Authors: Stacy Kramer

Tags: #Fiction, #Contemporary

From What I Remember (10 page)

We’re cruising through parts of the city I never see: National, Chula Vista. Taking back roads south, toward the border. Maybe that’s where these guys are headed. Over the border to Mexico. A good place to sell stolen stuff. Nowhere I want to go.

“Do you wanna drive?” Kylie asks.

“It’s cool. You can drive.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

She’s on best behavior. She knows I could shut this thing down anytime. I don’t know why, but I don’t want to let Kylie down. At least not yet. She’s thinking she’s somehow going to win this thing. I’m sure she’s going to lose. Still, I’m willing to wait it out a little longer, on the off chance Kylie knows something I don’t.

“This is an amazing car. Our car is, like, a hundred years old. We’ve still got a cassette player in the stereo.”

“What’s that?”

Kylie laughs.

“So how come you don’t act like this in school?” I ask her.

“You mean, like, carjacking and playing cops and robbers?”

“No, just…I don’t know, cooler, less uptight. You’re always looking at the floor, avoiding everyone. Unless, of course, you’re going insane on someone in a squash court.”

Kylie smiles at this. Maybe she doesn’t take herself as seriously as I thought.

“I mean, I’ve never even seen you at a party.”

“No one’s ever invited me. And I hate parties.”

Kylie looks over at me, and I can see her big golden eyes poking out through a mess of curls. Her usually tight, prissy ponytail is all messed up. She looks good. Not so geeky.

“They’re pretty casual. Everyone just kinda shows up,” I say.

“Yeah, it would be weird if Will and I just showed up.”

“Maybe.” She’s right. It might be weird. “Why do you spend all your time with Will?”

“Because there’s no one else worth my time.”

“So we’re not good enough for you?” I can’t believe I’m even asking her this question. Like we care what Kylie Flores thinks of us.

“Let’s just say you’re not right for me, and leave it at that.”

I can’t tell if she’s bluffing. Does she actually think she’s too good for us? It’s pretty hilarious when you think about it.

“So what’s the plan? Do you really think you’re going to get your computer back? Those dudes looked pretty serious. We don’t have guns or knives. I may have a Frisbee in the trunk, but that’s it.”

“Decapitation by Frisbee. I like it.”

I laugh. She’s funnier than I would have thought.

“I don’t know. I’m hoping I’ll come up with a brilliant idea any second now.”

“Good. ’Cause I’ve got nothing. Maybe you can talk the guys into giving you back your computer. Like you talked me into doing Murphy’s paper.”

“And look where that got us,” she says, pushing a few stray curls off her face.

She’s got a birthmark above her lip, and the longest eyelashes I’ve ever seen. She’s kinda hot. Not Lily hot. Hot in a different way. I never noticed it before.

The truck slows down and pulls into a 7-Eleven. Kylie parks a few cars away.

“What are you thinking? ’Cause I’m thinking we’re at the end of the road here. It’s been fun. But now we’re done. I mean, seriously, what are we going to do? Jump the bad guys?”

“Probably not the best idea,” Kylie admits.

The two dudes exit the U-Haul. From the back, they look like father and son. One of them towers over the other. They’re seriously inked; even their bald heads sport tattoos. I so don’t want to have anything to do with these guys. I watch as they head into the 7-Eleven, thinking to myself, I am out of here.

Before I have a chance to say anything, Kylie’s out of the car and heading toward the truck. I follow her because I’m wondering what the hell she’s thinking.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“You wanted a plan, here’s my plan. I’m going to get into that truck and get my computer back.”

“That’s a bad plan, Kylie. These are bad guys. We are way out of our element. We need to get out of here. Like now.”

Kylie isn’t listening to me. She runs around to the back doors of the truck. Shakes them. Locked. She moves to the driver’s side door. Locked. Yeah, people with stolen electronics tend to lock their doors. But then, Kylie manages to open the passenger door.

“Kylie, get back here. Seriously. We gotta get out of here.…”

I’m talking to myself. Kylie ignores me and disappears into the truck.

This is no longer fun. Or cool. I’m not into it at all. It’s freaking me out. Kylie is even crazier than I thought. She’s going to get herself killed. And me along with her.

A couple of minutes go by and she’s not out of the truck. I can’t decide if I should just drive away and never look back, or go in after her. Stupidity wins out over common sense, and I climb into the passenger side. I can’t see much. A partition separates the back of the truck from the front. There’s a small window between the cab and the back. Kylie must have crawled through it, because she’s nowhere in sight.

“Kylie, what is your problem? You are going to get us killed.”

“I found it. I’ve just gotta dig it out. But I need help,” Kylie calls out.

