From What I Remember

by Stacy Kramer, Valerie Thomas

  I wish Kylie would stop staring at me. It’s making things worse.

  For the most part, I’m pretty chill. I can get intense during squash, but that’s different. Nothing like this had ever happened, until last year. I didn’t have a clue what was going on. I thought I was having a heart attack. Luckily, I was in the hospital at the time. My mom and I had been sitting in the waiting room for hours. She was zoned out on some kind of meds, and powering through a stack of gossip magazines. I was reading On the Road. We were mostly ignoring each other. To fill the dead air, Mom would occasionally ask me about school or squash. Not about Dad. Stupid stuff. We were pretending that everything was okay. That’s what my family does. We put all our shit away into some dark place where we never go, and plaster on our game faces.

  Dr. Stein was still wearing his scrubs when he came out and headed toward us. I could tell it wasn’t good news. I wanted to get the hell out of that hospital. Just jump in the elevator, slip outside, into the sunshine, and go for the longest run of my life. But I stayed there next to Mom as Dr. Stein told us more than I wanted to hear about Dad’s condition.

  That was when my body first seized up. It felt like I was suffocating. Like my organs were shutting down. I thought I was just sitting there suffering in silence, but it must have been pretty obvious, because all of a sudden, Dr. Stein grabbed me by the shoulders and pulled me to my feet.

  “Breathe, Max,” he said. “Slowly. Blow the air out through your mouth. In through your nose. Stare at the nurse’s station. Put everything else out of your mind. You’re having an anxiety attack. It’ll subside in a few minutes. Keep breathing with me.”

  Dr. Stein was right. After about ten minutes, I came out of it. It didn’t feel like the world was pressing down on me. I could move and breathe normally again. For the next few hours I was still a little shaky. The whole thing really messed with my head. Once something like that happens to you, you start to wonder if you’ll ever feel normal again. You wonder if you even are normal. Or if something is seriously wrong.

  Dr. Stein had me talk to some woman psychiatrist for a few weeks. She was pretty useless. She asked me a million questions. Mostly I lied to her, told her everything was cool so we could end the sessions. She prescribed Xanax for me, but I threw them down the toilet. Mom was already taking way too much of that shit. We didn’t need two robots in the house.

  For weeks afterward, I felt like I was always waiting for it to happen again. Where would I be? Somewhere embarrassing, like school? Or squash? Or wherever. Worrying about it drove me crazy. But then it didn’t happen. I forgot about it. Until six months ago, out of the blue. Lily and I were at the movies, some horror film. All of a sudden it felt like the walls were closing in on me. I got this weird sensation of being outside my body. The blood, the gore, the violence started getting to me. Which is weird because I usually love that stuff. I had to get up and leave the theater. I told Lily I’d be right back.

  I went to the bathroom, sat on the toilet, put my head between my knees, and stayed there for about fifteen minutes, until it all blew over. When I went back in, the credits were rolling. Lily was all worried. I lied and said something about food poisoning. I couldn’t bring myself to tell Lily the truth. I’m sure she would have been sympathetic and everything. It’s just, I wasn’t ready to tell her. I was kind of hoping I’d never have to tell her. Who wants a boyfriend who can’t keep his shit together? Besides, Lily can be such a drama queen. I didn’t need her freaking out about my freaking out. I figured I’d let it ride. Hopefully, it wouldn’t happen again. And if it did, I’d deal with it then.

  It’s all been good. Until now. I’m wishing I had some of that Xanax on me.

  I suddenly realize Kylie’s been rubbing my back. How long has she been doing that? I was so in my head I didn’t notice at first. Her touch feels nice, soothing. It’s bringing me down off the ledge. It’s weird. I barely know her, but somehow she’s able to calm me. My breathing slows down. My heart stops fluttering. I feel better.

  And then the truck stops. I hear voices. The driver is having a conversation with someone outside, in English. We must be at the border, probably customs. We need to act fast. We could escape or be rescued. But I feel completely paralyzed. What do we do? I mean, it’s not like I’ve been in this kind of situation before.

  “We’re at the border,” Kylie whispers.

