by Lisa McMann
I am happy that he wants to be a better dad. But I am also tired, and I am sick of seeing people I love get hurt. I just want this trail of visions to end. I just want him to say no, he’s never seen a vision, so that I can remove this responsibility from my shoulders and call it quits on this game of madness. Because if I don’t find out for sure, I’m going to have to start trying to find the twenty-four people we saved and begin this stupid process all over. And I know I can’t do this again.
So after all of that, I just say it. “Okay, well, back to the question, just to clear things up. Have you ever had a vision or not?”
Fear and concern flit across his face. And then he says, “I’m not sure why you’re so fixated on this. But the answer is no, Julia. I have issues that I’m working on, but I’m not that far gone. I’ve never seen a vision.” He hesitates and then frowns. “Have you?”
I look into his eyes, and I know he’s telling the truth. And I feel a surge of hope. Part of me feels a tremendous weight being lifted at the sudden realization: there is no Demarco vision curse.
But then I realize this only makes me look more insane. Does this mean that I am the true source of this vision curse? And does this make me even more responsible than before, now that I have no one to point to?
Before I can say a word to deflect his new concerns, my cell phone vibrates.
It’s Sawyer—Sawyer’s phone, rather—calling me.
Fifty-Three
“Of course not, don’t be silly,” I tell my dad, then point to the phone. “Mind if I take this?”
“Go for it. I’ll be outside helping your mother,” he says, which is so weird. He pats my hand and gets up.
I answer on the fifth ring. “Hello?” I say.
“Hi,” comes a girl’s self-assured voice. “Is this the Jules from the lake?”
I almost laugh. “Yes! Is this the Bridget with the sore ankle?”
“It’s broken,” she says, as if she’s pleased about it. “I’m on crutches.”
“Oh no,” I say. “I was afraid of that. How did you figure out to call me?”
“Well,” she says, “by the time I found my parents and brother, I didn’t see the guy anywhere to give the phone back to him. And by the time we got to our hotel from the emergency room, the battery was dead, and we don’t own a charger to fit this kind of phone. So I had my brother buy one with the twenty bucks I also found in the pocket. And now, duh, it’s working again.”
“Wow,” I say. “You definitely have spunk.” This is quickly becoming an easy word to use.
“And,” she rambles on, “I remembered how you pretty much screamed at me when you saw me wearing this life vest, and yours was just like it, so I figured you must know the guy. And I remembered you said your name was Jules. So I looked in the contacts and found you at the top. Are you his girlfriend or something?”
“Um, well, yes.” I’m blushing.
“Well, can you tell him I’ve got his phone?”
I laugh. “Yes, I will tell him. How can we get it back from you?”
“One sec.” She yells away from the mouthpiece, “Hey, Ma!”
I can hear muffled sounds of the mouthpiece against fabric, and then she’s yelling something to her mom.
She comes back. “Where does the guy live?”
It occurs to me that she hasn’t yet figured out the guy’s name. “His name is Sawyer. We live in Melrose Park outside of Chicago.”
“One sec,” she says again. More hollering.
I walk over to the window to watch Rowan and my parents dig up the lawn for a garden. “What the heck is happening to us?” I mutter.
Bridget comes back. “Okay, my parents said we can bring it over tonight. Text me your address when we hang up.”
I’m confused, and then I realize she means for me to text it to Sawyer’s phone. “Sounds great,” I say.
“Okay, bye.”
Before I can ask if her family is okay, she hangs up.
I text my address to Sawyer’s phone for Bridget, and then text Kate to see if Sawyer is with her.
A minute later Sawyer calls me from Kate’s phone. “What’s up?”
“Bridget is coming to my house to bring your phone back. Can you come over?”
“How excellent. I was just missing you enough to come over anyway. Yeah, I’ll be there in a few.”
I smile. “Cool. Also. My dad just told me he thinks you’re okay.”
“Well.” He sounds pleased. “That’s something.”
• • •
When Sawyer arrives, we sit on the front steps waiting for Bridget. Rowan comes around the house and sits with us. Her hands are dirty.
