Stained (9 page)

“Now, why did he give me . . . ?” I smell the stink of urine on my jeans, and I know. I know, even though I don't want to.

I feel the bucket carefully with my fingers. Hard, rounded plastic, no sharp edges. If I broke it, could it be used as a tool? A weapon?

I feel the bucket again. It's not heavy enough to defend me, and the plastic wouldn't be strong enough to use as a lever beneath the boards.

I push them both away and delve further into the bag, touching, smelling, and opening everything. There's a box of crackers, seven bananas. A jar of peanut butter, a stack of flimsy drinking glasses, and two more jugs of water. Enough for a week.

Is he going to leave me here an entire week?
I hear screaming in my mind. Screaming that starts so deep inside me that if I let it, it will blot everything else out, even my own thoughts. I press my palms against the floor and try to breathe normally. He's planned this so carefully. Made sure there was nothing I could use.

But I can't give up. I won't.

I rest one hand on the bag. I know I should figure out a plan, or try breaking down the door again. But I feel weak and shaky, my stomach hollow, and the scent of the ripe bananas makes it hard to concentrate. My stomach clenches, demanding to be fed.

“Fuck it all!”

I grab a banana, rip off the peel, and stuff big pieces into my mouth. It tastes fresh and clean, not like this room. Not like Brian.

I swallow it down, almost choking in my eagerness. And then it's gone.

It doesn't even begin to fill my hunger. Before I know what I'm doing, I've unscrewed the lid to the peanut butter and torn the foil seal completely off, and am scooping the nutty mixture out with my fingers. Its thick, smooth sweetness wraps around my tongue.

Heaven.

I cram in more sticky sweetness. It glues my mouth together like cement. I almost choke on the peanut butter, trying to swallow it down.
Slower, I have to eat slower
, I tell myself, but I can't. I take a long gulp of cool water, and then I am tearing open the package of crackers and digging them into the peanut butter, cramming them in my mouth as fast as I can swallow. I'm like a starved dog gobbling its food without breathing, and I know I've got to stop so I don't just vomit it up again, got to stop so there will be some for later, but it's like my stomach has total control over me. I keep eating and drinking until I'm so full it hurts. Only then does my stomach release me.

I groan and wrap my arms around my too-tight stomach. It was frightening being so out of control, as if I were pure animal. I'm glad no one could see.

I reach for the peanut butter and feel down inside the jar. I've finished off almost half of it and most of the crackers. The bottle of water is a lot lighter, too.

In one meal I've eaten almost a third of all my food. “I've got to be more careful! I have to make it last until he gets back.” I shake my head. “No. Until I get out of here.”

If
I get out of here.

But I won't let myself think that way.

I won't need it that long. I'll be out of here before he gets back. Still, I arrange what's left of the food into six piles, one for each day. One banana. Three crackers. And the half jar of peanut butter, the two and a half jugs of water. It doesn't seem like enough, but I can't imagine stretching it out any further. And surely someone will have found me by then.

I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. I keep smelling him on me. I wish I could use some of the water to wash him off, but it's more important to drink it and stay alive.

Something scratches inside the walls. The mice. Or rats. They probably smell my food.

I set the piles of food into the bag and zip it up. I'm not letting some rodent eat what little I have. I feel for the jug to make sure the cap is on. My survival depends on it. If only I could see . . .

I reach for the blindfold again and tug. No matter how strong the leather is, it has to break sometime. If I go at it every day . . .

No. Someone will find me.

I wonder what my parents are doing right now. I imagine Dad pacing up and down the hall, yelling into his phone, urging the police to find me, imagine Mom calling around to all my friends, the school, trying to discover who saw me last. Charlene's one of the first people she'll call, so that should get her on the trail pretty quickly. And nothing can stop an angry, protective mother bear from finding her cub.

I unscrew the water, lift the heavy jug to my lips, and take another swallow. It feels so good going down my throat, cool and soothing, washing away the dryness, the thick sweetness left from the peanut butter—

I'm doing it again! Drinking away my ration.

