Eleven fucking gunshots. And his vision is getting worse. I feel like I’m going to puke. All I know is that we gotta get moving on this thing. Now.
Seven
Mr. Polselli is back in his room at lunch, so Sawyer and I eat in the caf the rest of the week with Trey, but we don’t talk about the visions. Too many people around. There are a few fleeting moments at my locker and a few short phone conversations, but as the week progresses I get more and more stressed out at the fact that I barely get a chance to see Sawyer, much less talk about what he’s going through.
Add to that, I’m feeling guilty about still not going back to work. Plus I’m broke. And the sooner I get working, the sooner I’ll be able to do deliveries again now that I’m allowed to drive, which means I’ll be ungrounded and I’ll get a real cell phone that can do more than just make phone calls, and maybe Sawyer and I can arrange a few clandestine meetings. Not to mention Rowan’s been working her face off covering for me. So I ease back into the work scene.
“It’s just like old times,” Trey says as we three head downstairs to the restaurant together Friday after school. Rowan is in a good mood too—she only has to get us through the dinner rush and make sure I’m cool with everything before she gets the night off to do who knows what.
And it’s pretty easy rolling back into it. My body gets tired a little sooner than it used to, and I’m not quite as fast as I’d like to be, but the cast doesn’t really get in the way too much and it’s actually getting me some pretty nice pity tips.
Trey is out most of the night with deliveries while Mom and I cover the tables and Aunt Mary works front of house. Dad’s having one of his depression days and hasn’t shown his face, which is actually kind of nice since we really aren’t talking right now.
In a lull, Mom joins me in prep and we roll silverware. “Keeping up all right?” she asks.
“Yep,” I say.
“Good.”
It’s awkward between us, too. Ever since before the
crash, I’ve thought Mom wanted to sort of confide in me—she did already, a little, when she told me she knew it wasn’t easy saying good-bye to an Angotti, and she wasn’t talking about herself. But she doesn’t know I know about Dad’s affair.
And the weird thing is, I don’t know what to do. Like now, we could talk if she wants to, I guess. “How’s everything going for you?” I ask. And I realize I never ask her this.
She tilts her head and smiles, seemingly pleased that I have put aside my selfish ways for the first time ever. “Not bad,” she says. “Old Mr. Moretti pinched my butt again. I think he’s going senile.”
“Maybe you’re just a hottie,” I say, grinning. “He never does that to me.”
“He’d better not or he won’t know what hit him. I don’t want you girls waiting on him.” She pauses and lightens up again. “If he weren’t senile I’d kick him out. But I haven’t been pinched in public since the nineties on the L.” She says it wistfully.
“Mom,” I say. I don’t want to know about her glory days or whatever. Then I think about it. “You know, that’s really kind of sad. You should get pinched at least once a week.”
“You’d think,” she mutters, and then she laughs and tosses her hair a little.
I set down a roll of silverware and glance at her. “How’s Dad these days?” I ask, tentative. “Any chance he’s ready to unground me yet?”
She laughs again.
“I’m seriously asking you.”
She pulls in a breath and sighs, and then she shakes her head a little, grabbing a new package of napkins and slicing the wrapper open with a little retractable X-Acto knife she keeps in her apron. “Julia,” she says, turning to me, “it’s complicated. And no, I don’t see you getting ungrounded anytime soon.”
I scowl and glance at my lingering guests. “What’s so complicated? You guys are—” I clamp my mouth shut, knowing pointing fingers isn’t going to get me anywhere, especially when I think Mom might be on my side. “Sorry. It’s just frustrating. I don’t feel like I’m doing anything wrong.”
“Whoa. Seriously? Leaving work, stealing the meatball truck and wrecking it, not to mention yourself, seeing a guy you are forbidden to see, and sneaking around with him at two in the morning?”
I try to breathe. “I wouldn’t have to sneak if you guys weren’t so—” Ugh. I catch myself again. “Look,” I say as a customer catches my eye, “I just think the AngottiDemarco rivalry is so . . . Middle Ages. Or whatever. Shakespearian. Overdramatic. It’s ridiculous that Dad can’t get over it.”
“It would have been a lot of money,” Mom says.
“Only if Dad had the drive to actually manufacture and sell the stinking sauce, like Fortuno did.” I pause. “Or do you mean the money you would have gotten from suing the Angottis over it?” I set down my last roll of silverware hard. “Customer,” I say as I walk off so she doesn’t think I’m stomping away mad.
“Who knows? Ask your father,” she mutters under her breath. I don’t think she expected me to hear that.
Eight
The weekend is endless. I’m working when Sawyer’s off, he’s working or volunteering when I’m off, and we don’t even manage to connect for a quick phone call. I hate this. Hate not knowing what’s going on, hate that hours and days are ticking away and we’re not doing anything. I’m worried as hell.