“Dad thinks you need to see a therapist,” she announces. She looks at her dirty fingernails and scowls. “Yick. What a mess.”
“Great,” I say. “Well, at least I finally got a straight answer out of him. He says he’s never seen a vision.”
Sawyer turns, a consternated look on his face. “Is he telling the truth?”
“I think so.”
“Whoa,” Rowan says.
“I know.” I stare at the ants digging a home in the crack in the sidewalk. “So I don’t know what this means, except that I really did start it. I can’t blame it on anybody else.” I pause, and then I say decisively, “But the ferry was the last straw. We’re done. I’m done. It’s too dangerous, and I can’t go through this anymore.” I sigh, thinking about the prospects. “Besides, I can’t track down twenty-four strangers to see who might be next. I’m just … I’m so fuh-rucking tired of it,” I say. My eyes burn and I press the palms of my hands against them. “I can’t do it anymore.”
Sawyer pulls me close and kisses the side of my head. “You’re right,” he says softly. “It’s too dangerous. Whatever this is, it’s bigger than us. It’s out of our control. And contrary to my statement several days ago, after going through that ferry ordeal I no longer believe we are invincible.”
“So … we’re done?” Rowan says.
I nod. “We’re done. I’m calling it. It’s over.”
It’s a relief to say it. Rowan texts Trey to let him know our decision, and he replies: Aw, shucks. I want to see how many more ways we can DIE. Then he follows up with: Secretly, good call.
We sit in silence, contemplating everything we’ve been through, when a car drives up. It occurs to me that it would be awkward if my parents witnessed this exchange, so I stand up and walk to the car. Sawyer and Rowan follow.
The parents get out, and then Bridget does too, slower, using her crutches. She’s wearing new retro cat-eye glasses.
“I’m Alan Brinkerhoff,” Bridget’s dad says. “This is my wife, Emily, and I think you know Bridget.” Bridget waves awkwardly, acting shy in the presence of her parents.
He reaches out to shake our hands.
“I’m Jules,” I say, deciding there’s no need for last names on our end—anonymous is a better way to go. “This is Sawyer, and this is Rowan.”
“We want to thank you,” Mrs. Brinkerhoff says, “for helping Bridge. I still don’t know how we got separated. When I realized she wasn’t with us, I nearly gave up. Everybody was shoving and pushing …” She shakes her head, remembering.
“No problem,” Sawyer says. “She was really brave. I’m sure her jump into the water hurt really bad with that ankle.”
Bridget’s ivory cheeks turn red. She reaches into the backseat of the car and holds out Sawyer’s life vest. “Here ya go,” she says, shoving it at him. She reaches back in again and hands him his cell phone and the charger.
Sawyer looks puzzled. “I didn’t have my charger with me,” he says.
“I know,” Bridget replies, “but you bought one later with your twenty bucks.”
“I see,” Sawyer says.
I grin. “Thanks for driving it all the way over here. Do you guys live nearby?”
“No,” Mr. Brinkerhoff says. “We live in Michigan, but we come to Chicago every now and then.”
�
�I have cancer,” Bridget says matter-of-factly. “I go to the University of Chicago for tests and treatment and stuff. I’ve had it my whole life.”
“Well, not quite,” Bridget’s mother says.
“I was born with it.”
“You were five,” Mrs. Brinkerhoff says. “Stop making things up.”
Bridget grins at me.
“Wow, I’m sorry,” I say. My head is spinning. Cancer?
Mr. Brinkerhoff continues where he left off, like he’s used to Bridget’s interruptions. “Normally, we drive around the lake to get here, but we thought it would be fun to take the car ferry once.”
“Fun!” Bridget snorts. “And now we don’t have a car,” she says. “It totally sank. Probably has fish in it by now. So we got this rental. It’s pretty cool. It has a plug for my iPod in the backseat.”
“Cool,” Rowan says.
“Yeppers,” Bridget says. She bobs her head and looks around. “Huh. Nice little place you got here.”
I stifle another laugh. This girl is a hoot.
“Well,” Sawyer says to Mr. Brinkerhoff, “thanks for driving out here to bring it to me. That was really nice of you.”