I shove the water away from me, hear it thunk to the floor, hear the water glub out. I reach for it, patting. “No!” My hands slap water. I grab the jug and turn it upright, but it feels light, too light and empty.

Help me, Dad!

Day 2, 8:30 A.M.

 

THE MEADOWSES WERE ON every channel I turned on last night. I watched them plead with whoever took Sarah to bring her home safely, Mr. Meadows looking like he could hardly stand up, Mrs. Meadows crying silently the entire time. But still we managed to get the poster designed and printed out, and the website up.

My eyes burn. I can't look away from Sarah's face on the poster. Her eyes are so sad. I wish I could strangle whoever first made her retreat from the world. Well, maybe press a rewind-and-redo button. Hell, I could use one of those myself. I'd make sure Mom never got into her car that night. I'd make sure Dad never lost his own mom. And I'd walk Sarah home every day, make sure she stayed safe.

I've already put up at least a hundred posters in the neighborhood, but I figure there might be someone from school who saw what happened. I staple Sarah's poster to the library bulletin board next to a Found poster for a dog and a chess club announcement. I'm going to put it up everywhere I can think of. Maybe even start slipping it through locker slats, or pasting it on the sides of lockers. I don't care if I get into trouble; finding Sarah is more important.

“Sarah's missing?” a girl asks.

Isn't that what the poster says?
I want to snap. I turn. Gemma's looking at me earnestly. I bite back my anger. “Yeah. You seen her?”

Gemma shakes her head. “Not since yesterday.”

“Yesterday when?”

“School.”

“Yeah.” My shoulders slump. I know it's a slim chance that anyone will know anything, but I have to try.

“You want help?”

“Sure.” I hand her half my posters. I can always get more. “Make sure they go up where people can see them.”

“Du-uh.” Gemma rolls her eyes. “Don't worry. I can already think of a perfect place—over the tampon dispensers in the girls' bathrooms. No way they'll miss that.”

My cheeks heat up. But she may have a point. Any way that we can get people's attention helps. “Thanks. I think something really bad happened to her.”

Gemma's eyes grow softer. “I'm sorry. She's a real nice girl. Doesn't seem right, bad things happening to good people, does it? If it had to happen to anyone, it shoulda been one of those mean bitches, like Madison.”

“Yeah.” Sadness is like a weight on my chest. “But it never seems to work out that way. Not often, anyway.”

“Too true.” Gemma looks at me for a moment, then squeezes my arm. “Hang in there, boy. I bet she'll make it. She don't look tough, but she is on the inside, where it counts.”

I straighten. “You're right,” I say, and staple another poster up.

Keep fighting, Sarah. Wherever you are.

I'M GOING TO GET out of here. That's what I tell myself. I have to, or the terror and grief will make me give up. And I can't. I won't. I have a life to go back to, people who love me. People I love. I just have to get through until help comes, or until I can break free.

I keep seeing Dad's and Mom's faces, Charlene's . . . and Nick's. Nick's hurt face nags at me. I hug myself. I wish I'd ignored Madison's laughter and accepted
Ghostopolis
. Wish I'd spent more time with Nick. We have so much in common—our love of superheroes, our not fitting in, our desire to make our own comics someday. It hurts to think that I added to his feeling of being an outsider. I don't want that to be the last thing he remembers me for.

But I won't let it be. I plan over and over how I'll rush past Brian when he comes back, how I won't let him catch me this time.

No matter what I'm doing, I keep an ear out for signs of people—for voices, footsteps, the sound of cars or laughter or music. I never hear anything human—just birds and the wind in the trees. But that doesn't stop me from trying to get help. At regular intervals I walk to the hole in the door, take a deep breath, and scream as loud as I can. Scream from the pit of my belly all the way up. I've never screamed so loud in my life. And then I stand there and listen—listen so hard it seems like my ears should bleed. But I never hear anything new.

Part of me thinks that's a good thing. At least Brian hasn't come back. I can't bear to think of him touching me again. Even the thought of his voice makes me want to gag. But another part of me is so afraid no one will come, not even Brian, and that I'll die here, alone.

