Fear smothers my breath.
I force myself to my feet and start working on the window boards again. I will not let myself cry. I will not let myself give up hope. It hasn’t been that long yet. There’s still a chance someone will find me . . .
NICK
Day 4, 4:15 P.M.
I BIKE MY WAY over to the police station, trying not to puff as I go. I started biking to help me slim down—I thought that would give me more of a chance with Sarah—but so far it hasn’t helped me lose any weight. What it does do is make me sweat like a horse and make my face get red and blotchy. A real bonus.
I head to the front desk, suddenly nervous, and pull out the card the cop gave me. “Can I talk to Detective . . . Anderson, please?”
The cop behind the desk squints at me. “What’s it about? You got an appointment?”
“It’s about Sarah Meadows. Her disappearance.”
“Wait there,” the guy says, pointing at some chairs as he picks up the phone.
The detective comes bustling in a minute later, then stops when he sees me. “You got something you forgot to tell me?”
I stand. “No, sir. I just wanted to know if you’ve gotten any leads.”
The detective rubs his face tiredly. “Look, kid—even if I had, I couldn’t discuss them with you. I could only discuss them with Sarah’s parents.”
“No leads at all?” I say, my voice cracking.
“Kid, I told you—”
“I know, I know,” I say. “But you’re still looking, right? You’ve got to find her!”
The detective sighs. “We’re doing what we can. We care about this just as much as you do.”
“I doubt that.”
“But we can’t make miracles happen.”
“Can you make anything happen?” I mutter.
“What?” the detective says, taking a step toward me, his bushy brows drawing together.
I can’t believe I said that out loud. “I’m sorry. But Sarah’s been gone only three days, and no one seems to care anymore.”
“We care. We haven’t given up,” the detective says wearily. But his voice says something else.
“Then prove it. Find her.” I turn and leave.
When I get outside I yank a chocolate bar from my bag and rip off the wrapper, cramming a big, gooey piece of chocolate, nougat, and caramel into my mouth. I don’t know what I was hoping for, going there—that they’d have some big break in the case and let me know? I was dreaming. But every minute I’m not doing something to find Sarah feels like a waste.
I go to take another bite of my chocolate bar, but I’ve already finished it. I’ve been doing that a lot since Sarah disappeared, more than I used to. If I keep this up, Sarah’s going to come home to an even more overweight me.
I sigh and check the website again from my phone, hoping someone’s spotted Sarah. But there’s nothing except comments from people expressing their sympathy or shock—comments from girls who tormented her every day and made her life hell. Comments from boys who never once looked her way except to stare at her cheek or heckle her. And comments from strangers suggesting that she could be a runaway—like they know her at all. To most of the kids at school, Sarah is just gossip, not a real person who’s in trouble. I glare at them in the halls, but they don’t notice, or if they do, they look startled, like they don’t understand my anger.
I put Sarah’s disappearance on all the sites, social networks, and chat groups I could think of, asking for people to keep their eyes open. People said they will, but I wonder how much time they’ll take out of their own lives to give a thought to yet another missing girl.
I’ve asked everyone she knows when they last saw her—anyone she’s ever talked to, even the ones who bullied her. But no one saw her after her confrontation with Kirk and Charlene. It’s like she vanished. But someone’s got to have seen something; I just have to find the right person.
Charlene and I have sat together at lunch every day since Sarah disappeared, and today Gemma joined us. It’s almost a comfort, sitting with people who care about Sarah. And when I make my rounds after school to ask if anyone can remember anything, Charlene comes with me. I know she feels guilty about that day. I can see it all over her face. I wonder what she can read in mine. Desperation? Despair? Frustration? I don’t want to know.
SARAH
I’VE BEEN TELLING MYSELF that it doesn’t matter how long it’s been. It doesn’t matter that it’s been five days since Brian left me here. But I know I’m fooling myself. Every day is another day missing from my life that I’ll never get back. Every day is another day further away from my family, from the police, from anyone who might be able to find me. It’s getting harder and harder to hope that someone will. I have to force myself to think positively, to keep the fear and despair from completely overwhelming me.
Each day feels so long. I hate the constant hunger, the never feeling full, the fierce thirst made worse by the sweet peanut butter and salty crackers, the weakness that runs through my body. I hate always feeling cold, even after I do jumping jacks and pace around the room as many times as I can bear, the thermal blanket tied around me. I hate sleeping on the hard, ungiving floor, and waking up so stiff and aching; it’s as if I’ve grown old. But worse than that is the way I can’t stop feeling his rough hands on my wrists, my throat, can’t stop feeling him force himself into me. Can’t stop wondering if today he’s going to come back and do it all again—or worse.
I don’t want to die. Thoughts about the other girls keep clawing themselves into my mind, both asleep and awake. Did Brian hold them prisoner like me? Did any of them get away? I try to hope, but I know, deep down, that they didn’t. He wouldn’t have let them.
Every day I pry at a board on the window, gripping the edges with my fingers, trying to loosen it—but it’s like steel, unmoving. I work on the same one every time, hoping that the repetition will help it. Fear pushes me to pry at the board for longer and longer periods. My fingers are sore and bloody, stiff with cold, and it feels hopeless, but I can’t stop, not for long.
I tug at the board again, put all my weight into it, wishing I could feel it give. If I do this hard enough, often enough, it’s got to come loose sometime, doesn’t it? I don’t want Brian to come back, don’t want to feel his hands on me again. And yet I want the water that he will bring. The food. I need it. Maybe, if I just do what he tells me to—
No. I won’t go there.
