From What I Remember by Stacy Kramer Page A

home?”
    Mom and Ms. Wentworth are friends from The Casino, a hideous tennis, golf, and swim club that I haven’t dared to set foot in since sixth grade. They play doubles together every week. There was a juicy tidbit of gossip that Mom let slip to Dad over dinner last week. It seems the Wentworths haven’t paid their club bill in months. Looks like someone’s family is having financial troubles. Oh, the horror.
    “Go to hell, Will,” Lily says. And it’s bingo, baby. Something is definitely up over at the Wentworths’. Has Daddy gone bust?
    I wave and smile as I strut off.
    Mission accomplished.

e are going to die. For a fraction of a second, the four of us stare at each other. I’m sure the two guys are trying to figure out what the hell we were doing in the truck. Max and I share a quick look, both scrambling for a Plan B. We have no idea where we are or what we’re doing. There’s no one around. And we have absolutely no time to think, so it’s not much of a plan—more of an instinctive desire not to die—when we simultaneously turn and dart back up the street, running for our lives. The two guys take off after us. We don’t stand much of a chance. Max catches my eye, and for the briefest instant we are connected. I know it’s utterly inappropriate and odd, and yet I can’t help but think that it’s the first time I’ve connected to someone from Freiburg other than Will. My mind is a strange place. Even stranger when faced with imminent death.
    When my computer was snatched, I had a moment to consider whether going after it was a good idea. The same could be said when I crawled into the back of the truck; I could have walked away. That’s not the case now. This is it. The end. I look back at the men—they’re closing in on us. And then I remember something. The keys are still in the truck. The keys are still in the truck. Oh my God. No way! A minor miracle. I don’t usually have the best luck, nor do I believe in fate or God watching over me. But I may have to rethink my position on all that, because there, on the dash, is a gift from…someone. I sprint toward the truck.
    For the second time today someone has left keys in their vehicle and I am carjacking. I don’t have time to figure out the larger implication of this. Maybe it just means people are idiots. Or I have a bright future in car theft.
    Max isn’t reacting. It’s like someone turned off his radar and he’s not picking up signals. I grab his arm and pull him toward the truck. He’s moving as if by rote, following me as a last resort. My being in charge must be pretty cold comfort to him.
    I’m terrified. Nonetheless, my synapses are firing on all cylinders. I know exactly what to do. Even though I’ve never been in this situation, something about it feels familiar. I’ve been training for this moment most of my life. Obsessively watching and writing action movies just might save my life today. And Max’s.
    I jump into the truck and start it up. Max hops in shotgun. As soon as I turn on the engine, the guys charge us like a hurricane. We slam the doors shut. I jerk the gearshift into reverse. We buck backward. Shit! How do you drive this thing? My budding confidence starts to ebb.
    The short guy grabs on to Max’s door and tries to pry it open. He’s screaming in Spanish. Max presses down the lock and pulls the door toward him for good measure.
    “Forward. Go forward,” Max yells, as if I don’t know that.
    “I’m trying!” I scream.
    Shit! The gear is stuck. As I wrestle with the gearshift, the tall guy reaches through the open window and tries to pull my hand off the wheel. I let out a kind of animalistic, guttural screech. It doesn’t even sound like it’s coming from my mouth. And then, without thinking, I smash my fist into the guy’s face. It’s right out of a Jet Li movie. It’s like I’ve been body-snatched. The guy falls back, grabbing his face. His nose is bleeding. I’ve just bought us a few crucial