The Thing I'm Most Afraid Of

by Kristin Levine

  “You mean subtitles,” I said.

  “No,” Felix said. “Subtitles are at the bottom of the screen, like in a movie. Supertitles are projected onto a little screen above the stage.”

  Sara shook her head. “No. But I told you the plot. You will feel the music.”

  I was a little doubtful about that. “How did you learn all this?” I asked. “Where to go and what to do?”

  Sara blushed. “I love music. First time I went to the opera, I did everything wrong! Stood in wrong spot. Man yelled at me. I not know to bring scarf. But a nice lady saw me, and she had an extra ticket. She gave it to me. I got a seat! Listened to beautiful music. In country that makes opera so cheap, everyone can go. And it made me feel like maybe everything would be okay.”

  When we were done eating, we went back to the opera, walking in the front doors this time. The main entrance looked more like a concert hall and less like the corridor behind the school gym. There was a massive marble staircase with a red runner. We spent a while admiring the paintings and gilded statues, the clothes on the other people, the ornate gold chandeliers. We took the marble staircase this time, walking slowly up the carpet, which was so plush, my sandals seemed to sink into it. It didn’t feel quite real—had I paid $1.50 and suddenly been transported to a castle? I kept waiting for the anxious feeling to return, but there were so many new and interesting things to look at.

  We finally made it back to the top floor. I saw an usher handing out programs and went to get one, but when I held out my hand, she said something to me I didn’t understand.

  “You have to pay for the program,” Felix translated.

  “Oh,” I said. “Can I buy one?”

  Sara rummaged in her purse and handed over a few coins.

  “How much did it cost?” I asked.

  “Twenty-five schillings,” Felix said.

  “The program costs more than the ticket?!”

  Sara laughed. “Yes. That is odd!”

  The program was nice, though. It was really almost a thin book instead of a program. There was even a page that had a summary of the plot in English. I read it quickly. We found our spots on the railing, and I breathed a sigh of relief that my scarf was still there.

  The theater was filling up now. I scanned the rows, looking for empty seats, places to run and hide. There were none. “Is it sold out?” I asked.

  “Yes,” Sara said.

  My heart started to beat faster again. I looked down. We were so high, it made me dizzy. No, not again! My hands started to sweat, and I wiped them on my new blue scarf, leaving stains.

  Suddenly, the lights went down. A hush washed over the theater. I was going to faint. I was going to throw up. I was about to run out.

  And then the music started.

  The music was gentle, shimmering at first. I shivered. I couldn’t see the orchestra, but I could hear it, as if the music were just appearing out of the darkness. Then a waltz started—one, two, three, one, two, three—slow and sweet and longing.

  The curtain rose on a party scene. The stage was filled with people in ball gowns. Who cared about exit rows and possible stampedes when there was a ball to watch!

  A man with dark hair walked onto the stage, and the audience roared, cheering and applauding, even though he hadn’t opened his mouth yet. I figured it must be the José guy. He didn’t have a microphone, and yet when he did start to sing, I could literally feel my head vibrating. I’d never heard anything like it—pure, clear, unamplified music that sounded as up close and personal as if I were wearing headphones. It was like a plug was pulled on my fears, draining them all away with the music.

  I couldn’t understand exactly what was going on most of the time, despite Sara’s description and the summary in the program, but it didn’t really matter. I understood what the characters were feeling. And I loved it. When the curtain came down and the lights came up, I was disappointed it was over, until I realized this must be intermission. Alfredo and Violetta hadn’t gotten back together. And no one had died.

  Sara led us to a mirror-lined salon filled with couches to sit on and a counter where a waitress was selling champagne and chocolate-covered strawberries. Sara bought us each a small bottle of sparkling water. Next, we picked up a Plakat—this was a poster, printed on thin newspaper, advertising that night’s opera, complete with the times and the cast. The saleslady wrapped a rubber band around it as she handed it to me. The water and the poster each cost more than my ticket.

  I started to feel nervous again in the crowded hall. It was hot. Without music, my throat felt dry, even though I’d just drunk all that water. Sara glanced over at me, and I must have looked a little green or something, because she took my hand and led Felix and me up another set of stairs. We went out a door, and suddenly we were on a rooftop balcony.

  I immediately felt better. There were only a few people on the roof, and the air was cooler too. I let out a great sigh. The green copper statues of horses rearing were now at eye level, with the stores of Kärntner Straße visible below.

  “What do you think?” Sara asked. “Of opera?”

  “Well,” Felix said sheepishly. “I have to admit, it’s not half bad.”

  “I love it,” I gushed. “I thought the José guy would be lame, but when he sings, it feels like that ‘Crisscross Applesauce’ game kids play to give each other goose bumps. It gives me shivers!”

  Sara smiled. “I so happy!” We stared at the lights below, twinkling in the summer evening. I took deep breaths of the cool air until it was time to go back to our seats. I mean, our non-seats. I just had the slightest brush of nerves this time as I walked into the enormous hall. It felt like instead of careening around in my stomach, the butterflies were fluttering around me, caressing my cheeks. My feet were starting to feel a little sore, but as the lights went down again, I forgot all about them, and the butterflies were chased off by the music. I leaned on the railing, closing my eyes sometimes when the music was just too pretty to bear any other way.

