Kimberly Derting: The Taking

This was new, this argument against Austin and me. It was no longer about my education; he was talking about my future . . . my real future. The one Austin and I had been planning forever.

I blinked hard, not wanting him to know how betrayed I felt by the sting of his words. “Stop the car,” I stated, and hated the way my voice cracked when it finally cleared the barrier of my throat.

“Kyra . . .”

“I mean it. Stop the car!”

We were in the middle of nowhere, on Chuckanut Drive, still miles away from Burlington. My dad slowed but didn’t stop, his tires crunching on the gravel on the side of the road. “You’re not getting out. There’s nothing out here.”

“I’ll call Austin,” I insisted. “He’ll pick me up.”

The car was still moving, but only barely, as his words tumbled into the darkness, finding me in the backseat. “I just don’t want you to settle. I want you to experience the world. To go big.” It was one of my dad’s catchphrases: “Go big or go home.”

Only this time he was wrong. I didn’t want “big.” I didn’t want to live a catchphrase at all, none of them. I wanted to live my life.

And I wanted out.

Opening the car door was easy, and even though the Prius felt like it was moving in slow motion, the road I stared down at looked as if we were racing in the Grand Prix. I thought of what breaking my ankles might mean to my dad’s precious full-ride scholarships, and suddenly I didn’t care about scholarships or scouts or full rides.

“I said stop!” I yelled at my dad, and when I heard the screech of the Prius’s tires skidding to a complete stop, I leaped out of the car.

But I was running too fast, and I was crying now too. I couldn’t see where I was going, and I tripped on the unforgiving asphalt.

I barely registered my dad’s voice coming from behind me, and I definitely didn’t feel pain, at least not yet. But I knew from years of sports’ injuries that adrenaline could mask the initial discomfort, and you would always feel it later.

I was still getting up, brushing away bits of rocks and gravel from my uniform where I’d landed and from my hands, which had taken the brunt of the skidding part of my fall, when everything around me went white.

White, like blinding white.

It came in a flash, all at once, from somewhere that seemed both far away and right on top of me at the same time. In that moment I couldn’t see anything, but I heard my dad.

He was screaming this time. Screaming and screaming. My chest felt tight, and my eyes burned as I tried to find him, tried to see through the light that scorched my retinas.

All I knew was that one moment I was in the middle of a deserted stretch of highway, arguing with my dad about scholarships and boys, and the next minute my limbs were tingling and I felt weightless and dizzy.

Then . . .

. . . nothing.

Day One

MY HEAD WAS POUNDING. BUT NOT LIKE A HEADACHE. Like someone was using it as a basketball against the pavement. Or for target practice.

That was it, I realized, prying my eyes open at last. Something was hitting me. Pelting, more like.

There was still too much light to make out anything clearly, but after blinking several times, I was at least aware of shapes around me. I dug my fingers into the ground beneath me and recognized the gravel and sand and asphalt at my back. All around me the smells of oil and gasoline lingered with something sickly sweet—like the smell of warm rot—sparking my gag reflex.

Another hard thing pegged me in the side of the head again, and I flinched, lifting my hand to try to shield myself from the assault.

This time I heard a sound. A giggle, maybe?

I squeezed my eyes, blinking harder, willing them to focus.

It was daylight that blinded me, which seemed wrong for a reason I couldn’t quite put my finger on. But it wasn’t just that—this whole situation seemed wrong. And now it wasn’t just my head that was pounding; it was my heart too. My brain felt scrambled as I grappled to make sense of where I was and why I was waking up here, outside, instead of at home in my bed.

The silhouette of a little boy stood above me, shadowed by the glare of the sun behind him. I blinked harder, still trying to sort it all out, and I could see his expression then, a look of delight. He held one hand behind his back.

Spread out like marbles in front of my face, I saw an array of brightly colored candies that looked suspiciously like gum balls or mini jawbreakers.

“What are you doing here?” the boy asked, the hint of a slight frown shifting the planes of his freckled face.

I searched for an answer, and when I couldn’t find a suitable one, I asked one of my own, “What are you doing here?”

The boy looked back over his shoulder. “Waiting for my mom.” Past him, I saw the gas pumps and a small convenience store behind them. I squinted against the sunlight and read the sign: GAS ’N’ SIP. A woman was at one of the stands, filling the tank of her red minivan.

What the — the Gas ’n’ Sip, really? How the heck had that happened? When had that happened? I shoved the base of my palms into my throbbing eyes, trying to crush the pain away. Eyeing me curiously, the boy absently popped a piece of the candy or gum into his mouth from the hand behind his back as I struggled to sit upright.

It wasn’t easy. Apparently, I’d slept outside all night. And behind a Dumpster at the Gas ’n’ Sip no less. That panicky feeling shook me, and I glanced around uneasily, wincing as I realized that the rotting smell had been garbage.

“Robby!” The woman yelled, and the boy’s head whipped around.

“Gotta go,” he whisper-told me as if we’d developed some sort of bond and I required an explanation for his departure. “You want these?” He held out his hand, palm open to reveal his remaining candies: three red ones, a green, and four yellows.

I thought about turning him down. They looked sticky. But my mouth tasted like I’d just licked home plate, so I nodded instead.

He held them toward me, and I accepted his gummy offering as they peeled, rather than dropped, from his skin. “Thanks,” I said before he skipped away.

I popped the candies into my mouth, letting the sour jolt of them awaken my saliva glands and wash away the tang of dirt that seemed to cling to my tongue.

As always, I got impatient and bit down on one of the candies. Despite their gooey outer shell, inside they were rock hard, something I discovered the moment I felt a chunk of my right-side molar chip away.

Cursing, I spit the rest of the candies in a messy wad onto the ground and ran my tongue over the new, rough edge of my tooth. I’d just been to the dentist last week, something I hated doing, and now this would mean I’d be forced to see him again.

Fishing my cell phone from the front pocket of my uniform pants, I decided it was time to call for backup. I still couldn’t believe I’d ended up behind the Dumpster of a gas station last night. My parents were probably freaking the hell out. I was freaking the hell out.

Not to mention Austin . . .

I dialed him first, not caring that my decision was sure to set off another round of arguments when I got home.

I held the phone to my ear and waited. After a moment I pulled the phone away and inspected it.

NO SERVICE, the screen read.

No service—how was that even possible? I knew exactly where I was. I’d been at this gas station a hundred times; it was maybe a mile from my house—well within our coverage map.