“It’s the least we could do. We’d really love to do something more for you,” Mrs. Brinkerhoff says. “Maybe take you out for dinner or something …”
Inwardly I recoil. They’re nice and everything, and Bridget is mildly hilarious, but I don’t really want to have a relationship with these people. “Maybe,” I say. “But we only did what anybody would do.”
“I don’t think so,” Mrs. Brinkerhoff says. “Did you miss all the pushing and shoving, and the people stealing other people’s life vests? It was a nightmare. You guys and your calm process—not to mention helping others before yourselves—you probably saved a lot of people.”
“Yeah,” Bridget says. “It was almost like you knew it was going to happen.” She tilts her head and flashes a charming smile, then shoves a stick of gum into her mouth.
I freeze. Sawyer gives a hollow laugh. But the moment of panic passes.
Mrs. Brinkerhoff reaches out and gives me a hug. “Bridget wrote down your number—I hope that’s okay.”
I plaster a smile on my face. “Oh, how clever of her. Sure. Call anytime.”
After another round of thanks, they get back into the car and Mr. Brinkerhoff presses buttons on the dashboard, probably entering their next destination into the GPS. We walk back to the step and watch them pull away. And then they stop.
The back door to the car opens and Bridget gets out, without her crutches this time. “Yo, Jules!” she yells. She hops on one foot across the yard toward us. I stand up and go toward her.
“What’s up? Did you forget something?” I ask.
“Yeah, I forgot to give you a hug.”
Kids these days. I try not to roll my eyes, and I lean down so she can hug me.
She wraps her arms around my neck and puts her mouth to my ear. And then she whispers, so softly I can barely hear her, “Guess what? I know about the vision.”
Before I can say a word, she’s hopping back to the car and closing the door, and I’m watching them drive off, wondering, for the millionth time, if I’m losing my mind.
“She knows about the vision,” I tell Sawyer and Rowan once their car is out of sight.
“What?” Rowan asks. “How?”
I think about it for a long moment. “She must have read our text messages on your phone, Sawyer. I wouldn’t put it past her.”
“I don’t think anyone would believe her if she, you know, went to the media or something,” Sawyer says. “Did she say it threateningly? Or what?”
“No,” I say. “Just matter-of-factly, like she blurts out everything else.”
“It probably just makes her feel cool,” Rowan says. “I read your texts all the time. Makes me feel supercool.”
I punch her in the shoulder. “You’d better not.”
“Psh. Good luck trying to stop me.”
Sawyer rolls his eyes. “Anyway. If she wasn’t threatening, then I doubt we have to worry about it.”
“Me too.” I look sidelong at Rowan. “Do you really read my texts? That’s gross.”
She frowns. “Of course not. Don’t be a douche.”
• • •
Later, after Sawyer goes home and everybody is safe in their beds and Bridget Brinkerhoff is but a memory, my phone vibrates with a text message. I think it might be Tori, so I scramble to check it because I forgot to tell her Sawyer and Ben are fine.
But it’s not Tori.
It’s a message from a strange number I don’t have programmed into my phone. One I don’t recognize. I open it and read: Hey Julesies! Guess what? Now I’m seeing a vision too!
Epilogue
Five weeks later.
It takes a four-eyed, hilariously blunt thirteen-year-old kid with cancer to point out the logic of the visions to me. And it’s not until after we deal with her vision disaster that we realize we’ve hit a dead end.
As it turns out, Bridget Brinkerhoff is probably the best of all of us at solving the clues and carrying out the risky actions inside a vision. Maybe it’s because she has to face death on a regular basis that she’s so fearless. And maybe she’s just faking bravery, like the rest of us. But Sawyer and I, Trey and Ben, Rowan, and probably even Rowan’s not-fake Internet boyfriend, Charlie, would all agree that Bridget has a knack for figuring out what’s in store for our little world. She’s in remission now, by the way—a detail she nearly forgot to tell us after her last doctor’s visit.
Bridget’s vision? Stadium bleachers collapse at a graduation ceremony. At one point or another in the vision, she saw each of us dead, along with dozens of strangers.
