The Thing I'm Most Afraid Of

by Kristin Levine

  So, you’re rolling down the hill.

  La, it’s really quite a thrill.

  Ti . . .

  I realized Sara was no longer holding on, and immediately, I lost control of the bike and crashed into a grapevine. I was sure a bruise was forming on my bruise, probably as purple as the grapes. But for once I didn’t care. Because I’d done it. I knew I had. Just for a second. But still. And what I kept hearing in my head was this:

  Ti, get up and try again.

  That will bring us back to do-oh-oh-oh.

  Do, the bike, it stays upright.

  As if following orders, I jumped up and put the bike back on the path.

  Re, the pedal two o’clock.

  Mi, push off, you’re balancing.

  And then it happened again. The motion. The movement. The lyrics in my head. It felt as if I were flying. It must be a fluke, I thought. Beginner’s luck.

  Fa, just ride, don’t try to talk.

  So, you’re rolling down the hill.

  La, it’s really quite a thrill.

  The words and motions flowed together as I rode far into the vineyard. I could hear everything: the wind in the grapevines, the squeak of the back wheel, a bird calling overhead, the squish of mud as I rolled through a puddle.

  When I stopped, there was no one around. I was alone. In the hills somewhere in the outskirts of Vienna. All by myself. But I didn’t feel alone. It was quiet, and the sky was blue, and I felt happy as I listened to the heartbeat of the universe.

  Finally, I started pedaling again, heading back to Felix and Sara. I sang out loud this time. Maybe I wobbled a bit, and sure, my voice shook, but I kept riding. My parents would be so proud of me. I was so proud of me! When I got home, I could ride to the pool with Chrissy. Mom and I could go on a bike ride along the river. I could ride with Felix to dance class! On the street. On the hard street. With no soft grapevines to crash into. All at once, my fears rushed back, and I fell off the bike.

  No, I told myself sternly as I picked myself up from the dirt. That was a worry for another day. Today, all I had to worry about was singing my song.

  Felix and Sara didn’t even wait until I’d fully stopped before running over to me.

  “You did it!” Felix said.

  “You see?” said Sara. “Very brave.”

  “Thank you,” I whispered to both of them. “You gave me the idea.”

  “What?” Sara looked puzzled.

  “With the music last night,” I said. “Today, I sang a song as I rode.”

  “Opera?” Felix asked.

  “No.” I laughed. “But I did imagine José Carreras singing it. I just made up words to an old song.”

  “What song?” Sara asked.

  “Do-Re-Mi.”

  I got a blank look from both of them.

  “From The Sound of Music.”

  “Never seen it,” said Felix.

  Sara shook her head.

  “What?!” I exclaimed. “Neither of you has ever seen The Sound of Music?”

  “No,” said Sara.

  “I’ve heard of it,” Felix said defensively. “But it’s kind of a cliché in Austria. No one actually walks around wearing dirndls.”

  “Except Frau Gamperl,” added Sara. “And the waitresses at the Gasthof. And—”

  “Okay, so almost nobody wears a dirndl,” Felix amended.

  We flopped down in the grass on the edge of the vineyard. Sara passed out bars of Kinder Schokolade, or chocolate for kids. (Katarina insisted that they were healthy because they contained milk. I hated to tell her all milk chocolate contained milk.) Felix handed out bottles of Almdudler. That was an Austrian soda; it tasted a lot like ginger ale.

  “Thank you,” I whispered to both of them again. There was more I wanted to say, but that was all that came out. We lay there a long time, gazing at the sky, our shoulders touching in the grass. Listening.

  * * *

  That evening, as soon as he got home from work, I asked Dad to come down to the blacktop with me. There were still a couple of five- and six-year-olds zipping around on their bikes, but I ignored them. I fastened my helmet, put my foot on my pedal, sang my little song (in my head this time), and pushed off.

  I only wobbled once. And Dad grinned the rest of the evening.

