Stained (11 page)

I stand there trembling, the banana heavy in my stomach. There is no sound, not even a branch breaking. And then the birds start up again with their relentless singing.

Screams erupt from me—loud, deep screams that startle the birds into silence, and I am glad.

I listen again, but there is no sound. I must have imagined it.

I need someone to rescue me. Need Dad and Mom to find me, need Charlene to have written down Brian's license plate, need a police officer to burst through this door. I need someone to hear my screams. But I know I am alone.

I find my way back to the window and start pulling on the board again. Charlene has to have told them what Brian looks like. And they must have put it together by now. I'll bet they're on their way to get me.

I shake the board as hard as I can. “Move, damn it!” But it's like it's part of the wall.

Day 5, 11:00 A.M.

 

WE'RE HAVING AN ASSEMBLY about Sarah going missing to help the kids who are “distressed.” Like anyone here cared about her that much, except Charlene and me, and maybe Gemma. Old Mr. Foster set up the assembly as if Sarah's dead. As if she's not coming back.

My eyes burn. I stare at the huge photo of Sarah that Old Fart-a-Lot Foster projected onto the gym wall. I refuse to listen to what they're saying. I know they're wrong.

Charlene looks like she's going to burst into tears any minute. Gemma looks pissed—like she doesn't like this any better than I do. And me—I'm just trying to hold it together and keep from screaming at people. All these people pretending Sarah meant something to them.

Some girls are sobbing, and some boys are all red in the face. I just look at them. They never even said hi to Sarah when she was around, unless it was to put her down. I look at the kids going over to talk to the counselor, and others leaning forward listening to Mr. Foster talk. I don't think they're faking what they feel—but I don't think it's just about Sarah, either. Maybe people are getting their own messed-up stuff out. Not intentionally, not in a mean way, but their emotions are spewing out, set off by Sarah's disappearance. Like Cindy over there, sobbing her face off. I remember now—she lost her little sister to cancer a year ago. Sarah disappearing—that's got to stir that up. And Tommy, his face too serious—his dad left them not too long ago.

I feel calmer now that I've figured that out. I guess I shouldn't be so quick to judge people. But I wish there were more people here who really cared about Sarah, who didn't just know her by her port-wine stain. I wish there were more people who missed her the way I do.

And then I listen to some of the other kids talking, hear the stories they tell. They remember Sarah standing up to bullies, giving half her sandwich to a girl who'd forgotten her lunch, picking up an essay that someone dropped in a crowded hall and handing it back to them. They remember a smile and a kind word on a day they felt miserable, money loaned and never asked for back, a comic given to a girl whose parents had split up. She touched a lot of lives through small kindnesses and brave actions, over and over again, even with people who ignored her or treated her like dirt. A lot of people are feeling her absence. I wish I could tell her that. I hope she knows.

IT'S BEEN EIGHT DAYS since Brian's been here. Two days without food. And one without water. I worry that I misjudged him. Worry that he really is leaving me here to die—the slow, torturous death of starvation or dehydration. Worry that this is what he planned all along.

I think of all the times I said, “I'm starving!” or “I'm dying of thirst,” and I cringe. If I ever get out of here, I'll never say that again.

I struggle to breathe evenly, to keep myself from crying, from discharging some of my body's precious water. I feel the cold so much more keenly without food in me. I force myself to walk to keep warm. It must have been Brian the other day, coming to check on me. I guess he can't face killing me himself. He's waiting for nature to do it.

“Well, I'm not dead yet, you bastard!” I yell.

I find myself thinking of my favorite comic books at the strangest times. Like when I'm going on the bucket, or when I'm trying not to cry. Even without being able to read them again, they are a comfort and an escape. If I ever get out of here, I want to write a comic book like that. A comic book people remember. One that moves people, that gives them hope.