But it’s over now and here we are: Trey, Rowan, Sawyer, Ben, Bridget, and me. All still alive. We lie on our backs in the grass next to our garden, staring up at the stars.
“We could go try to get the graduating class list. Narrow down the possibilities to try to find the next person with the vision.” It hurts my stomach to say it.
“It wouldn’t help much, since none of the graduates were in those bleachers,” Sawyer says. He holds my hand.
“Yeah, but maybe their families were.”
“Extended families, friends,” Trey says, “plus other students. Over a thousand of them. Face it, Jules. Unless the person finds us, we’re done here. The vision curse moves on without us.”
I close my eyes, wishing it to be true.
Bridget props herself up on an elbow. “So, I’ve been meaning to ask, who’d you get your vision from, Jules?”
“Nobody. I started it,” I say.
Bridget snorts. “You did not.”
I open my eyes and turn my head to look at her. “How would you know?”
“Ego much?” She grins.
I rip up a handful of grass and throw it at her face.
She laughs again and says, “No, come on. Really. Who’d you get your vision from?”
“I’m not joking,” I say. “I really think it started with me. I haven’t been in any tragedies.”
“Well, when did your vision start?” she prods.
Rowan props up on her elbow too, on the other side of Bridget. “Yeah, when exactly did it start? Do you remember?”
Slowly everybody else shifts to look at me. “Suddenly I feel like I’m on a talk show,” I say. I try to remember. “I don’t know. I had my vision for a long time. Several weeks.”
“If we work backward from the night before Valentine’s, when the crash happened,” Sawyer says, “where would that put you—first of the year, maybe?”
“Christmas,” I say, thinking hard. “In fact, it was Christmas Day. We went to a movie—Trey, Rowan, and me. That first vision was in the theater.”
“You’re sure?” Ben asks.
I think harder. “Yes.”
“So if it follows a pattern,” he continues, “you would have been saved from some tragedy a day or two before, right?”
>
“I guess,” I say. “But like I said, I wasn’t—”
“Well, maybe somebody just did such a great job of saving you that you didn’t even know you were saved,” Bridget says.
Trey sits up. He starts to speak, and then he stops, hand poised in the air as if he was about to make a point. And then he looks at me. “Wait,” he says softly, closing his eyes, his face concentrating. “Wait a second.” His eyes pop open. “When did you get mugged?”
Sawyer sits up in concern. “You got mugged?”
But I can’t answer Sawyer because I’m thinking hard. “Christmas Eve, wasn’t it, Trey? Or the night before that? But it was no big deal. Nothing really happened. The guy ran off when another guy came out of nowhere to help me.” I look around the sea of faces, all wearing the same look. “Oh,” I say.
I sit up as the details of that night flood my brain. The rush of footsteps in the dark. The guy shoving my pizza delivery bag at my face and grabbing me from behind, then pushing my face into a snowy bush. “He had a knife,” I say. A shiver runs up my spine as I remember the click in my ear.
Everybody’s silent for a second. And then Bridget says, “So there you go. You didn’t start it. Next question?”
“So the guy …” I say, passing my hand over my eyes, trying to concentrate. It’s like I can’t quite put all the details together.
“The guy who saved you had a vision. He was waiting for you,” Rowan says.
“Right,” Trey says. “He saved you, and passed on the vision to you.”
“And you passed it to me, and that guy probably got it from someone else, too,” Sawyer says. “The point is, you didn’t start it. You,” he says, touching my shoulder, “are not responsible for this.”
It’s like somebody pulled a hundred-pound weight off my back. “I didn’t start it,” I whisper.
Rowan smiles. “You didn’t start it.”
“And,” Trey says, “neither did Dad. You aren’t hereditarily insane. Yet, anyway.”
It’s almost too much for me to take in.
I look at Bridget. “What the hell, Bridge,” I say.
She shrugs, looking smug. “Logic,” she says.
I think of all the risks we took. The crash. The school shooting. Nearly drowning. The graduation stampede. We all could have died so many times. And it wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t my responsibility. I can hardly comprehend it. All I know is that I feel true relief for the first time in over six months.