Also by Kristin Levine
The Jigsaw Jungle
The Paper Cowboy
The Lions of Little Rock
The Best Bad Luck I Ever Had
G. P. Putnam’s Sons
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC, New York
Copyright © 2021 by Kristin Levine
Excerpt from The Jigsaw Jungle © 2018 by Kristin Levine
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Levine, Kristin (Kristin Sims), 1974– author.
Title: The thing I’m most afraid of / Kristin Levine.
Other titles: Thing I am most afraid of
Description: New York: G. P. Putnam’s Sons, [2021] | Summary: In 1993, twelve-year-old Becca, who struggles with a anxiety disorder, visits her divorced father in Vienna, Austria, where she befriends a Muslim refugee fleeing the Bosnian genocide.
Identifiers: LCCN 2020058463 (print) | LCCN 2020058464 (ebook) | ISBN 9780525518648 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780525518655 (ebook)
Subjects: CYAC: Anxiety disorders—Fiction. | Refugees—Fiction. | Yugoslav War, 1991–1995—Bosnia and Herzegovina—Fiction. | Vienna (Austria)—History—20th century—Fiction. | Austria—History—20th century—Fiction.
Classification: LCC PZ7.L57842 Th 2021 (print) | LCC PZ7.L57842 (ebook) | DDC [Fic]—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020058463
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020058464
Ebook ISBN 9780525518655
Cover art © 2021 by Tom Clohosy Cole
Cover design by Kristin Boyle
This is a work of fiction. All incidents and dialogue, and all characters with the exception of some well-known historical figures, are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Where real-life historical persons appear, the situations, incidents, and dialogues concerning those persons are entirely fictional and are not intended to depict actual events or to change the entirely fictional nature of the work. In all other respects, any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
pid_prh_5.7.0_c0_r0
To all my friends in Vienna, and to Julia
CONTENTS
Cover
Also by Kristin Levine
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1: I Have (Not So Much) Confidence
Chapter 2: Pancakes and Peanut Butter
Chapter 3: The Doomsday Journal
Chapter 4: On the Plane
Chapter 5: The Welcoming Committee
Chapter 6: The Happy Chicken
Chapter 7: The Honor System
Chapter 8: Aïda
Chapter 9: The Streetcar, the Cathedral, and the Royal Hamburger
Chapter 10: The Riesenrad
Chapter 11: Sitting with Fear
Chapter 12: Käfer
Chapter 13: Produce, Pizza, and Peppermint
Chapter 14: The Bridge
Chapter 15: The Police Station
Chapter 16: The List
Chapter 17: Another Item for the Doomsday Journal
Chapter 18: The Egg
Chapter 19: At the Heuriger
Chapter 20: The Present
Chapter 21: Erdbeerkopf
Chapter 22: The Man from Barcelona
Chapter 23: Standing Room
Chapter 24: The Opera
Chapter 25: The Letter
Chapter 26: “Do-Re-Mi” Ride
Chapter 27: The Pig Journal
Chapter 28: Climb Every Mountain
Chapter 29: In Prague
Chapter 30: The Bridge, Part 2
Chapter 31: Drinks on a Train
Chapter 32: Polizei
Chapter 33: Words on a Page
Chapter 34: Waiting
Chapter 35: Das Lichtermeer
Chapter 36: Green Hair Dye
Chapter 37: The Heartbeat of the Universe
Chapter 38: The Riesenrad, Part 2
Chapter 39: At the Ball
Chapter 40: So Long, Farewell, Auf Wiedersehen, Adieu
Author’s Note
Suggested Books for Learning More
Excerpt from The Jigsaw Jungle
Acknowledgments
About the Author
CHAPTER 1
I Have (Not So Much) Confidence
It was just a metal detector. You know, the normal kind they have at airports to make sure no one smuggles a gun or a bomb or an iguana onto a flight. Millions of people go through them every day without a problem: old people, babies, pregnant women. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that it was actually a cancer-causing death trap.
Come on! you’re probably saying. Everyone knows they’re safe.
But everyone used to think that X-ray machines at shoe stores were safe. My dad told me this story of how he took a bazillion photos of the bones in his foot one summer. And then that fall, his left baby toe got a wart, and he had to have surgery. Coincidence? I think not.
Okay, so maybe that’s not the best example. In Doomsday Journal #2, page 14, I have a section on how warts are caused by viruses caught by touching contaminated surfaces, such as a locker-room floor—or an X-ray machine used by every kid in town. And metal detectors don’t use X-rays; they actually use non-ionizing radiation, but that’s beside the point.
The point is, I wanted to go visit my father in Austria. He’d moved there four months earlier. I missed him. A lot. But if I wanted to see him, I had to walk through the metal detector.
Unfortunately, my brain overreacts sometimes. It tells me that many, many things are dangerous, and not things that lots of people think are scary, like making new friends or public speaking or math tests. I’m actually okay with all of those. No, my brain tells me I should avoid certain things that most people believe are safe. Like metal detectors.
