The Thing I'm Most Afraid Of Page 3

  “I’ve never heard of any of those places.”

  “I bet you have,” the woman replied. “In school, didn’t you learn about the beginning of World War I?”

  “Oh yeah!” I remembered. “That archduke guy was assassinated.”

  “Franz Ferdinand,” she reminded me. “And he was killed in Sarajevo.”

  “Oh.” I hadn’t made that connection. “And you’re going there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then why are you on a plane to Vienna?” I asked.

  “The airport in Sarajevo is closed to all commercial flights. Only a few humanitarian flights are getting in. It’s easier to get there by land. It’s only about a day’s drive from Vienna.”

  My dad was living “only about a day’s drive” from a war zone?! I hadn’t made that connection either. I reached up in the air, stretching as if I were trying to touch the roof of the plane. “What are they fighting about?” I asked.

  She sighed. “The short version is that about two years ago, the country began to break apart, with many of the states declaring their independence. Bosnia-Herzegovina was one of the most diverse, containing Bosnian Muslims, Serbs, and Croats. Even though they had lived together in peace for many years, they had different ideas for the future of their country. Fighting broke out when the Serbs tried to take control of the region.”

  “So it’s a civil war?” I asked.

  She nodded. “Your au pair is lucky she got out when she did. There are reports of . . . horrible things happening to young women in Bosnia now.”

  “Then why are you going?” I asked.

  “Sometimes you have to do scary things. Because they are important to you. I want the world to know the truth about the war, so I have to go.”

  I stared, my stretches forgotten. She was clearly much, much braver than me.

  “Getting tired?” she asked.

  “A little,” I admitted.

  “Me too. I’m going to try to get some rest. They’ll serve coffee in a couple of hours. And croissants with butter and jam. They’re delicious.”

  “I’m too young for coffee.”

  “Hmm,” she said. “You’re old enough to ask real questions about the world. I think that makes you old enough for coffee too.”

  She handed me the napkin map, and I went back to my seat. I must have dozed a little, because the next thing I remember was Little Red Riding Hood coming by and asking, “Coffee or tea?”

  Hot chocolate, please was right on the tip of my tongue; I knew they had it, because I had read in the in-flight magazine that was one of the beverage options. But Mom was still asleep, and the flight was almost over, and when I opened my mouth, what came out was, “Coffee, please.”

  I froze, surprised at my own daring. But the flight attendant didn’t bat an eyelash, just picked up a ceramic mug and asked, “Milk and sugar?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  Mom was still snoring softly as I raised the cup to my lips. It smelled bitter and sweet. I took a sip. It tasted like confidence.

  CHAPTER 5

  The Welcoming Committee

  Mom finally woke up as the flight attendant was collecting my breakfast dishes. The croissant had been delicious. Mom got up to go to the bathroom near the kitchen and came back with a croissant and a cup of coffee. “Becca!” she whispered excitedly, still standing in the aisle. “Hester Madden is on this plane!”

  “Who’s that?”

  “She’s a CNN reporter.”

  “Oh yeah! I met her last night.”

  “What?”

  “I couldn’t sleep, and . . . we had a whole conversation about Bosnia.”

  “That’s so exciting!” Mom said.

  “Yeah, she’s really nice.” I paused. “Mom, do you think it’s safe in Vienna?”

  “What?”

  “I mean, Ms. Madden said it’s only a day’s drive to where the fighting is in Sarajevo.”

  Mom sat down next to me and looked straight in my eyes. “Becca, there is nothing for you to worry about. You’re completely safe in Austria. The war in Bosnia will not affect you at all.”

  I wasn’t so sure. Still, I had more immediate things to worry about—like getting off the plane.

  Landing wasn’t quite as scary as taking off, even though technically it’s just as dangerous. (See DJ #1, p. 5.) I think it was easier because even with the coffee, I was so tired it was hard to think about anything except sleep. My mother held my hand from the time we started our descent until we touched down.