  Okay, so maybe I cried a little at the end too.

  I looked over at Sara as the lights came up. She was dabbing at her eyes with her purple scarf. I did the same with my blue one. The audience cheered and stomped their feet and yelled “Bravo” as the singers took their bows, and even Felix joined in. People threw flowers. Mr. Carreras gathered a few of them up and presented them to the soprano singing with him. The crowd screamed even louder. This went on for a good ten minutes. Every time I thought the audience was done, José came out to take another bow, and it started all over again.

  Sara grinned. It made me happy to see her looking so happy.

  When the singers were finally done, I carefully collected my program, my poster, and my ticket. As we walked down the plush stairs, I could see the crystals in the chandelier shift a little, almost as if someone were still singing, as if a high note from an aria were making the glass vibrate.

  We came out of the big doors onto Kärntner Straße. It seemed like a different, magical place in the darkness, all lit up. People walked toward the Straßenbahn stop, humming to themselves. I was part of something; we had all had the same amazing experience together. The rattle of the streetcars was the percussion; the murmurs of the people were the violins. And for the first time, I understood what Sara meant when she told me to listen to the universe.

  CHAPTER 25

  The Letter

  The magical mood lasted until we got home. The door opened before I could even pull out my key. “Finally!” Dad called out. He sounded worried.

  “I left a note,” Sara said, glancing at her watch. “We back right on time.”

  “No, no,” Dad said, ushering us all inside. “It’s just . . .”

  Katarina stood up from where she’d been sitting on the couch. She was clutching something small and rectangular in her hands. “Sara, you got a letter!”

  �
��Einen Brief?” Felix asked in German.

  Katarina nodded. She handed the letter to Sara. It was bent and wrinkled, as if someone had crumpled it up and flattened it out again. Small cursive letters formed Sara’s name. “From Bosnia. But not Mama’s handwriting.”

  “Hester and her team found some bags of mail that had never been delivered in a bombed-out post office. They sent them to the newspaper. We were going to try to get them to the right people, maybe write a story about the missing letters. An assistant sorting through them noticed this one was addressed to my office. Where you used to work as a housekeeper. She thought it was odd and brought it to me.”

  “I sent Mama that address when I first arrived,” Sara said. “That was months ago. She not get my other letters?”

  “I don’t know,” Katarina said simply.

  Sara started to shake. “Why she not write herself? Did something happen?”

  “I don’t know,” Katarina repeated. “Do you want us to leave you alone while you open the letter?”

  Sara shook her head. “No. Please stay.”

  She ripped open the letter. A single piece of paper fell to the floor. Trembling, she bent over and picked it up. The rest of us—Dad, me, Felix, and Katarina—stood in a hushed circle around her as she read.

  Sara started to cry.

  “Is it . . . bad news?” I asked.

  “No, it’s from Mama. She asked a neighbor to post the letter.”

  “Oh, thank goodness,” said Katarina.

  Sara read the rest of the letter quickly and silently. When she was done, she sat down slowly on the couch. The tulle of her skirt flipped up; the hot pink, so flattering before, washed out her face now. The rhinestones twinkled annoyingly. “May I have a cup of tea?” Sara asked.

  I ran to get the water.

  A few minutes later, we were all gathered around the couch, mugs of tea in our hands, listening intently as Sara paraphrased the letter.

  “Mama says since Jewish humanitarian society stopped their evacuations, she paid a woman to help them sneak across the no-man’s-land of the Sarajevo airport.”

  “What?!” Dad exclaimed. “There was a report on the news about that last week. If they get picked up by the United Nations peacekeeper forces, they’ll simply be brought back to Sarajevo. However, if the Serb forces find them—”

  “Dad,” I interrupted. “This isn’t a news report. It’s Sara’s family.” She didn’t need to be reminded that they could be raped or tortured or killed. We’d all watched that news report together.

  “I’m sorry,” Dad said. “Keep going.”

  Sara took another sip of her tea and continued, “Mama says she knows it’s dangerous, but things are worse. There’s no electricity, little food, and they moved in with a neighbor because our apartment was damaged by shelling. This is a way to literally walk out of war zone. If it works, if she and Eldin make it to the Bosnian-held territory on the other side of airport, they’ll go to the village Butmir, where they can take a bus to Croatia. Just like I did. From there, they hope to find a way to Austria.”

  “That’s good news,” Katarina said. “You know they’re alive and they are coming here.”

  I took Sara’s hand and squeezed it.

  “Mama left a phone number. A friend of a friend in Croatia.”

  “Call!” Katarina insisted. “Now.”

  Sara walked over to the big red phone on the kitchen countertop. We all stayed on the couch and pretended we weren’t watching her. Sara carefully laid the letter on the counter and dialed, slow and deliberate. She turned away so we couldn’t see her face as the phone began to ring. I watched her fingers play with a bit of netting from her skirt, bunching it into a ball and then smoothing it out again.

  The phone rang. And rang. And rang.

  “No one . . . Ah, halo!”

