Free Crash (Visions (Simon Pulse)) by Lisa McMann Page A

looking like she’s ready to jump out of the vehicle and attack. I shake my head at her, trying to reassure her with a shaky smile. “Okay, fine,” is all I can think of to say. He thinks I’m weird. “I need to go.”
    “And I—don’t know what to say about the rest.”
    “Yeah. You said that.” I reach for the door handle again.
    “So, you know, are you?” He shoves his dangly keys into his coat pocket suddenly and coughs.
    I look at him. “Am I . . . what?”
    His face is red and he can’t look at me. “Never mind. I’m an idiot. See you.” He turns to go.
    And then I get it. “Am I insane? Is that what you mean?”
    “Forget it, Jules. It was a stupid thing to say,” he says over his shoulder as he starts walking.
    “Oh my God!”
    He walks faster to his car. And I stand here like a total loser, watching him go.
    I don’t blame him. He doesn’t believe me. I never expected him to believe me.
    And he’s obviously right in thinking that.
    •       •       •
    From that moment, I’m bombarded with the vision once again—my peace didn’t even last twenty-four hours. I drive home and every stop sign, every store window, and the billboard are covered in the scene of the crash. Rowan tries to find out what’s going on, but I drive in stony silence. Eventually she’s smart enough to shut up.
    When we pull in the alley where we park the beast, Trey is standing there waiting where he always is so we can keep up our “all going to school in the giant truck of balls” ruse. I turn off the engine and look hard at Rowan. “Don’t you ever tell Mom and Dad that I was anywhere near Sawyer Angotti, you hear me?”
    Her eyes widen and she shrinks away from me. “Okay. Gosh, I never know what’s happening around here.”
    “I mean it.”
    “O kay ,” she says again.
    “Good.” The three of us get out of the truck and walk in the back door, where Tony is whistling, Mom is adding fresh herbs to a giant pot of sauce, and Dad is nowhere to be found.

Nineteen
    All afternoon and evening, the vision beats me over the head every chance they get, and it’s exhausting. It’s clear to me now that telling Sawyer was a good thing, but it wasn’t enough. Apparently I have to get him to actually believe me too. And I’m guessing I have to get him to do something about it, which will be absolutely impossible. This is an evil game that is impossible to win.
    And the thing is—that helpless, empty thing that makes me want to curl up in the corner and bawl my eyes out—it’s that I know I can’t make it happen. There’s no way I can convince Sawyer or anybody that this crash will take place, and that nine people, including him, are going to die. And I think part of it is because I don’t quite believeit myself. But if I don’t believe this vision is destined to happen, then I have to believe I’m crazy.
    This feels so much bigger than me, bigger than anything I can do, and I’m swallowed by it. Just thinking about facing Sawyer again, knowing he won’t ever believe me, knowing if he mentions my weirdness to anyone it will ruin any reputation I have left, knowing that his family could so easily do something drastic that will make my father crack, just like my grandfather did, and knowing we could lose everything, scares the hell out of me.
    I don’t know what to do.
    And for the first time, I think about real depression, the disease, and what that must feel like. I mean, my grandfather killed himself—he had a wife and kids and grandkids, and a business that he loved, and he just ended it all. Those good things in his life weren’t enough for him. They couldn’t stop his disease. To him, things seemed to crumble when Fortuno Angotti flourished. Only they didn’t fall apart, they just stayed the same. And I guess that felt like failure to my grandfather. His insides, his brain, couldn’t take it.
    I heard my aunt Mary say once that my grandfather was a selfish person, hurting