  “What should we do?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Should we say something?” I’m speaking incredibly fast now. The panic presses to get back in; I can feel it start to flood my brain again.

  “Maybe we should scream or start pounding on the door,” Kylie suggests.

  I’m not sure that’s such a good idea. Fear is flaming through my system. I’m not in any condition to make rapid-fire decisions. I know this is our chance. Maybe our last chance. What do we do? What do we do?

  Okay. I’m going to do this. I’m about to yell at the top of my lungs. The truck begins to move again. Fast. Are you kidding me?

  We’re picking up speed. Moving away from customs. From the people who could have saved us! Shit. Shit. Shit. We’ve missed the moment. We’re as screwed as two people can be.

  Kylie picks up her phone and punches into it.

  KYLIE: NOT GOOD.

  MAX: YA THINK? CANT IMAGIN HOW IT CD GET WORSE.

  KYLIE: THEY CD KILL US.

  MAX: YEA. THAT WD B WORSE. THNX 4 THAT.

  At this point, things are so bad, I have to smile. Kylie smiles as well. Gallows humor, as they say. We’re out of options, for the time being.

  KYLIE: THEY’LL STOP AGAIN SOON. WE’LL JUMP OUT THEN.

  MAX: IN TIJUANA? PERFECT. BEEN DYING TO GO THERE.

  KYLIE: I HEAR IT’S NICE THIS TIME OF YEAR.

  I don’t know how we got into this head space, but I guess it’s better than the place I was a little while ago. Might as well suck the last bits of humor out of our lives.

  Kylie texts me again, punching away at her phone. I look down at mine and realize I’m getting nothing. I look at her. She looks at me, confused, and tries again. Still nothing.

  She leans in to me and whispers, “I think we lost service.”

  I don’t respond. I mean, what can I say?

  “You have to let your service provider know when you’re going to another country,” Kylie whispers, like she’s some kind of official Verizon rep or something. Is this somehow supposed to be helpful information? She looks at me expectantly like one of us might want to get in touch with our “service provider” right about now, request international service. Genius plan, babe.

  We sit in silence. I’m no longer feeling the humor.

  Soon we’ll be buried among the cacti, our bodies laying waste in the desert, dinner for coyotes. Fear gives way to anger. I am suddenly aware of how pissed I am at Kylie. Man, I cannot believe she got us into this. I’m dying to lose my mind on her. Tell her what I really think of her for making me do Murphy’s assignment, meeting her at Starbucks, following the biker, and then climbing into this stupid truck. For a smart chick, SHE IS A TOTAL IDIOT. But then again, I followed her into the truck, so, really, what is my problem? I do a silent scream in my head. It doesn’t help.

  Kylie tugs at my sleeve. I shake her off. Let her sit in her own shit. I’m sitting in mine. Even if she’s the last person I get to see before I die, I’m not really interested in conversation.

  “I heard them say they’re pulling over soon,” Kylie whispers.

  I don’t feel the need to answer. There’s nothing I can possibly say that will be at all helpful. Besides, we shouldn’t be talking. If we’re quiet and they don’t notice us, maybe somehow, miraculously, we’ll make it out of here alive.

  “We could make a run for it,” Kylie suggests, as though she’s had some kind of inspired breakthrough.

  “Whatever,” I say, rolling my eyes. Shit. That’s the best she’s got? Obviously, if there’s any opportunity, we’re going to make a run for it. I’m going to ru
n like hell. I just don’t think it’s very likely that we’ll be able to run without the two dudes noticing us.

  “What is that supposed to mean?” Kylie asks. Her eyes bore into me, big and sad, like some kind of wounded animal. She thinks we’re a team and I’ve just let her down.

  “Nothing,” I say. I’m not going to make this any easier for her by pretending we’re in this together. If we’re going down, it’s each man for himself. I’m not interested in making her feel better. Or being a hero. What Kylie does is up to her. I’m taking care of number one.

  “I know this is my fault,” Kylie whispers, “but we have to work together if we’re going to survive. I can’t die. I can’t. If I die, my entire family falls to pieces.”