I've started to mark the days with balls of foil I've made from the seal off the peanut butter jar—one ball for each day. It helps me feel like I have some control, and it's something to do when I need a rest from the boards. I wonder what I'll mark time with when I run out of foil. I guess I can start on the cracker box. I laugh, my voice hoarse and strange in the quiet, my throat like sandpaper. It's sore, like when I was eight and had strep throat. Mom kept bringing me juice, tea with honey, cough drops, but nothing helped, not until Dad came home and did a puppet show for me.

I have a sudden image of them hunched over the kitchen table, talking to a police officer, their faces pale and drawn. I wish I could speak to them one last time, tell them how much I love them. Dad is easy to love—he's so encouraging and supportive. Mom is harder, with her always trying to force me not to care about my cheek—but I do love her. I wish I'd told her more.

I've got to stop thinking like that. I dig my nails into the soft flesh between my thumb and forefinger. I will tell them when I get back home. I wish I were there now, laughing at Dad's corny jokes, chatting with Mom while we do the dishes, feeling surrounded by their love.

I was so sure I'd be out of here by now, so sure I was smarter than Brian. But I'm not stronger than wood and nails. I can feel myself collapsing inside, wanting him to come just for the food and water he'll bring.

I hear the crunch of tires on gravel, the slam of a car door, then metal scraping against metal, and a thud as the bar is pushed aside. I scramble to my feet and press myself against the wall near the door, waiting.

The door opens, bringing cool air and the scent of salt-laden, greasy french fries, a juicy hamburger, and rich hot chocolate.

Saliva fills my mouth so fast I can hardly swallow. I want that food so badly. It's all I can smell as Brian steps inside, all I can think about. The door slams shut, and like that, my chance of escape is gone.

I can feel Brian's gaze on me, and I know he's watching, waiting for me to react. To beg.

Well, I'm not going to. I stand still, my legs shaky, my head too light.

Brian stands so close to me that I can feel his body heat. The smell of those french fries is overpowering. I keep swallowing my own saliva.

“You hungry, Sarah?” Brian asks, almost pleasantly.

Damn it, he knows I am. He has to know that he didn't leave me enough food. “Yes,” I say hoarsely.

“I thought you might be.” I hear his skin brush against cardboard, smell the wonderful greasy potatoes, hear him chomp loudly, then swallow. “Well, here's what I'm going to do. You admit that you've been manipulating everyone—your family, your friends—into thinking poor little you needs extra attention because of that mark on your cheek, and I'll give you some fries. Heck, I'll give you the whole container if I believe you mean it.”

I want those fries so badly I can already taste them. But the old shame flushes through me, pushing the heat up from my chest to my face. Mikey, coming up behind me, chanting, “Purple face, purple face!” Me bursting into tears. Old Mrs. Barton, standing at the front of the first grade classroom, shaking her finger at me: “Sarah Meadows, don't think I'm going to give you special treatment. You stop that crying right now, or you can stand up here and let the whole class look at you.” Me, standing with my back to the whiteboard, the chemical stink of markers clogging my nose, Mrs. Barton forcing my head up with the end of her yardstick, kids' laughter ringing through the room, and through my nightmares for years afterward.

I take a deep, shaky breath. “When I can fly like Superman.”

Brian laughs—a short, hard bark. “You're spunky. But you sure don't have much sense. I know you're hungry; you've got to be. Admit the truth and you can have this entire meal. Even the hot chocolate.”

I want that hot chocolate so fiercely I can hardly think. My stomach is eating itself, pain pulling it inward. I know I can't keep going without food. But he's trying to fuck with my head. If I give in to him, what will he do to me next? “I'm just as strong as anyone else, maybe even stronger because of the way people treat me. And I've never pretended otherwise.”

Brian clucks his tongue. “Sorry to hear that. It's bye-bye fries.” He walks a few steps away, and the door grates open, then slams shut. The stairs vibrate. I can feel the emptiness of the room, the stillness, like he's shut me inside a coffin.

For a few seconds I can't believe he gave up so fast. Can't believe he really took the fries with him, the only food I've smelled in days. Can't believe I let him go. I should have charged the door, but I wouldn't have made it, anyway, not weak like this.

