The Thing I'm Most Afraid Of

by Kristin Levine

  The table in their great room was large, big enough for eight, so the five of us had plenty of room. My father and I were instructed to sit while Katarina, Sara, and Felix got things ready. I watched Sara intently. I would be a mess if I didn’t know where my mom was, but Sara’s hands were steady as she brought food to the table: pastries with apricots and cherries; a plate of cold cuts with salamis and hams; a basket of round rolls, some with poppy seeds and some without; a cheese spread; a container of honey; and two carafes, one with coffee and one with hot chocolate. And finally, in front of each plate, a hard-boiled egg in a little eggcup.

  Well, I did like eggs. So after everyone sat down, I tried to peel mine. I tapped it on the table until it cracked. Bright-yellow yolk oozed out. “Oh,” I said, “it’s not fully cooked!”

  I looked up and everyone was staring, even Felix. I thought Katarina would be embarrassed, but she was looking at me as if I were the one who was crazy.

  “Um, I don’t think you cooked them long enough,” I said.

  Katarina laughed. “Oh, Schatzi,” she said, “they’re soft-boiled eggs.”

  I glanced at Dad.

  “We didn’t eat soft-boiled eggs at home in Virginia, did we, Becca?” Dad said kindly. “But they’re actually pretty good. Look. You slice off the top.” He used his knife to cut the shell, removing the top curve of the egg like a little hat. He pushed his egg over toward me and handed me a tiny spoon. “Put some salt and pepper on it, and you just scoop it out of the shell.”

  The yolk oozed over the side. “It’s raw!”

  “It’s not raw,” Dad insisted. “It’s just not as fully cooked as you’re used to.”

  “But, Dad!” I lowered my voice. “What about salmonella?”

  “Try it, try it!” urged Katarina.

  “Raw eggs can make you sick,” I said. It was in Doomsday Journal #3, somewhere near the end. Consuming raw or undercooked eggs is a major risk factor for contracting salmonellosis.

  “Oh no, no, no,” Katarina trilled. “These are eggs from happy chickens!”

  “What the heck are happy chickens?” I said.

  “Becca doesn’t like to eat foods that aren’t completely cooked,” Dad explained. He sounded a little embarrassed. Or maybe he thought I was being rude, but I didn’t care. I was not going to end up with food poisoning on my first day in a new country.

  Katarina didn’t seem offended. “Happy chickens,” she explained, “are from happy farms. Where the animals get to run around and eat freely and aren’t cooped up in cages like they are in some places. Because we have happy chickens, we don’t have the same problems with salmonella like you do in the United States.”

  That sounded pretty weird to me. I glanced at Dad.

  He shrugged.

  “I think I’ll have a pastry instead,” I said, reaching for an apricot thingy.

  Dad took the egg back and scooped out a spoonful of yolk.

  “Dad!”

  “They’re good,” he said. “Katarina writes about economics with a specialty in food production. She knows what she’s talking about. See, her article is right here on the front page.” He handed me a tabloid-style newspaper. It was all in German, of course. I couldn’t read the headline, but underneath in bold letters was Katarina Müller.

  “Very impressive,” I said. To be extra polite, I decided to flip through the pages, pretending I was actually interested. Page 3 had a picture of a smiling woman. There was only one thing odd. The woman wasn’t wearing a shirt. Or a bra.

  “What kind of paper is this?!” I pushed it back toward my dad.

  “Oh yeah. I forgot about that.” He looked embarrassed.

  “What is it, Ben?” Katarina asked.

  He held the paper out to her.

  She looked at him blankly.

  He pointed to the naked woman.

  “Oh.” She turned to me and smiled. “You Americans are so funny about nudity.”

  “What kind of paper do you write for?” I asked.

  “A normal one. I mean, it’s not the New York Times, but . . .”

  “There’s a topless woman in the newspaper!” I exclaimed.

  “That’s just the Girl of the Day,” Katarina explained.

  “Okay,” Dad said, folding up the paper. “Let’s put the paper away and enjoy our breakfast.”

