The Coldest Summer✓

Forty-eight

I'm shaking with hiccups at the sight of shredded glass pierced into the flesh of a woman next to me. I'm so scared. I try to call mom . . . or dad, but no sound comes from my throat. I just cry soundlessly and hear, right from here, a boy's voice. I tilt my head to look at his side.

"Mom! Mom, wake up," the boy yells. "Mom! Mom, please, wake up!" he frantically urges.

I realize that it's the rude boy who joined our ride with his mom when their car broke down in the middle of the road. His mom asked my parents for a lift to San Francisco, and that's how they rode with us.

Unlike me, the boy doesn't cry. He's rude but brave. He never spoke to me nicely other than saying, "Shut up, curly" whenever I'd try to talk to him. And his mom would always remind him to be nice, especially with a girl.

"I—" I try making a sound, but still nothing comes out.

I just watch as the boy tries to wake his mom.

"Mom! Mom!" he screams again. Maybe he's as scared as I am. His mom tries to respond, and he leans over to listen closer. "What?" he asks, terrified. "No, mom, I can't leave you here!" He now cries upon hearing whatever his mom has said to him.

I'm scared more than before.

"No . . . just . . . take her . . and get out of here," his mom says faintly, and the boy continues to cry and argue. "Go . . . you can do it, son . . . try to open the door, huh?" She smiles weakly, and I don't dare make a move.

"No, Mom." The rude boy sniffs, shaking his head, crying.

"You must save her and yourself!" the woman snaps loudly.

"Mom, no," the boy utters while moving slowly.

"Do it," his mom breathes. "Please." She smiles at him.

She's so beautiful. Just like my mom.

At last the boy complies. He starts moving carefully while holding the back of the seat tightly, as I do mine. I turn to look at my parents and the horror takes me back. I hear strange noises coming from the engine, coupled with a heavy smoke that starts filling the car, and my terror increases.

Mom, Dad, I call them inwardly, but neither of them responds. I cling tightly onto the edge of the seat, crying like a dumb dumb; it's what the rude boy said when I cried earlier. All of a sudden, a smashing sound snaps the hell out of me. The rude boy has just broken the already-cracked glass of the window, and he's slipping out with utmost carefulness.

"Come," he tells me while extending hands so I follow him. I gape, holding a seat in fear, tears dripping off my eyes.

"I . . . can't." I shake my head.

"Come on, curly, hold my hands. You can do it," he repeats, and when I look in his eyes I feel like I can really do it.

He will catch me, right?

I finally try crawling to where he is. I pass by his mother, and she's not as pretty as she was before. Blood. I see blood everywhere. On her face, and on my parents too.

I'm scared. Why aren't they saying anything?

"Go, honey. Just look at him, don't look down, and don't let go of his hand," the boy's mom tells me faintly, and I do as she instructs.

I'm finally pulled away with the help of the rude boy, who's taller and vividly older than me. We're both out of breath. We suddenly hear the sounds we've been hearing before. We stare at each other, so very afraid.