  We all gasped as Sara started speaking quickly in a language none of us understood. She spoke for a minute or two. I realized I was holding my breath and forced myself to breathe in and out. Will she get to talk to her mother? Did she find them?

  Suddenly, she hung up the phone. She still had her back to us, and her shoulders started to shake. “They not there,” she managed finally. I couldn’t hear her cry, but when she turned to face us, her mascara was running down her face. “She expected them three weeks ago. But they never showed up.”

  “Oh, Schatzi,” Katarina sighed.

  I ran to give Sara a hug.

  “Where could they be?” Sara wailed. “What happened?!”

  “There was probably just a problem finding a bus,” I said. “Or maybe they decided to come directly to Austria?”

  “Maybe.” Sara clung to me tighter as she cried. “Eldin is only six. His best friend was a little Serbian boy. He had curly brown hair. And then they . . . they wouldn’t let him come over anymore. They wouldn’t hurt him, would they?”

  I looked to Dad or Katarina to say something to fix this, to make the situation better. But they just stood there, frozen. I realized they didn’t know what to say either. There was no answer I could write down in my Doomsday Journal. My head spun, as if I were back in line at the opera, except this time, Sara wasn’t looking calmly on. This time, I had to be the calm one.

  “Sit down,” I told Sara, leading her back to the couch. She followed me like a lost puppy. I picked up her mug; it was cold. “Could someone get her some fresh tea?”

  Everyone sprang into motion then: Felix ran to refill the cup, Katarina draped a blanket over Sara’s shoulders, Dad picked up the envelope and studied the postmark. We didn’t really do or say anything; we just sat there. It felt weird. And uncomfortable. But eventually, Sara stopped crying, and she and Felix and Katarina walked home.

  Dad hugged me as soon as they left. “I’m so grateful that you are here and not . . .”

  He didn’t finish his sentence, but I knew what he meant. “Me too.”

  “I’m exhausted now, but I have one question before you go to bed. Did you really go to the opera?”

  I nodded.

  “With all those people?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And you stayed the whole time? Without getting upset?”

  “I was nervous at first,” I admitted. “And I did freak out when we were waiting in line. But Sara was super patient, and I just sat there and eventually the fear went away. Like Dr. Teresa said it would. And the opera!” I grinned, remembering. “It was so great, Dad! It felt really different, listening to the music with other people there. It was like we were all doing something together!”

  “Becca, I am so proud of you.” Dad smiled, but then he looked sad.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “Do you remember last year, when you wanted to go see Les Mis for your birthday?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I vetoed the idea because I was worried that you might get nervous. Well, I think I might have made a mistake.” He gave me a bear hug, and for a moment, I felt like the bravest person in the world.

  I went to bed then, but I couldn’t sleep. I’d never felt such a mix of emotions—I was happy about the opera and sad Sara didn’t know where her family was. My dad was proud of me! And yet I still squirmed with disappointment that my anxiety had prevented me from doing so many things in the past.

  Finally, I gave up on sleeping and picked up my Doomsday Journal. I got a pen and drew a thick line through item #3 on my list.

  Eat a soft-boiled egg.

  Learn to ride a bike.

  Hang out in a large crowd.

  Go on the Riesenrad.

  Travel somewhere by myself.

  Two! I’d crossed two things off my list now. But now there were only a few days left before the dance class. After how proud Dad had looked tonight, I didn’t want to disappoint him. And Sara. I had to do something
to distract her from worrying about her family. But just thinking about getting on that bike again made me nervous. If only I could re-create how I’d felt tonight—connected to everyone and everything. If I could feel like that, I was sure I could do it.

  Then I had an idea. A good one. I turned to a blank page and began to write.

  CHAPTER 26

  “Do-Re-Mi” Ride

  The next morning as I was getting dressed, I caught sight of the bruises on my thigh. They were dark-violet now—truly purple. I didn’t get many bruises. I didn’t take many chances. I didn't remember ever having so many bruises before. As if an invisible force were poking them, they started to ache. What if I have internal bleeding?! What if . . .

  No. I forced myself to pull on some jeans and went to get some oatmeal.

  After breakfast, Felix, Sara, and I rolled my bike up the little hill. Sara was maybe a little quieter than usual, but she seemed okay. It was a beautiful summer day. The sunshine was yellow but not too hot; the sky blue and clear; the grapevines green and winding; my helmet as red as a wild strawberry. It felt a bit like I was Dorothy, walking into a Technicolor world. I was nervous, but I forced myself to take a deep breath. The strap on my helmet cut into my chin, so I loosened it, then tightened it again. I swung my leg over the bike and sat down on the seat. And then in my head, I imagined José Carreras starting to sing:

  Do, the bike, it stays upright.

  Re, the pedal two o’clock.

  I put the pedal in the two o’clock position, and before I could think about it too much, I pushed down with my right foot. My hands were shaking on the handlebars. I know Felix noticed, but he didn’t say anything. Sara held the seat as she ran along beside me.

  Mi, push off, you’re balancing.

  Fa, just ride, don’t try to talk.

  The grapevines were whipping past me. I wobbled once, and then it suddenly felt easier. As if the bike were part of me, and I could control it. Like I controlled my arms and legs.