  Yeah, tell me about it. “It’s not like my family will be thrilled,” I shoot back.

  And then she starts crying quietly, her shoulders shaking.

  Oh, man. What am I supposed to do now? I feel bad. Immediately, I backpedal.

  “We’re gonna figure this out,” I say. I’m not sure why, but I reach out and take her hand. I guess because, if this is the last thing I do on earth, I don’t want to be a complete asshole about it. “We’ll get out of here alive. I promise.”

  I’m trying my best to believe what I’m saying, but it’s a pretty empty statement. I’m really not feeling it, though it seems to help Kylie. She stops crying, wipes away the tears.

  The truck stops. The front doors pop open and then quickly close. The two dudes have left, for the moment. We hear them talking as they walk away.

  Kylie shoots up, pulling herself together. It’s as if the crying somehow bolstered her. She’s definitely rising to the occasion. I am not. I’m feeling defeated before I’ve even begun to fight, which is totally lame of me.

  “This is it. It may be our only chance,” Kylie tells me. Shit. What’s she doing this time?

  Kylie straps on her backpack and crawls to the window that divides the front from the back of the truck. She peers out and, without warning, shimmies her way through the window, landing in the front seat. I’m not sure whether to follow or stay put. I mean, the guys could be right outside. With guns.

  “What are you doing, Max? C’mon,” Kylie insists.

  I’m terrified. I don’t move at first. I can’t believe Kylie’s got more balls than me.

  “I don’t see them. We need to go. Now,” Kylie commands.

  There’s something firm and reassuring in her voice. It urges me on. She’s all badass again. The way she was earlier. The girl is totally bipolar, but she does manage to get me going. I push myself up and over the pile of electronics I’ve been sitting on for the past hour and pull myself through the window.

  Kylie and I are crouched down in the front seat. We peek out through the windshield and can see that we’re parked on a small side street, somewhere in Tijuana, presumably. All the signs are in Spanish. Across the street is a store that sells phone cards; I can make out the words Lagos, Nigeria and Sin limite. I look up and see blue sky above.

  I realize we’ve been in the dark for a long time. Something about the purity of the light and the brash blue reminds me of Sunday mornings on the beach with my Dad. He used to take me and my brother to explore the tide pools, in the days before he got too busy to hang out on weekends. I would stick my finger into the middle of the rubbery sea anemones until they snapped shut. I thought it was the sickest thing ever. Those mornings, the sky looked like this.

  I am jolted back to the present by the sight of a kid running down the sidewalk, followed by two scraggly dogs. The street is deserted except for the kid. The dudes are nowhere in sight. Maybe we can catch a break here.

  “We’re going to make a run for it. Into that store,” Kylie says, as though she’s had the whole thing planned out all along. She’s confident and determined.

  Kylie opens the front door of the truck and jumps out. I’m on her heels. We sprint toward the store. We’re nearly there. Almost in the clear. Home safe. And then I see them. They’re hard to miss, with their shiny heads and multiple tattoos. They’re standing in a doorway, talking to a skinny guy with a full beard and a baseball cap.

  There’s one of those interminable pauses where time slows way down as they turn and stare straight at us.

  hat part of “meet me on the front lawn at noon” didn’t Max understand? We had a date. We decided to blow off third period so that we could carve our initials on the palm tree, go to the mall for lunch and a quick shop, and then make it back for senior assembly. Somehow, I’m the only one who remembered. Alone on the front lawn. This is so not where I live. I really need Max now. This is not the time for one of his disappearing acts. Last night was possibly the worst night of my life, and I haven’t even told Max about it yet. I’ve already given up on lunch, but I need to hit the mall. I’ve got nothing to wear tomorrow. Mom’s been so completely wrapped up in her own stuff, she didn’t get me a dress for graduation. I get it under the circumstances. But still…

  This is not even close to the fabulous last day of school I had in mind. I call Max for the fifth time in the past two minutes, but it goes straight to voice mail. I’m sure he’s playing squash with Charlie and completely spaced on our date, which has happened too many times to count.

