From What I Remember (11 page)

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.

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?