  I caught a glimpse of Sara looking up for just a second over the edge of her coffee cup. And I swear she was smiling.

  * * *

  After breakfast, I was exhausted. Though it was eleven o’clock in Vienna, it was five in the morning back home. I’d barely slept on the plane, so I wanted to take a nap, but Katarina insisted I go outside in the sunshine to “reset my internal clock.”

  “Let’s all take a bike ride!” she suggested.

  “No,” I said firmly. “I don’t feel like riding a bike.”

  The truth was I didn’t feel like riding a bike because I couldn’t ride a bike. Sure, it’s a little unusual for a twelve-year-old not to be able to ride a bike. But the statistics on bike accidents? They are just scary. (See DJ #1, pp. 22–23.)

  “Okay, a walk, then,” Katarina replied. “Come along, Schatzi.”

  “Why does she keep calling me that?” I asked my father as Katarina led us up a dirt path through a vineyard. “Doesn’t she know my name?”

  “Of course she does,” Dad whispered back. “Schatzi is a term of endearment, like sugar or sweetie.”

  “Well, tell her to just call me Becca.”

  “Okay,” Dad said. “Will do.”

  I didn’t want to like the vineyards, but they were pretty. There were rows and rows of grapevines on stakes and a dirt path that ran between them, up and down rolling hills. It would have been picturesque—if I hadn’t been so tired. I could barely put one foot in front of the other.

  Finally, Katarina agreed I’d had enough sunshine, and I was allowed to go back to my room. I collapsed on the strange bed and was instantly asleep.

  When I woke up, it was dark, and the house was quiet. I looked at the clock on the dresser, and it was just past midnight. I guessed Dad was asleep, but I felt wide awake. And I was hungry.

  I crept downstairs to the kitchen. There was a note on the kitchen table:

  Guess you were more tired than you thought! No worries, sweetie. I’m going to bed now, but if you wake up and are hungry, feel free to help yourself to anything in the kitchen. Mom called earlier—she said not to wake you. She’ll try you again tomorrow. Afraid I have to go to work in the morning, but Sara and Felix will be over at 9 a.m. They’re planning to show you around the city. I’ll be home by 5 p.m. and we’ll have dinner. Love you!

  Dad had told me to make myself at home, but it still felt odd, prowling around a kitchen that wasn’t mine in the middle of the night. I opened every single cabinet, looking for a jar of Skippy or Jif, but I couldn’t find any kind of peanut butter. I felt ridiculously disappointed. I sat down at the kitchen table and felt something uncomfortable in my pocket. When I pulled it out, I realized it was the flyer about Sara’s family.

  I suddenly had a lump in my throat. I wanted to go upstairs and get my Doomsday Journal. Write down all my worries. How Dad might get food poisoning and die. How Katarina thought I was a prude just because I didn’t like my news with a side helping of naked lady. How Sara was separated from her family. I got a glass of water and took a big sip, but I couldn’t get rid of the feeling that there was something stuck. Finally, I remembered Mom had given me the number of the youth hostel where she was staying. Maybe she was awake with jet lag too. And if not, she wouldn’t mind me waking her up.

  I ran upstairs to get her number. It didn’t seem right to throw away Sara’s paper, so I tucked it in my Doomsday Journal. Then I returned to the kitchen and studied the phone on the counter. It was big and red and squat. It had a rotary dial. I picke
d up the handset, which had a cord. Even the dial tone sounded strange. I dialed the country code. It beeped twice. And then a recording came on in English, prompting me to enter my number and my account code. After what seemed like forever, the line began to ring.

  It rang and rang and rang, but no one answered. After a few minutes, I hung up and started to cry.

  There was a creak on the stairs.

  I jumped.

  “Becca?” my dad called out.

  I wiped my eyes as Dad came padding down the stairs in a navy bathrobe and pajamas. “Why are you up?” Dad asked. “Is everything okay?”

  “No,” I said. “I tried to call Mom, but she didn’t pick up the phone.” I thought about how Sara was unable to call her mother. “I think something must have happened to her!”

  “Sweetie,” my dad said kindly. “A youth hostel isn’t like a hotel. They don’t have phones in the room. And no one’s at the front desk to answer the phone at night.”