  Mom was so excited she was practically bouncing up and down as we picked up our bags and waited to go through customs. “Your father said he would give me a ride to the train station. Once I get to Salzburg, I’ll find my hostel and take a little walk around to get oriented. Then tomorrow I’m going to do the Sound of Music tour and then the salt mines the day after that, and then I’m going to rent a car and go see the castles in Bavaria.”

  I tried to catch her excitement. Here I was in a real foreign airport! But it looked pretty much like the airport I had just left, except the signs were in English and German. Mom and I handed the man at customs our passports. “I’m visiting my dad,” I volunteered. He stamped my booklet and waved us through.

  The airport was fairly small. I saw an old man being greeted by a group of smiling children. I watched a young woman run up to her boyfriend and kiss him. But I didn’t see my father. Did we miss him? Did we get the day wrong? Did—

  “Becca!”

  I turned around, and there he was.

  His brown hair was longer, but I liked his short beard. Instead of jeans, he wore khaki pants and a button-down shirt. He’d traded in his sneakers for expensive-looking leather shoes. I waved, and a grin spread across his face.

  Dad ran toward me and gave me a big hug. He smelled the same. He sounded the same. He was still my good old dad.

  “Was the plane okay?” he asked.

  I nodded and squeezed harder.

  “She did great,” Mom said. “I was so proud of her.”

  “Thanks for bringing her over,” Dad said.

  “Of course,” Mom said. “This turned out to be a win-win for all of us.”

  I wasn’t so sure about that, but before I could protest, Dad turned to introduce a woman standing just behind him. She was dressed in a black skirt and a pink blouse, her hair was curled around her shoulders, and she was wearing a full face of makeup. She looked as if she were going to a party, even though it was barely seven in the morning local time.

  “Becca,” Dad said. “I’d like you to meet my girlfriend, Katarina.” He grinned like a dorky teenager who had just won one of those stupid giant stuffed animals at the county fair.

  Katarina grabbed my hand and began pumping it up and down. “It is so lovely to meet you! We are going to have such a wonderful summer.” She spoke near-perfect English with a slight British accent.

  “Hi,” I managed to choke out.

  My mom smiled and shook Katarina’s hand pleasantly, and they exchanged “Nice to meet yous.”

  When they were done, Katarina pushed forward a skinny boy with curly blond hair. “Becca, I want you to meet my son, Felix.”

  Felix barely looked up from the book he was reading. In fact, he didn’t move his head at all, just flicked his eyes up to get the briefest glimpse of me, then went back to his reading.

  “Hallo,” he whispered to the words in his book.

  His hair fell over his eyes and ears as if he had missed a haircut. Dad had said Felix was my age, but he must have misunderstood, because Felix looked about nine years old.

  “Hey, Felix,” I said, as friendly as I could.

  He kept reading.

  Katarina beamed as if she thought our introduction had gone extremely well. “I’m sure the two of you are going to be best friends!”


  Oh yeah. At home I always hung out with nine-year-olds.

  “And this is Sara,” Dad said, pointing to a young woman behind him. “She’s going to be your and Felix’s au pair!”

  I’d imagined Sara as a plain, smiling girl, like Fräulein Maria, except with a headscarf instead of a wimple. This Sara looked nothing like that. She had light-brown hair with a streak in the front dyed neon green. Her lipstick was way too red, and she had caked on a bunch of green eye shadow. She was wearing a black dress and black sandals and had a silver necklace with a small star and crescent moon around her neck.

  “Nice to meet you,” Sara said shyly. Her green eye shadow matched her hair, and she had a stronger accent than Katarina.

  “Sara also speaks Bosnian, Latin, a little Russian, French, and German,” Katarina said.

  “I don’t speak any of those,” I said.

  “No problem!” Katarina said. “Felix attends the International School, where all the classes are in English. So if there are any words Sara doesn’t know, he can translate.”