I can’t stop thinking about the rape, about how he enjoyed it more when I fought back. He likes overpowering me. Likes touching my stained cheek and making me react. So maybe next time I shouldn’t react at all.
I yank on the board harder. I don’t think I can let him put his hands on me without fighting back. But maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe that’s what’s kept me alive. I don’t really know why he hasn’t killed me yet. I don’t know what to do, except try to escape.
I lick my dry lips, trying to ignore the hunger that gnaws at me. I have only two piles of food left. Two little piles. And no way to replenish it. My stomach twists, begging to be filled.
I sink down, patting the uneven floorboards until I reach my stash. I wrap the quilt around me, then stuff two crackers into my mouth, letting their saltiness crunch against my teeth. I try to savor each mouthful, to be satisfied with what I have, but I want so much more. I swallow some water, washing the rough crumbs down. My stomach cramps hollowly. The rest of the food is sitting there, but I turn my face away. “I’m going to make it last.”
I long for hot food to warm me from the inside and take away the chill that’s always there. I need something filling to coat my stomach—Dad’s chili, Mom’s soup. I’d even take something from the school cafeteria. I just want something real—something that isn’t crackers and peanut butter.
The stink of my sweat and urine nearly overpowers everything else, even the overripe bananas and the faint echo of Brian’s cologne. My body odor wasn’t so bad the first day. Even the second. I felt c
omforted by it. But now I smell like an animal, pungent and unwashed. It makes me feel dirty, which is probably how Brian wants me to feel. Maybe it’ll turn Brian off so much he won’t touch me anymore. Now not even Nick could look at me and find me beautiful, with my limp, oily hair, my urine-stained jeans, my cracked lips . . .
“If he ever really did.” I’m not sure if he felt that way about me or if I imagined it. It was too hard to believe he could. I know what I look like; nobody ever lets me forget. But now I wish I’d at least paid more attention. If nothing else, Nick was offering me friendship. And I can always use another friend. It shouldn’t have mattered that he’s unpopular, chubby, and doesn’t know how to dress well. He has a good heart; that matters more than any of those other things.
I shake my head. I chose to be blind. I knew Nick liked me. I could see it in his eyes. Even with my stained cheek, he liked me. But I wanted someone more popular than me, so I could feel better about myself. So I’d fit in. And that is the kind of behavior I hate in other people. Diamond would never act that way. She’d let herself love or be loved by anyone she wanted.
I pull the quilt around me tighter. I keep seeing the way Nick’s eyes would light up when he caught me alone, like he was with someone special.
Like that day I stood up for Madison, before she got mean and thin. A crowd of girls, even some boys, were laughing at her, telling her she needed a garbage bag to hide her body. They called her metal mouth, fat blob, every name they could think of—and Madison just crouched there, hunched in on herself, her misery so visible.
Rage filled me then, puffing me up taller than I was. “You all think you’re something, but you’re not—not if you treat people this way!” I yelled. “Now back off!” They froze, all except Madison and Nick. Madison looked up at me, fat tears sliding down her blotchy face, her eyes grateful.
“Yeah! You cowards!” Nick yelled. That broke the others from their frozen states. Some swore at Nick or taunted him, but he held his ground next to me. I glared at them all, trying to emulate the frosty look Mom gave people who made stupid remarks about my cheek. “I feel sick looking at you all!” I screamed. “Go home!”
Some of the girls told me they were going to cut me up when I wasn’t looking, but I just stood there, waiting them out. I forgot about my cheek, just felt the rage shimmering through me, like I could take them all down if I had to. I think they sensed that, because one by one they began to leave, until only Madison, Nick, and I were left.
Nick had always looked at me like I mattered. But that day it was like I was the sun—like I was all he could see. It felt good to have him look at me like that—like, for a brief moment, I’d become Diamond, with her icy rage, sense of justice, and protectiveness for anyone who’d been hurt. I need that rage now. But even if I could draw on it, I have no one to turn it against but me.
Hunger claws at my stomach. I snatch up a banana and bite into its pulpy softness. The sweetness of it jolts my mind, waking me up a little. I know I’m getting used to this—to working on the boards, tugging the straps on the blindfold, walking to keep myself warm, and waiting for Brian to appear. Daydreaming about escape, remembering the people I love, drifting into sleep, and then trying the boards some more. Rationing out the food so carefully. And never showering, never changing my clothes, never doing any of the things I used to take for granted. My scalp itches.
I put the banana down, no longer hungry.
“I wish I knew why he’s left me here so long. Does he think someone suspects him? Or does he want me to be afraid he won’t come back?” I stand unsteadily, rest my hands against the wall, and start forward. I have to keep trying to escape. Have to keep believing I can. Or I’ll just give up.
I pause at the door, the cold air stinging my fingers. “He wants me to be glad to see him. So if I’m not, will that keep me alive longer, or make him kill me faster?” God. I grip the hole in the door. I can’t believe I’m even thinking about this.
There’s a sharp crack, like a stick breaking.
Don’t let it be him.
Another crack, then the rustle of bushes, the snap of twigs.
I put my lips to the hole. “Hello? Is someone there?”
My breath is coming so fast, I’m dizzy. I take a deep breath. “My name is Sarah Meadows. I’m trapped here! Please, help me!”
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.
NICK
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.
SARAH
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.
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