one
“Get up.” Dad’s urgent voice wakes me from a deep slumber. “Krystie. Krystie! You have to get up now!”
My eyes blink open. It’s dark, but I can see that Dad is leaning over me. Something is wrong. His face is lined with worry.
Instantly, I am wide awake. “What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Go get in the car. And bring a blanket!”
Fear rises up in me. “What’s happening? Is someone hurt? Are we going to the hospital? Are we—”
“No one’s hurt. Just get in the car. Go through the garage. And don’t talk!” Dad hurries on, presumably to Jeremy’s room.
No one’s hurt. I don’t believe him. You don’t get woken up at--what time is it anyway?—because everything’s fine. Is there something wrong with Mom? Jeremy? Rachel?
I’m terrified to find out, but I do as Dad said and grab the comforter off my bed, heading for the hallway. Maybe the house is on fire. I’ve heard sometimes you can wrap yourself up in a blanket and walk through flames and be okay. But I thought the blanket had to be wet, and Dad didn’t say anything about drenching the blanket in the bathtub. He just said to head out to the car.
I hurry downstairs, and there’s Mom, holding Rachel, who’s blinking blearily in confusion. I’m relieved to see that they’re okay. But where’s Jeremy? Jeremy, my brother who’s only 19 months older than me, my best friend…
“Come on, Krystie,” Mom says tensely. “We have to get in the car.”
“Why?”
Mom doesn’t answer. She just opens the door that connects the house to the garage, then heads over to the car and opens one of the back doors. I watch in rising panic and confusion as she slides Rachel into the backseat.
“Mommy!” Rachel protests. “Where’s my car seat?”
“You don’t need your car seat right now,” Mom says in what sounds like it’s supposed to be a soothing voice.
“Just sit in the middle seat next to Krystie.”
Something is wrong. Rachel is only four years old. She always uses her car seat when we drive places. It’s illegal for her not to.
In fact, something’s off about the fact that we’re even using the car in the first place. The car is about twenty years old and has engine problems. Practically the only reason Mom and Dad keep it is because it has sentimental value—it was the first car they bought as a married couple, and it’s moved with us to each house we’ve lived in. Whenever we actually go places, we take the minivan or the SUV.
I open my mouth to ask Mom why we’re taking the car—and for that matter, where the heck we’re going—but she cuts me off before I get the chance. “Krystie, we don’t have time for explanations right now. I’ll explain everything later, I promise. Get in the car.”
Mom’s face is tired and lined. She’s only thirty-eight, but she’s always seemed much older. Her and Dad both. Nothing about this night—early morning? I have no idea what time it is—makes sense, but I know one thing.
This is my mom. I can trust her.
I slide into the backseat of the car, and Mom places Rachel next to me. Rachel whimpers and cuddles into my side, and I put a comforting arm around her, even though I’m just as confused and terrified as she is. “What’s happening?” Rachel whispers, her eyes wide.
“We’re okay,” I tell her, trying to sound comforting. I’m nine years older than Rachel. It’s my job to make her feel safe.
“Krystie.” Mom hands me something. It’s the soft blue blanket we keep draped over the couch in the living room for if anyone gets cold when we’re watching TV. And by “TV” I mean the ancient, clunky old television set that has to take up a ton of space sitting on a table because my parents are too cheap to get a modern, paper-thin flatscreen. “You should be good with the blankets you already have back there, but take this one just in case Jeremy forgets his or you need another one...” Mom hurries back into the house with no further explanation.
A moment later, a disgruntled Jeremy joins us in the car. “Do you have any idea what’s going on?” he greets me irritably.
“Not a clue,” I tell him.
He rolls his eyes. “I bet this is another stupid Dad thing.”
Rachel gasps. “Jeremy! You just said a bad word!”
Jeremy sighs and closes his eyes, leaning his head back on the headrest. He’s not in the mood to argue with Rachel this morning.
But he’s probably right. We’re probably not in any real danger. Just like the dozens of other times in our lives that strange and abrupt things have happened—granted, maybe not this strange and abrupt—it’s probably just Dad’s overactive imagination going wild. Everything is probably fine.