Of course, logically I understood my fear didn’t make much sense. But I still didn’t want to walk through that beeping monstrosity. I could practically see the rays zapping each person who walked through, mutating harmless freckles into skin cancer. The line got shorter and shorter. I started gulping down air, trying to catch my breath.
“Are you all right, Becca?” my mom asked.
She was flying to Austria with me. Not to see my father—they’d been happily divorced for years—but so she could take a summer backpacking trip through Europe. I was glad she was traveling with me, but I was also a little embarrassed. I mean, I was twelve. I should have been able to get on a plane by myself. All I had to do was sit there. My friend Chrissy started flying to Atlanta by herself each summer to see her grandparents when she was eight. But we all knew there was no way I’d be able to get on a plane alone.
Planes. Sometimes they crash and explode. No, I can’t think about that now. I have to get through the metal detector first.
“Yes,” I squeaked. “I’m fine.”
Mom knew I was lying. She took my hand and squeezed it. It was clammy a
nd cold. I tried to distract myself, like Dr. Teresa told me to do. Focus on Austria. Austria. The Sound of Music. Happy children frolicking in the Alps. Doe, a deer, a female deer . . . and . . . and . . .
Suddenly, we were at the front of the line. Mom moved smoothly and efficiently, like a cat, carefully putting her purse and backpack onto the conveyor belt. My joints felt stiff, my arms and legs suddenly too long, as I struggled to pull off my backpack and place it in the bin. I lumbered back to our spot in line, as if I were Pinocchio right after he came to life.
“Do you want to go first, sweetie?” Mom asked.
I shook my head.
“Come on, ma’am,” the guard called. “Please step on through.”
Mom squeezed my hand one last time and walked away. A moment later, she was through. My mom stood ten feet in front of me, her black slacks job-interview crisp, her dark hair as sleek as if she had just come from a salon. We were separated only by a stupid metal gate, but it felt as if she were a million miles away.
“Kid!” The guard sounded less patient now. “You’re clear to walk through.” I had pulled my curly hair back into a ponytail, but I could feel how wisps in front had fallen out and were now sticking to my forehead. There was sweat running down the small of my back; it was July and hot outside but so cold in the airport the air-conditioned air made my teeth hurt. And my heart was beating louder than a jet engine. I kept gasping for air, but I couldn’t seem to get any oxygen. I started to feel dizzy.
“Come on!” There was a teenager behind me, clutching a skateboard. He rolled his eyes. “You’re holding up the line!”
I saw my mom gesture to the guard and whisper something to him. I stared at my Keds. I knew what she was saying. My daughter has an anxiety disorder. Sometimes she has panic attacks and . . . It was so embarrassing!
The boy behind me gave me a push. I stumbled and almost fell, and by the time I regained my footing, I realized I had taken the few steps through the metal detector and it was over.
I burst into tears. The boy behind me started laughing, and I ran toward the bathroom. I locked myself in a stall and leaned against the cold metal, shaking, not quite sure if I was going to throw up. A minute later, I heard someone else walk in and my mother call, “Becca! Becca!”
“I’m here,” I whispered, peeking out through the cracks in the door. My mother was struggling to carry both backpacks and her purse. One strand of her hair was out of place. The bathroom was mercifully deserted.
“You did it,” Mom said.
“I made a huge scene!”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “You’re through.”
“But . . .” I sniveled. “Do I have cancer?”
“Oh, Becca.” Mom sighed.
I knew it was ridiculous. But the thought kept bouncing around in my brain. Mom was really good at being patient. She looked in the mirror and combed her fingers through her hair, straightening the one strand. The thought bounced and bounced, like a motorized Ping-Pong ball, until finally, it ran out of steam. I unlocked the door and came out of the stall.
“Here.” Mom fumbled in her purse. “Let me give you your Benadryl.”
She pulled out a small pill and handed it to me along with a bottle of water. I didn’t have a cold or an allergy attack, but, as listed on page 3 of Doomsday Journal #1, Benadryl was sometimes also recommended for anxiety. Especially in kids. It was 1993, for goodness’ sake; you’d think they would have invented something better by now! I didn’t like taking it—it made my head feel fuzzy and my mouth dry—but I wasn’t even on the plane yet, and I was already freaking out. I really didn’t have a choice.
I felt better as soon as I’d swallowed it. I knew there was no way it could work that fast, but . . . it was part of the plan we’d written out with Dr. Teresa last week. And I wanted to see my father.
So I splashed some water on my face and patted it dry with a scratchy paper towel. We went to McDonald’s and each got a Quarter Pounder and fries and a Diet Coke. And as we ate, I tried not to think about the next thing I was afraid of—getting on the plane.
CHAPTER 2
Pancakes and Peanut Butter
This had all started last February. Dad and I had gone out for brunch, like we did every weekend I was at his house. It was Valentine’s Day; I remember because I ordered heart-shaped pancakes with strawberry sauce. The bacon was too raw, so I had to send it back, but the next batch was nice and crispy. I was just pouring syrup on my pancakes when Dad cleared his throat and announced that he had gotten a job at the International Atomic Energy Agency in Vienna.