  Max and I have been together for almost a year now. People we don’t even know in La Jolla are always telling Mom and Dad how amazing we are together. It’s weird to find your soul mate in high school. But it happened. It’s done. And I’m not letting go. Especially not now, with things so seriously wrecked on the home front. I don’t even know the full extent of it.

  When I walked in the door last night at midnight, Mom’s eyes were red and puffy. I thought she was going to tell me she and Dad were getting a divorce. I wish she had. That, at least, I could deal with, get over eventually. This is worse. Way worse. I’m not sure how I even hurdle this one. Ever.

  Mom kept talking and talking. There was too much information to take in. After a while, I couldn’t listen anymore. How could I go from having everything one day to nothing the next?

  “Your father is being investigated by the federal government. There’s going to be a trial.”

  Those were Mom’s exact words. I’m still not entirely sure what it even means. But I know we’re in trouble. Big trouble.

  “Dad is declaring bankruptcy. We’re going to put the houses on the market. We’re looking for a temporary place to live, maybe a condo somewhere downtown. We’re going to be okay. I promise. But we’ll have to rethink things. Pull back…” It was all coming at me fast and furious, like a tornado.

  In a heartbeat, my life had gone from awesome to awful. We were broke. Dad was potentially a criminal, and how in the hell were we going to afford Stanford? I know I should have been more concerned about Dad, but honestly, Stanford was the first thing that came to mind. It so isn’t fair. I worked my ass off to get in, and now it seemed like it was being snatched right out from under me.

  I got nearly perfect scores on my SATs. I got into Stanford, Swarthmore, Pomona, Michigan, and Williams. I took more AP classes than anyone in the history of Freiburg. I was captain of varsity tennis, I tutored inner city kids for two summers straight, and for what? So I could attend the local community college in preparation for a manager’s position at Burger King?

  How could Dad do this to me? To us?

  I should have seen the early warning signs. But the truth is, I wasn’t interested.

  About three months ago, Dad came home from work in the early afternoon and said he was done working for people. Done with the bank. He was going to start his own business. He set up shop downstairs, in the media room. I’m not sure, but I think he may have been fired. He didn’t want to talk about it, and I certainly didn’t want to talk about it. With him. Or anyone else, for that matter. The less said the better. I just assumed he would figure it out.

  He was trading stocks, I think. Sometimes he was down there all day and all night. For a while, nothing seemed to change. Mom a
nd I still went shopping, Janice cleaned and cooked for us, we went to Cabo for spring break. And then, about a week ago, Dad got all psychotic. He took away my credit cards, stopped delivery of all the flowers, fired the housekeeper, traded in his Porsche convertible for a Ford Focus (a Ford Focus?!), and sold the yacht.

  In retrospect, Mom’s news shouldn’t have come as a surprise. But it’s hard to grasp the worst-case scenario until it smacks the shit out of you. At the very, very, very least, thank God the world came crashing down on the last day of school and not any earlier, because as soon as word gets out, the vultures will be circling. Schadenfreude. Deriving pleasure from other’s pain. It’s horrible, but it’s sport at Freiburg. And I’m about to be the ball. They’re all going to take a whack at me, and there’s precious little I can do about it.

  I’m not sure how Max is going to react. I’d like to believe that he loves me unconditionally, but I’m no fool. I know the bells and whistles help. He likes the yacht, my Audi convertible, the house in Aspen. What am I going to tell him? Or anyone, for that matter. Maybe I’ll just keep it a secret until it absolutely, positively can’t be kept quiet anymore. And just maybe, some kind of miracle will happen and everything will turn out okay. Like it always has for me.

  Jesus. Dad isn’t actually going to go to jail, is he?

  When I asked Mom what Dad did wrong, she said, “He didn’t do anything everyone else wasn’t doing. He just got caught.”

  That didn’t clarify things at all. And the morality of that statement was questionable at best. But I didn’t even go there with Mom.

  “Don’t worry. We’ll fight this, and we’ll win,” Mom insisted in that Pollyanna way of hers. But her unflagging enthusiasm was flagging, for the first time ever. She knew things weren’t going to be okay and she didn’t have a clue how to deal. Her thinly veiled horror was written all over her face.