  Felix actually glanced up from his book at that. He looked about as pleased as I felt.

  Yeah, kid, I felt like saying. It’s going to be a long summer.

  “What a great experience for the children!” Mom exclaimed.

  “That’s exactly what I said!” Katarina agreed.

  Dad picked up our bags and led the way to his car, followed by Katarina and Mom, who were chatting away like old friends. Sara, Felix, and I walked behind them; we didn’t say a word. Right before we went outside to the parking lot, Sara put a hand on Katarina’s shoulder. “Wait one moment, please?” she asked.

  “Of course,” said Katarina.

  We all stood and waited while Sara intently studied a small bulletin board hung on a wall between car-rental signs. I wasn’t sure what it was. It looked like a bunch of handwritten notes pinned with old thumbtacks. She took a piece of paper from her pocket and pinned it to the board.

  “Any luck?” Katarina asked when Sara returned to our group.

  Sara shook her head.

  Before I could ask any questions, Dad shooed us out the door. His car wasn’t far, and we dumped our bags in the trunk. Dad, Katarina, and Mom squeezed into the front seat; Felix, Sara, and I climbed into the back.

  Mom and Katarina kept up a light, chattery conversation, Mom telling us all the places she wanted to visit, and Katarina offering suggestions. From time to time, Dad would chime in. Felix pretended to read, but I could tell he was listening to their conversation.

  “They’re divorced?” he whispered to me finally.

  “Yeah.”

  “But . . . they get along so well,” he said.

  I shrugged. “Doesn’t your mom talk to your dad sometimes?”

  Felix turned his attention back to his book. By the time I realized he wasn’t going to answer, we were already on the highway. It seemed too weird to repeat myself, so instead I turned to Sara and asked, “What were you doing at the airport?”

  “My family stayed behind in Sarajevo,” she answered. “I hope they come to Vienna. I think, maybe they left a note.”

  “But if your family comes to Vienna, wouldn’t they just call you?”

  “I sent them a letter with my number.” Sara sighed. “But I not sure they got it. I only received one letter from them. So I posted this.” She handed me a copy of a piece of notebook paper. In neat block letters she had written, Ich suche Petra Tahirović, 44, und Eldin Tahirović, 6. There was a phone number at the bottom.

  “That’s my mom and little brother,” she explained.

  “Oh.” I tried to give the paper back to her, but she shook her head.

  “Keep it. I have many copies.”

  Dad was already pulling up to the train station, so I folded up the paper and stuffed it into my pocket. I climbed out of the back seat, and Mom and I waited on the curb while Dad got her bag out of the trunk.

  “They all seem nice,” Mom said.

  “Yeah,” I agreed.

  I could feel Felix and Sara watching me from the inside of the car. I was determined not to cry.

  Mom gave me a long hug, but it felt awkward, as if I were a fish, already slipping out of her grasp.

  “You have the list of all the places I’m staying,” Mom said. “You can always give me a call.”

  I nodded.

  Then Mom kissed her fingers and pressed them to my forehead.

  That’s when I cried.

  “Becca,” Mom said. “You can do it. You’re going to have a wonderful summer.”

  She hoisted her backpack onto her shoulder, pulled up the handle of her roller bag (Purple! So no one will mistake it for theirs), and walked off toward her own adventure.

  Leaving me to deal with mine.

  CHAPTER 6

  The Happy Chicken

  No one mentioned my tears when I got back into the car. Katarina chattered on about the lovely garden in front of my father’s town house. I imagined rows of beans, corn, and tomatoes, but there was no garden—it was only a little patch of grass, barely enough to mow. There were five town houses in a row, each with a small yard out front. The one next to my father’s was filled with dozens of ceramic gnomes: one with a dog by the front gate, one with an umbrella, one with a tiny watering can, one wearing sunglasses, one on skis, a baby in a diaper, a grandpa with a beard and a cane, and so on. In between the gnomes were flowers. Lots of flowers. There were boxes; there were baskets; there were pots. It looked like a flower shop run by Smurfs.