“No, wait!” I cry, smacking the door with my palms. “Wait, I'll say it!”

But there's only silence.

I slide down the door, too faint to stand. I almost had french fries. Hot chocolate. What's wrong with me? My survival is more important than the truth.

Tears soak the blindfold. I feel helplessly weak and stupid. I don't know what is right anymore. I cry until my eyes hurt, until I can't bear to cry anymore.

I lean my head back wearily. What if I die here, all because I wouldn't regurgitate some stupid words? I can't afford to fight him too hard, not while he's holding my life in his hands.

Heavy footsteps sound on the stairs.

I push myself up off the floor and away from the door.

“Have you rethought things, Sarah?” Brian asks as he comes in.

“I made people think I was a victim so they would take care of me and give me attention,” I say.

“Why?” Brian asks cheerfully.

Why?
For a moment I can't remember. “My cheek,” I say.

“Very good, Sarah.” Brian touches my head. “I'm afraid I got bored waiting for you to change your mind. I finished everything off.”

The tears start again. I hate my weakness.

“Except for—” There's a rattle inside cardboard. “Two lone fries. Think you'd like them?”

“Yes!” I say hoarsely.

“What? I couldn't hear you.”

“Yes, please, could I have the fries?” I say, worried that he's going to take them away again.

“Here you are,” Brian says gently, grasping my hand and turning it palm upward. He shakes the two fries into my hand. “You see how easy it is when you just cooperate?”

I barely hear him. I ram the limp, cold fries into my mouth, feel their once-crisp edges, their soft potato insides, the grease and salt almost giving me a high. Before I can control myself, I swallow, and they're gone. Gone, and I am desperate for more.

“Glad you've come to your senses,” Brian says. “Nobody's out there looking for you, you know.”

“Yes, they are!”

“Nope. People think you ran away. A troubled, selfish girl, upset about not getting the treatments she was promised, treatments she was relying on to make her life better.”

I can't catch my breath. “You're lying!”

But even if he isn't, the police look for runaways, don't they? I've got to keep him from messing with my head.

“Why would I lie about that? It's all going as it should. Everyone's always seen you as sullen, angry, and withdrawn. Bullied at school, insecure, unhappy at home—a high risk as a runaway. Even your best friend sees you that way.”

“She does not!”

“Sure she does. Why else do you think she hangs out with you? She feels sorry for you.”

“You don't know anything about it!” But maybe he does. Maybe I've been lying to myself this whole time. I thought Charlene and I became friends because we both know what it's like to be outsiders. But maybe I was a pity friend.

No—that can't be right. My legs won't stop trembling.

Brian touches my stained cheek.

I swat his hand away and try to bite him before I even think about it.

“Don't be like that. You should be thanking me. I'm giving your parents a blessing. No more guilt every time they think of you—just a weight off their shoulders, a relief greater than any they've known since the day you were born.”

He's obsessed with my port-wine stain. It does something to him—unleashes the darkness inside him.

I rub my cheek. “Why do I have to have this blindfold on? Is there something you don't want me to see?”

“I thought you were smart. You figure it out.”

Something must fuel his obsession. But he looks so perfect. “You must have a port-wine stain, too—one you can hide. Maybe on your leg or your chest?”

Brian slams me up against the wall. “Don't try to make me like you! We're nothing alike.
Nothing!
”

I'm right. I know I am. When something that's a part of you causes you so much pain—pain others inflict—you obsess about it. I know. “It's nothing to be ashamed of. Whatever anybody told you—”

“Will you shut up?” His lips press hard against mine, sucking away my air.

I taste salty fries, hamburger, and onions. I am grossed out, yet so fiercely hungry, I want to suck down any particles left.

His lips keep working against mine, like he's trying to swallow me. I punch him, but he doesn't seem to notice. He keeps stroking my cheek.

I shudder. This is what it's about. This is what it's been about all along. I know it deep in my gut.

Brian brushes his knuckles against my cheek almost roughly, and then he is pushing me to the uneven floor, the wood creaking beneath us.