  CHAPTER 27

  The Pig Journal

  The next morning, Sara, Felix, and I were planning to ride all the way to the dance studio, just so I could get a feel for the route before class on Friday. However, when we woke up, it was raining. Like, really pouring. I mean, Austrians don’t usually let a little rain stop them, but it was raining cats and dogs, and I’m pretty sure there were a couple of cows and chickens in there too.

  “Sorry,” Sara told me.

  “You’ll be fine,” Felix reassured me. “There’s a bike path the whole way.”

  I knew there was a path. I’d made him sketch me out a little map. But the last two blocks were on the street. What if a car makes an unexpected turn? What if a bus stops suddenly? What if a truck swerves into the bike path? Still, there was nothing we could do. I couldn’t practice in a thunderstorm—we might get hit by lightning! (DJ #2, p. 12.)

  Then that afternoon, Sara got a phone call from Marco. He asked her to come in early on Friday to participate in a more advanced group. Sara refused at first, not wanting to leave Felix and me to make the bike ride alone. But I kept thinking about her list, how she wanted to perform ballroom dancing, and finally told her she should call him back. Felix and I could do the bike ride alone.

  She asked our parents if it was okay with them. “Of course,” said Katarina. “Felix rides his bike to school every day alone!” I was worried about Dad, but he simply asked me, “Do you feel okay with that plan?”

  I nodded.

  “Then it’s all right with me.”

  For once, Dad believed in me! So I couldn’t back out now. But on Friday morning I found myself regretting my offer. Why hadn’t we all gone early with Sara? Felix and I could have just sat there and read a book while she and Marco practiced. But she was already gone, so it was too late. I slowly packed my backpack: map, bottle of water, first aid kit. I was as ready as I was ever going to be.

  There was a knock at the door. It was Felix, looking like his best friend had died. And he was two hours early.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “I can’t go to dance class today.”

  “What are you talking about? You have to go. It was Mai’s present.”

  “Don’t care.”

  “But it’s on your list!”

  “Nope. I’m taking it off.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “I feel like I’m going to throw up.”

  “You’re not going to throw up.” I paused. “Okay, so I have thrown up from nerves before. But you’re probably not going to throw up.”

  “You’re not helping!”

  I wanted to help. “Which part are you worried about?”

  “All of it!”

  “The bike ride?”

  “No. But the rest of it. Having to dance with girls from my class.”

  “But you like Daisy and Mai,” I pointed out.

  “That makes it worse!”

  I studied Felix. I knew that feeling. Like you were out of control. Like you absolutely could not handle what was going on. I couldn’t just abandon Felix to his anxiety. He’d helped me with the bike. He’d stood next to me at the opera. I had to do something to help him.

  “I’m terrible at social things,” Felix went on. “And what is more social than dancing?”

  Then I had an idea.

  We took the bus a few stops and got off when we reached Aïda. “I’m jittery enough,” Felix said. “I don’t need any coffee.”

  I ignored him a
nd led him into the paper store next door. I’d remembered it from our first visit to the coffee shop. The shelves were filled with all kinds of items—wrapping paper, drawing paper, newspaper, computer paper, tissue paper, greeting cards, and journals. Lots and lots of journals. “Pick out a journal,” I told Felix.

  “Why?”

  “Just do it,” I said. “I’ll explain when we get home.”

  We searched the aisles. There were flowered journals. And plain leather ones. There were diaries with pictures of puppies and cats and with geometric designs. Felix finally chose one with a pattern on the front: black and brown and gray and tan.

  “Are those . . . bugs?” I asked.

  “Yup.”

  “Why?”

  “Remember the goulash?” he said.

  “How could I forget?”

  “That was a fun evening.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed. “It was.”

  We went to the counter and got in line to pay. There was another display of journals right by the register—Vienna landmarks. Those diaries were obviously meant for tourists, but on the front of one of them was a beautiful sketch of the Riesenrad. At the last minute, I put it on top of the bug journal and bought it too.