  I looked at the clock on the stove: 12:27 a.m.

  “Mom is fine,” Dad reassured me. “You’re worrying for no reason.”

  I didn’t answer.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked. “You slept through lunch and dinner.”

  “Yes,” I said. “And you promised to have some peanut butter!”

  “I do.” He rummaged in the cabinet and pulled out a tiny jar, about half the size of the smallest jar of peanut butter you could buy at home. Still, when Dad opened it, a familiar nutty smell wafted out. He grabbed a leftover roll from breakfast, sliced it in half, and spread peanut butter thickly onto each side.

  The peanut butter tasted so good, it almost made me start crying again.

  “I know things seem strange,” Dad said. “But—”

  “I liked my life as it was!” I whispered. “Why did it have to change?”

  Dad was silent for a long time. His hair was plastered to the side of his face from sleeping. And why is he wearing a robe and pajamas anyway? Sweats and a T-shirt had always been good enough for him at home.

  Finally, he cleared his throat. “Becca, things always change. You need to give yourself some time to adjust. Spending the summer in Vienna is a good challenge for you. It might even be fun. But you need to give it a real try.”

  I finished my sandwich, gave my dad a hug, and trekked back upstairs to bed. I’d promised Dad I would try to have an open mind. And I would try. But let’s be honest: I wasn’t a happy chicken.

  CHAPTER 7

  The Honor System

  I put on some pajamas and brushed my teeth and tried to go to sleep the proper way this time. But I tossed and turned for what seemed like forever. My room was hot and stuffy, the bed lumpy in unfamiliar ways. What if there are bedbugs? What if I get a heat rash? I wanted to write down my worries, but my limbs felt heavy, as if I’d been lifting weights. I must have drifted off again at some point, because the next time I opened my eyes, light was pouring in through the open curtains. I felt groggy and disoriented, as if something had woken me up out of a dream I couldn’t quite remember. Then I heard it again—someone was pounding on the front door.

  I jumped out of bed, my heart thumping in time with the knocking. I was terrified. What are you supposed to do in Austria if someone tries to break into your house? Call 911? I didn’t know. Why don’t I have a page about this in my journal?!

  The pounding continued, so I crept down the stairs. I gathered my courage and then tiptoed my way to the front door to peek out the window. The person pounding on Dad’s front door was . . . Felix.

  Honestly, I was surprised that such a small, skinny boy could make such a racket. In any case, I pulled open the front door and demanded, “What do you want?”

  Felix cringed under my gaze. “Ich . . . I . . . Wir . . .”

  I felt a little bad then. He had a book tucked under one arm, and he was wearing leather sandals, as well as khaki shorts and a red T-shirt with a pocket on the front. And that’s when I remembered I was still in my pajamas.

  I hoped I was wearing the striped ones or even the polka dots. But from Felix’s expression, I had a sinking feeling they were the ones with frogs wearing leis and grass skirts. I was too scared to glance down and find out.

  “Hallo!” Sara said, walking up the front steps. Her stripe of hair was a brilliant emerald in the sunlight; she wore black jeans and a black T-shirt. She still had on the silver necklace. “Time to go.” She stopped short when she saw me. “Why you wearing underwear? And why is it covered with . . . Frösche?”

  “Frogs,” Felix whispered.

  Oh yeah. I was so glad he was there to translate. “It’s not underwear,” I stated. “They’re pajamas.”

  “Ah,” Sara said. “But it is hour nine.”

  That’s when I remembered what Dad had told me in his note. I was supposed to go sightseeing with the two of them today. “Oh, I’m sorry,” I said. “I overslept. You’ll have to go without me.”

  I moved to close the door, but Sara stuck her foot inside.

  “No,” she said.

  “No?” I asked.

  “I show you city.” She held up an envelope with my father’s handwriting on it. “Your father left money. He said have fun.”

  I stared at her. She sounded like a bossy grandmother. “It’s okay,” I said. “I can stay home.”

