Bang by Lisa McMann Page A

“If we’re going to
    do this, let’s do it hard, fast, and often.”
“Dot-com,” I mutter, getting up. “Okay, be safe.” I
    give them each a hug. “Talk it through from the beginning, maybe. Trey might have some good questions that will trigger something—anything—about day, time, place.
    Maybe identifying features of the . . .” I almost say “shooters,” but now I’m scared to use the word. “Bad guys,” I say. And that triggers my memory. “Oh,” I say, turning
    to Sawyer. “Can you zoom in on a close-up of the, ah,
    weapon and the whiteboard? I’m not sure if the weapon’s
    information will help anything, but I thought of it earlier
    when Officer Bentley was at school. I could see a logo on
    his. Is there a way to trace something like that? Or, like,
    figure out how many bullets a . . . thing . . . can shoot just
    by looking at it?”
Sawyer looks at me with this face dotted with little
    hints of surprise—in his eyes, the corners of his lips.
    “Good one, gorgeous,” he says. “I’ll check them both out
    in slo-mo tonight when I get home and I’ll call you.”
Big sigh.
And a question. Why does danger make love so much
    more intense?

Twenty
    I hit the computers after Trey and Sawyer are
    gone so I can do my tree research, and my best guess is
    that the bush-tree in Sawyer’s vision is a redbud. I pay to
    print a few pages of examples and take off. I make it home
    before five and get to the restaurant early to help set up
    for dinner.
    “How was your tree research?” Dad booms when I
    glide through the kitchen. He looks good today. Clean
    shaven, a smile on his face. At school a few hours ago I
    thought he might have killed himself, but staring at him
    now, it’s hard to imagine he’s ever depressed.
    “Good. Successfully identified a redbud tree. But
    teachers are hitting hard with assignments. I’m going
    to have to spend more time at school and at the library,
    where I can use decent computers.” I cringe, hoping he
    doesn’t see that as a slam, because it’s just a fact. Our computer sucks. And I need to establish that I’m going to be gone more. But bringing up chess club again is a bad idea.
    He lets it go. Even makes a joke about typewriters.
    Today he is my favorite kind of dad. I realize just how
    seldom this dad comes out these days, and I wonder what
    triggers it. When I catch a glimpse of Rowan, I know my
    dad’s up days are numbered. As soon as he realizes what
    she’s doing, it’s going to be shitty again.
    Part of me wants to tell them what she’s up to. But I
    can’t. I owe her. I owe her big, and she is well aware of
    that. In fact, she probably planned it that way. I shake my
    head and watch Rowan with new respect. She arrives on
    time every day. She kisses Mom and Dad on the cheek
    when she sees them, and greets Tony the cook like he’s
    family. She tells them just enough about her day that they
    never say, “You never tell us anything,” to her. She treats
    everyone with respect and she’s the one who gets the most
    customer love on the restaurant comment cards.
    And it’s all a big screen. A ruse. Well, that’s not really
    fair to say, because she truly is a thoughtful, respectful, punctual person. But she also knows how to use her strengths to her advantage, and when she goes to New
    York, Mom and Dad are going to be absolutely gobsmacked—they’ll never see it coming. Because if anything, Mom and Dad are looking at me to be the one to disappoint them again.

    She’s a freaking genius.

    With Dad working at 100 percent tonight, Mom sends all
    three of us upstairs early. I grab Trey and drag him into
    his room, which is mildly messy. He has posters of famous
    people on his walls and weird gadget-like stuff between
    the books in his bookshelves.
    I close the door. “Well?”
“Nothing. We got to three of the schools on your
    list before dark, and I thought of another one on the way
    home, but none of them looked right.”
I flop down on his