Crash (Visions (Simon Pulse)) Read Online Free Page A

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 himvolunteering 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.
    But Trey knows me better than anybody. “Why don’t you ever do anything for fun?”
    I snort. “When?”
    “Mom will give you nights off for stuff. You know that.”
    “I . . . don’t have anything else to do.”
    “You could go see a movie—”
    “No,” I say.
    Trey glances at me at a stoplight as we near our destination. I stare straight ahead. I can’t look at him or he’ll know something’s wrong. I focus on the constructioncrews along the side of the street hanging up banners for a spring flower show at the conservatory. In that instant, all the banners, as far ahead of us as I can see, change.
    I suck in a breath. The banners now advertise dead Sawyer Angotti’s face.
    “What’s wrong?” Trey asks. His voice is concerned.
    “Nothing,” I say. I lean down and pretend to rummage around in my purse. “Seriously. I just need more sleep.”
    “I don’t believe you.”
    I don’t know what to say to that. Besides, it’s time to park the balls and feed some hungry people.
    Every time I hand food out the window to the customers, I catch the long line of banners out of the corner of my eye and see Sawyer’s dead face. “Go away,” I mutter.
    A customer looks at me, taken aback.
    “Oh, no—not you,” I say. “I’m so sorry.” Great, now I’m insulting customers and talking to the banners. No mental illness here.
    I keep my eyes closed for the ride home.

Eight
    Back at the restaurant for the dinner rush, Dad is in the kitchen with his chef jacket on, which is a good sign. Trey and I exchange a glance and Trey calls out, “Hey, Pops.”
    Dad looks up and smiles. “How’s my boy?” His voice booms. It always has. He’s been startling innocent children for as long as I can remember. Luckily, Trey did not inherit that trait. “Did you have a good day? Where’d you end up? Any other trucks out in this weather?” He can never just ask one question when he’s feeling good.
    I let Trey handle him and keep walking, grabbing a fresh apron and tying it around my waist on my way to the hostess stand.
    “Hey, Aunt Mary,” I say. She’s my dad’s sister. Shereaches for me and air-kisses my cheek, then squeezes my upper arm and shakes me like she’s been doing since I was a little girl.
    “So beautiful!” she declares loudly. “You have your father’s face.”
    Yeah . . . uh . . . thanks. That’s not, like, a weird thing to say to a girl or anything. I smile and ask, “Is it busy? Where’s Rowan?”
    “Tables seven and eight—a ten-topper. Rowdy bunch of hooligans. Maybe Trey should help her.”
    I try not to scowl. Aunt Mary still lives in the last century. “I’m sure she and I can handle it fine. Trey’s doing deliveries