  She shook her head. “Your father said you do not like to be left alone. Get rid of Frosch underwear. Find real clothes!” Her face suddenly softened a little. “You have real clothes?”

  I was mid eye roll when I remembered she had fled her home. I wondered what she had been able to bring with her. “Okay,” I said. “Give me five minutes.”

  I found myself running up to my room and tearing through my suitcase, not quite sure why I was rushing to please this teenage babysitter. I pulled out jean shorts and a T-shirt, ran a comb through my hair, brushed my teeth, and put on my sneakers. Four minutes and thirty-three seconds later, I was back on the front porch.

  Sara was staring at her watch. It had a large gold face and seemed too big for her wrist. She grunted in approval. “Good. Time to go.”

  I grabbed my purse and locked the door.

  “Where are we going?” I asked.

  “The city,” she said.

  An older woman gardening in the yard next to us stood up and called out to Sara. They had a short exchange in German, then Sara said in English, “This is Becca, Ben’s daughter. She’s visiting for the summer.”

  The woman took off one gardening glove and stuck it into a pocket in her dress. She looked like she had stepped out of The Sound of Music, wearing a blue dirndl with a red apron, a white blouse, and clunky black shoes. “Nice to meet you,” she said pleasantly, holding out her hand. “You may call me Frau Gamperl.”

  I shook her hand.

  “Make sure you sort your trash properly,” Frau Gamperl told me. “Americans always have trouble with that. You can’t just throw all the glass in the same bin! Grün means green, and braun means . . .”

  “Sorry,” Sara said. “We need to catch bus.” She led Felix and me down the block.

  “Don’t forget to bring me your Biomüll for my flowers!” Frau Gamperl called after us.

  “What’s Biomüll?” I asked Felix.

  “Compost,” he whispered to his book.

  We followed Sara to a bench with a red-and-white sign on a pole that said, “Autobus Haltestelle.” Felix sat down on the bench, but when I tried to do the same, Sara took my arm and marched me over to a little open-air shop on the side of the road. It said “Tabak” in big letters at the top. There was a man standing beside a row of newspapers. Behind him I could see a postcard display and a carton of cigarettes.

  “Tabak?” I asked. “Is this a tobacco shop?” Did my father leave me with a babysitter who smokes? Secondhand smoke could kill. I had the statistics. In either
Doomsday Journal #2 or #3.

  Sara rolled her eyes. “No. You need a Monatskarte.” She said something to the man in German, then pulled out a bill from the envelope and handed it to him. He handed her back a square of thin cardboard. “Danke,” she said, then led me back to the bench where Felix was waiting.

  Out of the envelope, Sara pulled a small square photograph. She rummaged in the green purse she carried, found a role of tape, and stuck the picture to the cardboard. Then she handed it to me.

  I recognized the picture she had taped to the card. I had taken it with my dad at the airport, right before he had left for Vienna. Someone had cut it down, so it looked almost like a headshot of me, except I could still see part of Dad’s arm in one corner. “What’s this?” I asked.

  “Bus ticket,” said Sara. “For month July.”

  I studied it. At the top it said, 1. Juli bis 31. Juli, Monatskarte, 1993.

  Before I could ask how it worked, the bus pulled up. There was a group of people waiting, so we all scrambled to get in line.

  When I trudged up the steps, I held out the card for the driver to see. He didn’t even glance at me. “Excuse me, sir,” I said, holding up my card.

  A young man pushed past me, not even waiting to show his ticket.

  The driver finally turned to look at me. “Ja?”

  I held up my ticket. But he just gave me a funny look and waved me on.

  Felix and Sara had already sat down.

  “Why didn’t he check my ticket?” I asked.

  “Ehrensystem,” Sara said.

  I gave her a look.

  “I don’t know the English word,” Sara admitted.

  We both turned to look at Felix.

  “Honor system,” he whispered.

  “What are you talking about?” I exclaimed. “You mean they just trust everyone to buy a ticket?”

  Sara and Felix both nodded.

  “Then why would anyone ever buy a ticket?”

  “There are random ticket inspections,” Felix whispered. “If they catch you without a ticket, there’s a big fine.”