I can't stop dreaming about the police rushing in to save me, or my dad, my mom, even Charlene. Charlene saw Brian; she has to have told the police. I imagine them following Brian here, then breaking down the door to get me, Dad folding me into his chest, Mom crying happy tears. I imagine it so vividly, so completely, that I almost hear their voices, and when I realize they're not really here, I want to weep. But Diamond would never cry. So I feel my way to the boarded-up window and try to find something I missed—a weak spot, a way out of here. I tug at the boards until my fingers burn with pain. And then I find myself slipping into the daydream again. The daydream of escape.

Day 3, 3:20 P.M.

 

I CAN'T STOP THINKING about Sarah. I dream about rushing in to save her, and her throwing herself into my arms, hugging me tight, her happy tears wetting my neck. And then our kiss, full of relief and, later, passion. I know it's just a daydream, but it's so much better than my other thoughts. My worst-case scenarios that I can't stop picturing.

I've already bargained with god, with any possible deity out there, and offered anything I can think of, just as long as we get Sarah back safe. A part of me watches my crazed thoughts and scoffs. I've never believed in god or a creator or anything bigger than us. But I pray, anyhow. I'll do anything if it will help get Sarah back alive.

Mr. and Mrs. Meadows are still giving interviews with anyone who will have them, but I can tell the reporters are losing interest. It's been two days since Sarah went missing, and they haven't found anything new. One reporter said that if the police don't find a lead in the first forty-eight hours, it's unlikely we'll ever see that missing person again. I don't know how he could talk about Sarah like she's a statistic. But I'm not giving up hope. I can't. It would be like giving up on her.

Sarah's face was on a gossip rag today, the kind my mom used to read. It punched the breath right out of my lungs, seeing her sad, fierce eyes staring out at me. They printed a bunch of garbage about her—that she's a problem teen and a high risk as a runaway because of her low self-esteem and because she was bullied—but the crap they wrote doesn't matter. None of it does, as long as we get Sarah back.

My dad insisted I go to classes today, so I went, but I don't know what the point was. I couldn't do anything but think of Sarah.

She's got to be alive. I need her. She doesn't know it, but I do.

I trudge up to the Meadowses' house and knock on their door. Mr. Meadows answers, looking haggard, his eyes hollow, his cheeks stubbly, his clothes all rumpled like he hasn't slept or changed since Sarah went missing. He probably hasn't.

“Nick.” Mr. Meadows forces a smile.

“Got more posters?” I ask, trying to sound hopeful, like we'll actually find her. It's getting harder to believe.

Mr. Meadows rubs a hand through his hair. “You bet. Come on in. You know where they are.”

I pass by the kitchen. Mrs. Meadows is sitting at the table staring into her coffee, her hair stringy and unwashed. A man sits with her at the table, leaning forward, talking to her in a hushed voice. Mrs. Meadows looks up when I pass but doesn't seem to see me.

“Hi, I'm Brian,” the man says, holding out his hand. “Mr. Meadows's assistant. You're one of Sarah's friends, aren't you?”

“Yeah,” I say, shuffling my feet. I want to be more than a friend. So much more.
Sarah, come home.

“You're a good kid to help out like this. You must care about her a lot,” Brian says, studying my face.

I can feel all the blood rush into my head. “I do.” But I can't talk about it to some guy I don't even know, even if he is Mr. Meadows's assistant.

I go into the dining room where the stacks of boxes are and open one up. Sarah's face looks back at me. For a moment all I can see is the vivid purple-red stain on her cheek. She'd hate knowing that her face is plastered all over the city for everyone to gawk at. But if it'll get her back, I'm willing to risk her anger.

I grab a bunch of posters, as many as I can carry, and shove them into my backpack.

Brian pats Mrs. Meadows's shoulder and stands. “I'll help you put those up,” he says, picking up a box. “We can cover a lot more ground in my car.”

“Can you fit my bike in your trunk?” I ask.

“Sure can.”

“Then it's a deal.”

“Think you can find any place that doesn't already have one up?” Mr. Meadows says. “I plastered the area again last night.”