I peer through the window, but can’t see her because she’s hidden behind about a million dollars’ worth of stolen electronics. There are wide-screen TVs, DVD players, cameras, iPads, speakers, desktops, laptops, printers. It looks like an electronics store warehouse. I want to run away as fast as I can. This is messed up.

“Please, Max!” Kylie begs, because I haven’t moved.

The desperation in her voice draws me in. Knowing full well this could be the biggest mistake of my life, I crawl through the opening and land on the face of an enormous flat-screen television. I make my way over the equipment, toward Kylie, where she’s attempting to pull her backpack out from under an iMac. We can’t have much more time. Those dudes have got to be on their way back to the truck. I mean, how long can it take to pee and buy a Coke? I push the iMac to the side, freeing Kylie’s backpack, and that’s when the front doors to the truck open.

The two dudes climb in, slam the doors, and rev the engine.

FUCK!

The truck slowly pulls out. With us inside.

We’re hidden from view by all the equipment, at least for now. What happens next is anyone’s guess.

Kylie and I stare at each other. She looks like I feel—freaked and terrified. I’m sure I must look like that as well. I’ve never been this scared in my life. Frantic, I quietly crawl my way to the back door, but it’s locked from the outside. We’re totally trapped. I take Kylie by the arm and maneuver us into the corner. She doesn’t seem so tough anymore as she peers up at me. We crouch behind a huge pile of speakers as the truck picks up speed.

think I might throw up. I’ve been through some pretty bad stuff: Jake’s seizures, getting mugged at knifepoint on Crosby Street, and Nana’s heart attack. But now that all seems minor league in comparison. I’m pretty sure we’re both going to die. It’s weird what comes to mind when you think your life is about to end. I’m wondering who will be at the memorial. Definitely Will. But anyone else from school? I kind of doubt it. Will would call it an “intimate” affair. The perils of dying young when you’re not super popular. I’m sure Max’s funeral will be standing room only. I force myself to try to think positive. I am not going to die.

Everything will be all right despite the absurdly ridiculous odds against that possibility. People say positive thinking can save your life. I doubt it will help, but I might as well give it a try. I attempt to focus on the fact that, best-case scenario, I’ll have some good material for my next screenplay. Unfortunately, it doesn’t take hold. And I’m back to freaking out.

It’s dark in the truck, with only a few slashes of light piercing through the seams of the back doors. A huge television looms over us, dangerously close. If the truck swerves or stops suddenly, we could be crushed to death, which might be preferable to being beaten to a pulp.

I am so stupid. And reckless. And selfish. What about graduation? NYU? Jake? Mom? My life is just beginning. It’s not supposed to be ending. How could I have just climbed into this truck? Max was right. It was a bad plan. A terrible, awful, horrible, idiotic plan that I didn’t think through. As usual. I have my computer, but I’m about to lose my life. What on earth is wrong with me?

Max is sitting next to me, his arms wrapped around his knees. As I look at him not looking at me, I feel even worse. Nausea and tears well up inside me. I feel like I might burst open—raw, ugly emotion splattering all over the truck. We are so screwed, and it’s all my fault.

I’d never write a lame scene like the one I’ve managed to find myself in. I sure as hell wouldn’t have let my protagonist jump into the bad guys’ truck without a plan. At the very least, I would have made sure my hero had a gun or a knife hidden in her boot. The only thing I’ve got is my computer. And it isn’t even turned on. I suck as a real-life action hero.

I’m feeling more and more despondent. I try to play things out in my head, to ferret out a good ending, but it’s just not happening. Even if we can somehow escape, that would probably involve jumping out of a moving truck onto a road with high-speed traffic bearing down on us. If we survive that—and that’s a big if—we’d most likely be in San Ysidro, a border town filled with drug runners, where massacres are a daily occurrence. And that’s the happy ending.

As for the bad scenarios, take your pick. We’re discovered by the bad guys, dragged to a deserted location, shot, knifed, or strangled, and then left for dead. I’m overcome with images of Max and me riddled with bullets, lying in a ditch. I’m trembling. I can’t get the gruesome picture out of my mind. I shake my head to stop myself from spiraling into the abyss. So much for the power of positive thinking.

I glance over at Max, looking for some kind of solace. But he seems even more terrified than me. It’s disconcerting. Panic doesn’t suit him.

“What are we going to do?” I whisper.

Max doesn’t respond. He continues staring straight ahead. It’s wigging me out. I wish he would just scream at me. Or punch me. Something. Anything. I need him to be present. He’s all I’ve got. I am about to say something else to Max when he shoves his hand over my mouth. His palm is sweaty from nerves.

He holds up his iPhone and taps into it. My phone vibrates. I pull it out. He’s texting me.