  Truthfully, I was a little surprised at myself. I mean, I still had plenty of pages left in Doomsday Journal #4. But for some reason, I knew I had to buy it.

  When we got home, I told Felix to wait in the living room while I went to my room to get something. A few minutes later, I came back downstairs carrying all four of my journals: the map one, the one with polka dots, the rainbow one, and even the hot-pink one with the unicorn.

  “What are those?” Felix asked.

  “These,” I said dramatically, plopping them down onto our coffee table, “are my Doomsday Journals.”

  He tried not to roll his eyes, but I knew him well enough by then to know what he was doing. It was totally an eye roll, even if he tried to pass it off as a blink. “And what in the world is a Doomsday Journal?”

  “It’s one way I cope with my fears,” I said. “I write down all the bad things that might happen. Disasters. Catastrophes. The worst-case scenarios.”

  “And that helps?”

  “I know it sounds crazy. But it does help. Because I also write down all the ways I could cope if the worst really did happen.”

  “It sounds stupid,” Felix said.

  “Hey,” I said. “I’ve shown only a few people in the entire world these journals. Show a little respect.”

  “Sorry,” he grumbled.

  “Listen . . . This is what I wrote my first day in Austria.” I flipped through the pages of Doomsday Journal #4 and read an entry aloud: “They are trying to make me eat raw eggs. What if I get salmonella?! High fever. Vomiting. Okay, so what if that happened? Dad would take me to the hospital. I’d get antibiotics. And maybe an IV (I hate needles—see DJ #1, p. 10).”

  “Wow,” Felix said.

  “Yeah, I know,” I said. “But look how much better I am now. I ate a soft-boiled egg!”

  Felix gave me a look.

  “And I hung out in a crowd.” I flipped frantically through the pages again. “Here it is: ‘How to Cope with a Stampede. Number one: Be sure to protect your head. A broken arm or leg can be fixed. A broken skull is much more difficult to repair.’”

  “You are strange.”

  “And bike safety is in here too.” I flipped some more and read, “Always be sure to wear a helmet and use hand signals. Most accidents occur when—”

  “Fine, fine,” he said. “I get it. Just . . . stop reading.”

  I held out the bug journal to him.

  He took it. “So what do I have to do?”

  “Go to your room and write down everything you’re afraid might happen at dance class. And then once you have everything down, come up with at least one way to cope with each one.”

  Felix looked doubtful, but he took the journal.

  Once he left, I took everything back up to my room. The thing was, even though I acted as if I were fine, I was nervous too. Not about the dance class—but about the bike ride to get there. I sat down at my desk and opened Doomsday Journal #4.

  What if I fall off my bike? I wrote. What if I get hit by a car? What if I get run over by a Straßenbahn? I might break my arm. I might break my leg. I might end up a vegetable in the hospital. What if someone sees my bike helmet and calls me Strawberry Head?

  I still felt a little off. Something wasn’t quite right.

  The red of the Riesenrad journal caught my eye, and a new idea flashed into my mind. What if I start another journal? A different kind. One where I list everything that goes right.

  I thought about that for a moment. What if I pay a little more attention to the good stuff? All the fun things. I mean, not all the time. But just a little bit. What if I had a place to write down some of my successes?

  My hand was shaking as I picked up a pen. I wasn’t sure what to call this idea, so I just started doodling on the first page. I drew a big circle, and then I added some lines that turned into ears and feet and, finally, a little curly tail. It was a pig! I didn’t know I could draw such a cute little pig. I remembered that having pig in German meant having good luck. Sara and Felix had told me that the day we visited the police station.

  Then it hit me! I wrote in big block letters over the little drawing.

  MY PIG JOURNAL

  Instead of my Doomsday Journal, this would be my Good-Day Journal. My little piggy book, full of luck.

  I started writing then, and the words just flowed. How proud I was that I had learned to ride a bike. How amazing it was that I had eaten an egg. How beautiful the opera music had been!

  Yeah, on this trip I really have had a lot of pig.

