct.

It rings.

Five times it rings, like bells tolling for the dead.

And then it stops ringing, and a man’s voice announces, “Angotti’s.”

I am stunned and can’t speak at first. I clear my throat and realize I don’t know what to say. “Um, are you . . . I mean, how late are you open?”

“We’re actually closed to the public tonight for a family wedding reception. Really sorry about that. We’ll be open again tomorrow, eleven to eleven.”

“Oh.” I breathe out a relieved sigh into the phone, and then curse myself. “Okay, eleven to eleven. I—I was just checking. Thanks.” I want to ask, Is Sawyer alive? I want to ask, Are you sure it’s not a death in the family? But my heart is stuck in my throat.

And then the man says, “Jules?”

Shit. I’m a terrible liar when confronted. “Yeah,” I say.

“It’s Sawyer.”

“Oh. You sounded . . . older.”

His voice turns quiet, like he’s trying not to let people hear. “Why the heck are you calling the restaurant?”

“How did you know it was me?”

“Caller ID says ‘A. Demarco.’ And by your voice.”

I answer with another little breathy noise that I think probably sounds like a dog panting. He recognized my voice.

“So why . . . ?” he asks again. “Are you trying to spy or something?” he says, like he’s starting to wind up. “If so, you’re not very good at it. I can’t believe your parents are making you do this.”

“No, Sawyer,” I say. “That’s not why . . .” I can hardly talk. I’m so relieved to hear his voice.