Page 3 of We’re All Going to Die Tonight!

October 16

11:15 p.m.

Panic is the enemy of victory. Panic is what takes down any team, no matter how strong, no matter how unbeatable it seems. That’s the lesson Dad’s been burning into my mind ever since I was old enough to be on my first T-ball team. From the moment I picked up the ball, Dad was kneeling at eye level and telling me not to panic.

“Don’t let it in,” he’d say. “The fear. The worry. You tell them all to go to hell, all right? Focus on winning, not worrying.”

Was it a little bit of a dramatic message for a seven-year-old? Sure. But like most of Dad’s lessons, I’ve taken it to heart. I don’t panic when the bases are loaded and the opposing team’s best hitter comes up to bat. I don’t panic when I feel the twinge in my forearm that tells me my arm’s nearly at the breaking point. And I don’t panic now, when the Death Van swings violently to the side of the highway, nearly hurling Avery and Marlene out of their seats and into the aisle between us.

Or, at least, I don’t let the panic show. Because that’s really the trick: You actually have to panic. Just for a second. So I let it fully flow through my body so that it touches every inch of my blood and fires up my adrenaline before I take a breath and send it away.

Right now, though, it tries to stick. Because when the Death Van comes to a screeching stop, Avery stands up out of her seat, head whipping around and fear lancing through her eyes.

In all the time I’ve known Avery, I’ve only seen fear like that a few times—and none of those are memories I’m eager to revisit. Usually, Avery has an expression that tells you she’s forty steps ahead of you and waiting for you to catch the fuck up.

Point being, it’s unnerving when that look’s gone.

“Probably just a flat tire,” Mr. Jay says from the front. Of the three teachers, he’s the youngest, freshly graduated from USC with a film degree that he apparently wasn’t able to use to get a job yet. Either way, he’s been hired as a substitute to cover one of the teachers on maternity leave, and apparently, he’s close enough to Coach McCullough that he’s also jumped on with helping with debate team.

Still, he’s so young that it’s hard to really take him seriously, especially since he graduated the same year as several of our older siblings. He’s even got the same curly brown hair that he had in his senior year photo—which Lucas found in his brother’s yearbook the second we discovered Jay had been hired—but I would guess the tattoos on his arms are new additions. He’s also one of those teachers who uses his first name instead of his last name (“That’s what the cool professors do in college,” he told us), which definitely doesn’t make him feel like a legitimate teacher.

“We’ve got a spare,” Mr. McCullough replies, peeling off his headphones as he stands up. Apparently, an exploding tire is enough to wake him up.

Mr. McCullough’s not exactly old, but he’s obviously not as young as Mr. Jay. His wavy red-brown hair is just receding a bit, and his slang is only about ten years off. As he walks up to the front of the van, I slide out of my seat and follow him.

“Are you sure that spare’s still good?” Ms. Dorman asks. She’s McCullough’s age, though tonight, she could almost pass for a student in her oversize sweatshirt.

“Why wouldn’t it be?” Mr. McCullough asks.

Ms. Dorman looks pointedly at Mr. Jay, as if he knows exactly what she’s talking about. Then she glances over McCullough’s shoulder to where I’m standing, looking like she doesn’t want me to hear what she’s about to say. Too bad that in the Death Van she doesn’t exactly have a choice.

Mr. Jay’s neck goes red. He rubs it, smiling sheepishly.

“Ah,” he says. “Right. Someone might have borrowed the van for a project over the weekend and run over a nail and didn’t get the spare replaced.”

Ms. Dorman’s nostrils flare, and Mr. McCullough’s face pales.

“You’re kidding,” he says. “Jay, we talked about stuff like this.”

“What?” Mr. Jay says. “It’s not like I did it on purpose.”

“What’s going on?”

I turn to find Kaitlyn standing with her arms folded over her chest, Javi right behind her. Javi’s not as tall as me, but he’s close. Now that baseball season’s over, his black hair’s longer, currently sticking up on the side from sleep. He meets my eyes and raises his eyebrows, and even if I hadn’t spent years reading his facial cues and hand signs as a catcher, I’d still know exactly what he was asking me: What bullshit now?

“Flat tire,” I say. “We don’t have a spare.”

“We don’t know that yet,” Mr. McCullough says, holding a hand up. “Let’s take a look first.”

“Did we hit something?” Emerson demands, pushing past Javi and Kaitlyn and me to get to the front of the van. He tilts his chin up and glares, his entire demeanor dripping with the air of someone who’s used to asking for the manager and getting his order comped.

“No, we didn’t hit anything,” Ms. Dorman says with a sigh. “Jay, Gerard, why don’t you go outside and check what happened and look at the spare. The rest of us will stay put.”

I look at Mr. McCullough. “Need help, Coach?”

He smiles at me and puts his hand on my shoulder. “I’ll let you know. Thanks, Caulder,” he says, then slides open the door, revealing the downpour waiting outside. Mr. Jay slips out of the front seat and grimaces, and Mr. McCullough moves to step outside when—

“Wait!” Avery yelps, holding up her hand like we’re in class and she’s got the answer to a question. Of all the things that haven’t changed about Avery, this is the one that’s the most obvious. In fact, if I could close my eyes and somehow block out the storm and the forest and everything else, we might still be kids in the same fifth-grade class, and she would be waving her hand in the air for the teacher’s attention. While everyone else would blurt things out and get scolded, Avery always remembered the rules. Even now. Even after an accident.