“Vienna?” I asked, stuffing a pancake into my mouth. “Isn’t that near Tysons Corner? Can I walk to the mall from your new office?”
“Not Vienna, Virginia,” Dad said. “Vienna, Austria.”
I kept chewing. Truthfully, I was trying to remember if that was the one with Mozart or the one with kangaroos. I should have paid more attention when we did world geography in social studies. Finally, I swallowed. “Oh.”
“That means,” Dad said slowly, “I’ll be moving overseas.”
I looked up at him. I liked my life just how it was. I liked my dad with his short haircut (he wasn’t military, but a lot of the people he worked with were) and how he traded the suits he wore to work for jeans and an old T-shirt on the weekends. I liked our schedule: Mom’s house on Monday and Wednesday, Dad’s on Tuesday and Thursday, and switching off on the weekends. It worked great! My stomach suddenly hurt.
“I know it’s sudden,” Dad continued, “but I’m really excited about this.”
I didn’t say anything.
“I’ve been waiting for years for a position to open up. And this is my dream job!”
I knew he wanted a response, so finally I mumbled, “Yay. And you’ll get to see some koala bears.”
“That’s Australia,” Dad said.
“Oops.” I stabbed my heart-shaped pancakes with my fork.
“Sweetie,” Dad said. “Austria is beautiful. It’s known for Mozart, Schubert, and Beethoven. It was the home of Sigmund Freud, has amazing coffeehouses and architecture, and was a center of intellectual engagement and—”
“Didn’t it also have Nazis?” I asked.
Dad sighed. “Yes, that’s true. Hitler was also from Austria.”
I folded my arms. “So why would you want to go live there?”
“Maria von Trapp was from Austria.”
“The Sound of Music is Mom’s favorite movie. Not mine.”
“Rebecca.” I could tell Dad was upset, because usually both my parents just called me Becca. “Think of what a great opportunity it would be. To live in another country. Doesn’t that sound interesting?”
“But you and Mom share custody,” I pointed out. “How are we going to handle that?”
“I’ve already spoken to your mother. You’ll stay with her for the rest of the school year and then come visit me for eight weeks in the summer.”
Living in another country for eight weeks sounded a lot more exciting than my normal summer routine of watching TV and hanging out at the pool. And I was lying about The Sound of Music. It was definitely in my top ten. But there was one problem.
Last time I’d gotten on a plane, I’d been seven and we’d been going to see my grandparents in Chicago. I’d totally freaked out, started crying and screaming until I was so hysterical, I threw up. After the visit, Dad had rented a car and we’d driven the two days home. It had been shortly after that plane ride that I had started seeing Dr. Teresa.
“Do you really think I can get on a plane and fly overseas by myself?”
Dad smiled. “That’s what is so perfect about this plan! Your mother has always wanted to go to Europe. And since she’s a teacher, she doesn’t have to work in the summer. So she’s going to fly over with you, drop you off with me in Vienna, spend eight weeks traveling, and then pic
k you up on the way home.”
What?!
“Isn’t that a great idea?” Dad asked.
I felt dizzy. Why couldn’t I have normal divorced parents who fought with each other instead of worked together to create a secret plan to turn my life upside down?!
“I’ll even hire you a nanny. So you’ll have someone to take you sightseeing when I’m busy working.”
I thought about that. I wasn’t sure if I should be offended that Dad thought I needed a babysitter or excited about having my very own Mary Poppins.
“Becca, I know this is a lot to take in,” Dad said. “And I’m gonna miss you like crazy! But this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for me. I can’t pass it up.”
I didn’t want Dad to pass it up. I wanted to be brave enough to go. “When are you leaving?”
“Two weeks.”
“Two weeks!”
“I know, it’s really soon! But I’ll call and write as much as I can. And you won’t come until school’s out, so that gives you four months to get used to the idea.”
“I’m not going to get used to the idea!”
“Sure you will. Look, for now all I’m asking is that you work with Dr. Teresa on a plan.”
“Fine,” I agreed. “But if this actually happens and you end up hiring me a nanny, she’d better be just like Julie Andrews!”
“Absolutely.” Dad laughed.
After that, we pretended everything was okay. Dad finished his eggs; I drank the rest of my juice. Dad told me all about this old movie starring Orson Welles that was set in Vienna. “You have to see it!” he said. I nodded politely.
But there was another problem. I knew Dad loved me, and we had fun when we were together, but I’d seen how he’d sighed when I sent back my undercooked bacon. I knew he got frustrated when we had to leave the movies because there were too many people. And a couple of months ago, I’d overheard him telling my mom that they shouldn’t buy me tickets to see Les Misérables for my birthday because I’d probably be too nervous to stay for the whole thing and he didn’t want to waste the money. I couldn’t help wondering if maybe Dad sometimes wished for a daughter who didn’t worry quite so much.
The Thing I'm Most Afraid Of Page 1
