She’s told me that to make me feel better, I assume. As if knowing that all those other people having the same fear should somehow make me feel better about my own. I think about it for a moment, surprised that, in a small way, it does. Jenna’s good at putting me at ease, helping me to feel like less of a freak than I am.
Soon we’re walking up one of the sidewalks on Main Street toward the famous candy shop. I can smell vanilla in the air.
“Did you know that Walt Disney designed this street to make it look longer than it actually is?” she asks.
“I did know that. And you changed the subject.”
She darts a glance at me and then looks away again, stuffing her hands in her back pockets. “I did. Because really, there’s not much more to the story. There was a boy. We met in junior high school. We’d been dating for a few years by the time I went back to Bosnia to visit. I decided to return to the US while my sister and aunt stayed there. When I came back, I moved in with him and his family. Two years later, he was killed in a car accident.”
I frown. “That’s sad. He was young.”
“Yes.” I study her face, trying to determine if she is sad. It’s a strange thing, grief. It cuts like a knife for the short days and months afterward, eventually dulling into an ache, then a tiny flinch of memory and regret.
“What was his name?”
“His name was Braco, but in this country, he went by Brock. His family is from Serbia, but they live here. I’m still close with them. They’re like my own family.”
I don’t know how to respond to this so I continue walking, and soon she continues. “In fact, I’m flying to Belgrade with them this summer and then traveling to Sarajevo for the wedding.”
“But you’ll come back so you can travel with the Ren Faire?”
“Yes.” She points up ahead of us at the castle. “Look, Sir William, I do believe it’s a castle to defend! Shall we go through and see if you can pull the sword out of the stone?”
I scoff. “That’s for kids.”
“Everyone’s a kid at Disneyland, Wil. That’s the beauty of it.”
“Well, I don’t do costumed people. They’re creepy.”
“The characters?”
I shudder. “Yes, we need to steer clear of those.”
She laughs. I love the sound of her laugh. It’s musical. And it’s times like this when I wish I could paint or draw a sound or emotion—that I could record them as clearly as I can record the things I see.
We make it past the sword in the stone in front of King Arthur’s Carousel and through the rest of Fantasyland without any incidents. And thankfully, no characters.
I find that my challenges with crowds are at their worst when we have to stand in long lines for the more popular attractions. Jenna uses those opportunities to practice visualization with me, and for the most part, I’m happy to say that it works.
One of the no-turnstile rides she found is Pirates of the Caribbean, and I end up enjoying this ride a lot. My favorite part about it is watching Jenna as she sits beside me, singing along with the music the entire way through. By the end of the ride, I’m happy that we came. It hasn’t been nearly as bad as I thought.
We don’t go anywhere near Adventureland though, and after dinner we resolve to do Space Mountain and Star Tours a few more times. I think she’s getting exhausted.
We’re coming out of the Haunted Mansion when everything changes in an instant.
There are sounds like lightning and thunder overhead. Startled, we both look up and I clap my hands over my ears. I’m grasping at anything to calm myself when, out of the corner of my eye, I notice Jenna collapse into a ball on the ground.
Is she sick? Hurt?
She’s curled in on herself, hugging her knees to her chest. People exiting the ride file out past us, jostling us, but I’m too concerned about Jenna to worry about any of them. I bend down next to her and ask, “Are you all right?”
Shaking and whimpering, she rocks back and forth, tucking her head down.
My blood runs cold as my mind races, trying to figure out what to do.
Chapter 19
Jenna
“Jenna…” Even with his mouth pressed to my ear, I could barely hear William through the fog of my sheer terror.
My mind was frozen twenty years in the past, held hostage in the moments between each explosion. My eyes shut tight, I recoiled with each new sky-splitting boom, and my breath came so quickly I became lightheaded. Just as I thought I might black out, arms wrapped tightly around me.
“Papa! Papa! Pomozi nam!”
It’s the third shelling this week. We haven’t been able to take the trip to get water since last Thursday. Mama says we can’t have baths until things calm down. We’re almost out of candles, so every night at sunset I cry in fear of the dark. And this time, the bombing is coming in the dark…