  “That’s Frau Gamperl’s house,” Katarina explained. “Felix, Sara, and I live on the other side.”

  At my father’s front door, Katarina gave me a hug and told me she would see us later. Sara waved, but Felix just kept reading as they walked away. I sighed with relief as they left. Finally, it was just me and my father.

  Dad smiled as if he were thinking the same thing. “Welcome home,” he said as he unlocked the door. “I know it might seem a little weird at first, but I really do want you to feel like this is your house too.”

  Inside, there was a big room with a dining table, a large L-shaped couch, a TV, and a stereo. To the left was a galley kitchen with a tiny table, only big enough for two. Everything looked new and clean, and there was a lot of light. Upstairs, there were three bedrooms—a large one with a balcony for my father, my dad’s study, and a bedroom for me.

  My room had a double bed, a desk by the window, and a couple of empty bookshelves. There was a small dresser in the corner. Everything was sleek and modern. It was also really hot. We dumped my bags in the room and went back downstairs.

  “Is there something wrong with the air-conditioning?” I asked. “It feels kind of warm in my room.”

  “Hmm?” Dad asked as he started to make some oatmeal on the stove. “Oh, no one has air-conditioning here.”

  “What?”

  “Well, it doesn’t usually get this hot,” he said. “I think I have a fan in the basement.”

  We sat down for breakfast at the little table. Dad had made the oatmeal just the way he did at home, with a little honey and brown sugar. I was starting to feel a bit better, when I heard Katarina call “Hello, you two!” through the open window.

  She barged inside without even knocking. Sara followed, carrying a laundry basket full of wet clothes. Felix trailed them both, holding a bag of clothespins in one hand and a book in the other.

  “My laundry line is already full, and we have so much wash. Do you mind if we use yours?” She didn’t even wait for my father to answer, just strode through his living room and out onto his back patio. Katarina and Sara hung up pants and T-shirts; Felix handed them neon-pink clothespins without looking at them.

  “Go right ahead!” Dad called.

  “Don’t they have a dryer?” I grumbled.

  “No one has a dryer,” D
ad explained. “It’s bad for the environment. That’s how Katarina and I met. The washer is in the community room across the way. I was looking for the dryer and asked Katarina where it was. She laughed and laughed at me!”

  The oatmeal, which a minute before had been delicious, suddenly felt lumpy in my mouth. “So how long have you two been . . . going out?” I asked.

  “About three months now,” Dad said. “I thought it was so sweet that she wanted to come to the airport with me to pick you up.”

  “Yeah,” I said. I stirred my oatmeal, even though it was already cool. Through the glass patio door, I noticed Sara watching us. When I caught her eye, she quickly looked away.

  “What happened to Sara’s family?” I asked.

  “I’m not entirely sure,” Dad said. “For some reason, they weren’t able to leave the country with her.”

  “Is there really fighting in her city?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mom’s not traveling to . . .”

  “Of course not,” Dad said. “Your mother is only visiting Western Europe. It’s perfectly safe.”

  That’s what Mom had said. I thought about Sara coming here all alone, leaving her family behind. “Is there anything we can do to help her find them?” I asked.

  “I’ve inquired at the US embassy, but since they aren’t American citizens . . .”

  At that moment, Katarina walked back into the kitchen and kissed my father on the cheek. “You are the best!” She glanced at my bowl of oatmeal. “What?! That’s all you’re having for breakfast?”

  “I like oatmeal,” I said.

  “No, no, no.” She grabbed my father’s arm. “You must come over to our place. We will have a real breakfast, a Sunday brunch, to welcome your daughter.”

  Suddenly, I was being shoved out the door when I just wanted to have a quiet talk with my father. We were marched two doors down to Katarina’s house.