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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 ru
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.
MAX:
WTF WER U THINKING?
KYLIE:
IDK. GUESS I WASNT
.
MAX:
YEA
.
KYLIE:
IM REALLY SORRY. REALLY. REALLY
.
MAX:
SAVE IT. NOT GOOD ENUF WEN IM DED
.
KYLIE: I KNOW. I MESSED UP
.
MAX:
BIG TIME
.
KYLIE:
I GET IT. YOU HATE ME. IM AN IDIOT
.
MAX:
OK
.
KYLIE:
U DONT HAVE TO B SUCH A DICK
.
MAX:
IM GONNA DIE CUZ OF U. HOW SHD I B?
KYLIE:
NICER?
MAX:
R U SUICIDAL??
KYLIE:
NO!! JUST WANTED MY COMPUTER. IT WAS STUPID
.
MAX:
WHTEVR
.
KYLIE:
U CLIMBD IN BEHIND ME
.
MAX:
N BY THAT U MEAN THANX?
KYLIE:
IT WAS UR CHOICE
.
MAX:
I WAS TRYING TO HELP. WONT DO THAT AGAN
.
KYLIE:
SORRY. REALLY, REALLY SORRY. I AM
.
MAX:
WATS UR PLAN NOW?
KYLIE:
DUNNO. U HAVE ANY IDEAS?
MAX:
THIS IS UR PLAN, UR FAULT. U COM UP W SUMTHING
.
KYLIE:
WISH I CD. BUT HOW? WHAT?
MAX:
GUESS U SHD HAV THOT OF THAT B4
.
I shoot Max an exasperated look. How is that helpful? He’s acting like a petulant child, and refusing to be part of the solution. Max won’t meet my gaze. He’s too angry at me. I can’t blame him. I deserve it. He’d be at school, basking in the limelight, celebrating the last day of classes, comfortably intertwined with Lily in an ostentatious show of public affection, if it wasn’t for me. Still, if we’re going to spend our final hours on earth together, it might be helpful if we could get along. Or at the very least, work together.
KYLIE:
I GET THAT I MESSED UP BUT UR GONNA HAV TO HELP ME OUT HERE
.
MAX:
HOW???? ID B OUT OF HERE IF I CD. DOORS R LOCKD. NO WAY OUT. WERE SCREWD
.
KYLIE:
SHD WE CALL 911
?
MAX:
NO! 2 RISKY. IF THEY C COPS, THELL FREAK. MAYB SHOOT US.
KYLIE:
THEN WHAT?
MAX:
WE WAIT. MAYB THELL STOP AGEN. N WE RUN
.
The truck makes a sharp left turn. I fall on top of Max as both of us are thrown against the wall by the centrifugal force. The television falls to the ground. The edge of it nails my knee, which throbs in pain.
Something seems to shift in Max, and his anxiety shoots through the roof. He is gulping air like he’s struggling for breath. His eyes are glassy. His jaw is tensed. I look down to see his hand gripping his pant leg. He reminds me of Jake when he’s seen a snake. Too frightened to move or speak. I text him.
MAX R U OK?
Max doesn’t text back.
“Max? What’s wrong?” I whisper in his ear.
He doesn’t respond. He turns away from me and stares at the floor. I don’t know what to do. I want to reach out to him. I’m just not sure how. I barely know the guy. Amid this nightmare, and despite all my better instincts, my heart swells a little for him. I can’t help it. He looks so vulnerable. It’s a whole different side to a guy who I thought was made of stone.
or the past ten minutes we’ve been moving at a pretty fast clip. I’m deep breathing to keep the anxiety at bay. Kylie keeps looking at me, but I want nothing to do with her. Seriously, what do we have to say to each other at this point? I’m having a hard time just maintaining. I hear one of the guys in front yelling into his cell in Spanish. I don’t understand anything except the word “Tijuana.” Tijuana? Jesus. I know Kylie understands Spanish. I text into my cell.
MAX:
R THEY GOIN TO TIJUANA?
KYLIE:
YES
MAX:
WHAT ELS DID THEY SAY?
KYLIE:
JUST SOME ADDRESS. I THINK THEY’RE DROPPING STUFF THERE. NOT SUR
.
Mexico?!
I read the papers. I know what’s going on in those border towns. People are being slaughtered, entire police forces are quitting, journalists are murdered just for showing up to work.
I feel dizzy. My vision starts to pulse in and out. There’s no more keeping anything at bay. The dam breaks and an enormous wave of fear spreads through my body. I sit on my hands to stop them from shaking. I’m having a panic attack. It’s not the first time. I’ve been here before. My chest cramps up. My heart whirs out of control. Red-hot anxiety courses through my veins. I just need to breathe. Count to ten. Slowly. Focus on something. I can will myself off the ledge. I’ve done it before.
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.