So why do I still feel so worried?
My eyes blink open. It’s dark, but I can see that Dad is leaning over me. Something is wrong. His face is lined with worry.
Instantly, I am wide awake. “What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Go get in the car. And bring a blanket!”
Fear rises up in me. “What’s happening? Is someone hurt? Are we going to the hospital? Are we—”
“No one’s hurt. Just get in the car. Go through the garage. And don’t talk!” Dad hurries on, presumably to Jeremy’s room.
No one’s hurt. I don’t believe him. You don’t get woken up at--what time is it anyway?—because everything’s fine. Is there something wrong with Mom? Jeremy? Rachel?
I’m terrified to find out, but I do as Dad said and grab the comforter off my bed, heading for the hallway. Maybe the house is on fire. I’ve heard sometimes you can wrap yourself up in a blanket and walk through flames and be okay. But I thought the blanket had to be wet, and Dad didn’t say anything about drenching the blanket in the bathtub. He just said to head out to the car.
I hurry downstairs, and there’s Mom, holding Rachel, who’s blinking blearily in confusion. I’m relieved to see that they’re okay. But where’s Jeremy? Jeremy, my brother who’s only 19 months older than me, my best friend…
“Come on, Krystie,” Mom says tensely. “We have to get in the car.”
“Why?”
Mom doesn’t answer. She just opens the door that connects the house to the garage, then heads over to the car and opens one of the back doors. I watch in rising panic and confusion as she slides Rachel into the backseat.
“Mommy!” Rachel protests. “Where’s my car seat?”
“You don’t need your car seat right now,” Mom says in what sounds like it’s supposed to be a soothing voice.
“Just sit in the middle seat next to Krystie.”
Something is wrong. Rachel is only four years old. She always uses her car seat when we drive places. It’s illegal for her not to.
In fact, something’s off about the fact that we’re even using the car in the first place. The car is about twenty years old and has engine problems. Practically the only reason Mom and Dad keep it is because it has sentimental value—it was the first car they bought as a married couple, and it’s moved with us to each house we’ve lived in. Whenever we actually go places, we take the minivan or the SUV.
I open my mouth to ask Mom why we’re taking the car—and for that matter, where the heck we’re going—but she cuts me off before I get the chance. “Krystie, we don’t have time for explanations right now. I’ll explain everything later, I promise. Get in the car.”
Mom’s face is tired and lined. She’s only thirty-eight, but she’s always seemed much older. Her and Dad both. Nothing about this night—early morning? I have no idea what time it is—makes sense, but I know one thing.
This is my mom. I can trust her.
I slide into the backseat of the car, and Mom places Rachel next to me. Rachel whimpers and cuddles into my side, and I put a comforting arm around her, even though I’m just as confused and terrified as she is. “What’s happening?” Rachel whispers, her eyes wide.
“We’re okay,” I tell her, trying to sound comforting. I’m nine years older than Rachel. It’s my job to make her feel safe.
“Krystie.” Mom hands me something. It’s the soft blue blanket we keep draped over the couch in the living room for if anyone gets cold when we’re watching TV. And by “TV” I mean the ancient, clunky old television set that has to take up a ton of space sitting on a table because my parents are too cheap to get a modern, paper-thin flatscreen. “You should be good with the blankets you already have back there, but take this one just in case Jeremy forgets his or you need another one...” Mom hurries back into the house with no further explanation.
A moment later, a disgruntled Jeremy joins us in the car. “Do you have any idea what’s going on?” he greets me irritably.
“Not a clue,” I tell him.
He rolls his eyes. “I bet this is another stupid Dad thing.”
Rachel gasps. “Jeremy! You just said a bad word!”
Jeremy sighs and closes his eyes, leaning his head back on the headrest. He’s not in the mood to argue with Rachel this morning.
But he’s probably right. We’re probably not in any real danger. Just like the dozens of other times in our lives that strange and abrupt things have happened—granted, maybe not this strange and abrupt—it’s probably just Dad’s overactive imagination going wild. Everything is probably fine.
So why do I still feel so worried?