  CHAPTER 28

  Climb Every Mountain

  Felix and I met up in front of the bike-storage room about an hour later. “Okay,” he said with a grimace. “Maybe it helped a little.”

  “You wouldn’t be talking about my completely silly diary idea, would you?”

  “Come on, bike rider.” He smiled. “Let’s go.”

  The first part of the journey was pretty easy. I wobbled a bit as I got on the bike but quickly found my balance. The path through the park wasn’t crowded, and the wind felt nice, cooling my ears under my helmet. The trees grew together over the path, creating patterns of light and shadow on the pavement. Before I knew it, we had reached the section of the trail that went along the street. Felix turned the corner. I took a deep breath and followed him.

  There was a marked bike lane, but the road was busier than I’d expected. Cars whizzed by. The traffic didn’t seem to bother Felix. Does that mean it’s safe? Or is he just reckless? My heart started to beat faster. It was only a few more blocks. I could do this. Right? Right?!

  A Straßenbahn turned onto the street then, ringing its bell, ordering the cars out of its way. I tensed up. My elbows and knees no longer felt like joints. I was the Tin Man from The Wizard of Oz. Seriously, it’s hard to ride a bike without joints. I began to wobble, almost running into a parked delivery van, but I recovered my balance. One more block.

  A car horn sounded, loud and sharp. I squeezed on the brakes. Too late, I remembered that was exactly what Sara had told me not to do. It was too hard and too fast. I swerved wildly, hoping that would somehow keep me from pitching over the handlebars.

  It didn’t. I ended up near the curb, tangled in my bike.

  Another car whizzed by, so close I could feel the wind.

  There was blood on my knee. A lot of blood. This was my worst nightmare. I’d fallen off my bike in the street. Maybe I hit my head too. I felt my helmet. It didn’t seem damaged. But maybe I’m disoriented.

  I could feel the tears welling up, the panic rising in me, like the crowd at the opera, leaping to their feet to applaud. Good job
, Becca! my brain was yelling at me. You’ve gone and gotten yourself hurt!

  “Hey.” Felix had noticed I wasn’t following him, and had doubled back. “You all right?”

  No! I wanted to scream. I’m not. I knew this would happen. I never should have tried. I never should have left home.

  “Oh, gosh, you’re bleeding,” Felix said. But the thing was, his tone was conversational. As if he were talking about the weather. He didn’t really sound that upset.

  Panic! My brain instructed. You got hurt! And yet there was Felix, acting like this wasn’t a big deal. And that was when I had an amazing thought. Really unique, at least for me.

  Maybe it wasn’t a big deal.

  I mean, sure, I had gotten hurt. But I was pretty certain nothing was broken. And my helmet didn’t have a scratch on it, so I hadn’t hit my head. I had fallen between two parked cars, so I was safe from oncoming traffic. Sure, this wasn’t great—I’d end up at dance class with a scraped and bloody knee. But maybe this was like when I’d freaked out in the line at the opera. Maybe I could handle it.

  “Yeah,” I said, reminding myself not to look at the blood running down my leg. “I, um . . .” I swallowed hard. “I have a first aid kit in my backpack.”

  Felix jumped into action, zipping open my bag and pulling it out. “Got it.” He rummaged around until he found a roll of gauze. “Come sit on the curb,” he said, “and I’ll clean you up.”

  I untangled myself from the bike and crawled over to the curb. Felix knelt down next to me. Every time I caught a glimpse of the blood, I felt woozy. You have a concussion! my brain screamed at me.

  Probably not! I yelled back. Since I didn’t hit my head.

  Felix cleaned my leg, using a piece of gauze to wipe up all the blood. He used an antiseptic wipe to apply pressure to the wound; it felt cold on my skin. When he was done, I forced myself to look down.

  The cut was much smaller than I excepted, only about an inch long, just under my kneecap. There was a long scrape on my calf too. But that was it. No broken bone poking out of the skin. No huge gash exposing tendons and muscles.