Gasp (Visions) - Lisa McMann Page 0,3
his desk and Trey leaning over Ben’s shoulder as he types on his computer.
I knock on the open door and poke my head in. “How many?” I ask.
“We spoke directly to twelve and left messages for the others,” Ben says.
“And you didn’t forget anyone?”
“I don’t think so. Though we didn’t bother Tori. She’s still in the hospital.”
Trey pipes up. “We asked each person we called if they could remember who else was there that night. We’re all meeting in the green room in two minutes.” He and Ben get up, lock the room, and head in that direction. Sawyer and I follow.
There’s a handful of students in the green room already. The guy who was shot in the foot walks in on crutches, and I grab him a chair to put his leg on. A girl sits in a corner of a love seat, clutching her backpack. Ben’s roommate, Vernon, is there, sans braless girlfriend. More people straggle in over the next quiet minutes. “We should have brought refreshments,” I say under my breath.
“It’s not exactly a party,” Sawyer whispers back.
A few people look expectantly at Ben, who glances at his phone and then stands up. “It’s been a week,” he says with a small smile and a heavy sigh. “And I thought it would be a good idea to just check in with each other, you know?”
A few heads nod.
Ben asks us all to go around the room, introducing ourselves. Trey checks people off his list. I catch his eye and smile, and he smiles back.
Then Ben explains that we don’t really have a format; we’re just here to talk without any counselors or reporters around to analyze us or judge us or whatever, and I can see people relaxing. I wonder what it’s been like here.
Ben looks at the guy with crutches. “Schurman, how’s your foot?”
Schurman shakes his head and looks at the floor. “Not great.”
“What did your coach say?”
“He’s being cool, but obviously I can’t play anymore this year. I don’t know if, you know, if I’ll ever be able to run the same again. I might not be able to play.” His voice contains no emotion, like he’s become a robot. Like his dreams for the future are over and he’s pretending to accept it. I wonder what sport he plays, but I don’t ask.
Ben presses his lips together. “I’m sorry, bro.”
Schurman shrugs and looks at the floor.
Ben turns to the girl in the love seat. “Sydney? How’s it going?”
Sydney’s face is strained. “It’s going,” she says.
“Are your parents . . . handling things?”
“They let me come back here,” Sydney says with a shrug. “It’s weird. I didn’t think . . . you know. That seeing the building, and all that yellow tape . . .”
Someone else nods. “Yeah, I don’t ever want to go back in there.”
More chime in now, and I sit quietly, watching, feeling the same things they’re all feeling, yet somehow I must keep myself distant from those things and stay focused. I know Sawyer is watching too. Looking for signs. Is anybody distracted? Looking out the window, watching a vision play out? It might be too early in the cycle—it’s only been a week.
When things quiet, Sawyer says, “I keep having weird nightmares . . . only . . .”
I look at him. So does everybody else.
“Only . . . what?” Trey asks.
“Only, they’re not about the shooting. And I’m not . . . actually . . . asleep.”
I hear a little shuffling in the room, but I keep my gaze fixed on Sawyer. When no one says anything, Ben says, “You mean like a daydream, only it’s scary?”
Sawyer looks at the floor. “I guess. But . . .” He shakes his head. “Never mind. It’s not exactly normal. Just . . . trauma, or something.”
“What happened to us isn’t exactly normal,” a girl says. “I guess we can expect weird shit to happen.”
I look at her, then back at Sawyer. “What’s your . . . daymare . . . about? You said it’s not a shooting?” I think I know where he’s going with this, and I hope I’m helping.
“No. Something completely different. It’s a . . . a truck. Crashing into a building. An explosion,” he says. “It’s, like . . .” He runs a hand over his eyes. “It’s, like, not a dream at all. It’s like . . .”
“More like a vision?” Ben asks.
Sawyer laughs weakly. “Well, I’m not—I mean, I wouldn’t say that . . .