Panic

by Sharon M. Draper

  Mercedes wasn’t getting it. “I think he loves that car more than you. You could do better. You know that, don’t you?”

  Layla fluffed her pillows behind her head. “How can I do better when I already have the best?”

  “Okay, he’s gorgeous. I give you that, but he’s always got that frown on his face, like he’s angry, like he’s ready to bite somebody.”

  “It’s just an act.” Layla paused and touched her arm. “Look, he could be with any girl in school, but he chose me! I’m pretty lucky.”

  “You’ve got it backward, Layla. He should feel lucky have you.”

  “Why?”

  “Look. Steve tells me all the time how great it is to be with me.” Mercedes said. “He tells me that all the time.”

  “Did Steve tattoo your name on his arm?”

  “He didn’t have to; I don’t need all that to know he cares about me.”

  “Donny paid a lot of money for that tattoo. If I had some cash, I’d surprise him and have his name inked right over my heart. Maybe I can do that for his birthday,” Layla mused.

  Mercedes’ sigh from her end of the phone was explosive. “Don’t you dare! Miss Ginger would have a cow!”

  “Well, maybe I’ll get the tat where Miss Ginger can’t see it!” Layla replied.

  “What if he breaks up with you?”

  “That’s never gonna happen.”

  “Be for real. This is high school. Everybody breaks up.”

  “Not me and Donny. Not if I keep him happy.”

  “That’s the dumbest thing I ever heard, Layla,” Mercedes practically shouted.

  “Aren’t you scared of losing Steve? Don’t you work hard to keep him?”

  “Hah! Steve works hard to keep me!”

  Layla shifted the phone to her other ear. “I’m just sayin’ . . . ” She could feel herself getting annoyed, and Mercedes must have sensed it, because she changed the subject.

  “Hey, I meant to tell you—congratulations on getting the part of Wendy in the show.”

  Layla grinned. “Thanks. I can hardly believe it! I was sure Miss Ginger would choose Diamond.”

  “I think Diamond was a little bummed,” Mercedes confided.

  “Hey, you think that had something to do with why she ran off to be in the real movie version of Peter Pan?” Layla asked. “ ’Cause I’d rather she had the lead if that had anything to do with it. I don’t deserve such a big part.”

  Mercedes gave an exasperated sigh. “Layla! Quit dissin’ yourself. You’re a great dancer, and you’ll rock that role.” Then she added slyly, “Plus, you get lots of cool dances with Justin.”

  “So what? Justin is just a dude who can dance.”

  Mercedes sighed once more. “Layla, you know that Justin likes you, don’t you?”

  “Justin?” Layla sniffed. “He likes to dance with me.”

  “Watch how he looks at you sometime.”

  “Who cares? I’ve got Donny. I don’t need to look at anyone else.”

  Mercedes was quiet for a moment. Then Layla heard her say in a rush, “Donny does quite a bit of looking around sometimes. You should know that, Layla.”

  “I’m not gonna even listen to this.”

  Mercedes continued anyway. “Hey, look, I don’t want to get you upset, but Steve told me that sometimes he sees Donovan out cruisin’ in that ’Lade with Magnificent Jones.”

  “He’s lying!” Layla said dismissively, but she felt her stomach lurch. No way. No way. No way.

  Magnificent Significant Jones (why her mama named her that, Layla could only guess) was almost six feet tall and had hips and boobs that jutted out like the rock faces on a climbing wall. She seemed to invite exploration. She didn’t actually walk—she oozed down the school halls. She was like one of those Sirens Layla had read about in her Greek mythology book. Guys just stopped and melted when she passed by. Even the male teachers paused and made excuses to get a drink from the water fountain when Magnificent strolled through the halls.

  “Layla, Steve wouldn’t lie. You know that song by Adele called ‘Rumour Has It’?”

  “Yeah.” Layla shifted uncomfortably as the words from the song rang through her head. Defiantly, she told Mercedes, “Girl, Donny loves me.” But even as she was saying this, she was remembering silently agonizing over the balled-up McDonald’s napkins on the floor of Donny’s car. Napkins smeared with purple lipstick. Layla wore pink lipstick. Always.

  “Has he ever told you that?”

  Layla paused, stung. He hadn’t, actually—not yet. And she had to admit that it was really starting to bother her. But she wasn’t about to share that bit of info with Mercedes. So she said, “Well, duh! He calls me every night and tells me he loves me before I go to sleep.”

  “Just keep your eyes open, girlfriend. You hear?”

  “Yeah, whatever,” Layla replied in a huff. She was in no mood to talk or think about Donovan and Magnificent anymore. So it was her turn to change the subject. “Hey, Mercedes.”

  “Yeah?”

  “What do you think Diamond is doing right now?”

  “Wishing she was at home in her own bed.”

  17

  DIAMOND, Saturday, April 13 11 p.m.

  “Why are you crying?”

  —from Peter Pan

  The door opened slowly. All she could see in the shaft of yellow light was Thane’s silhouette. He entered the room.

  “Thane! Oh my gosh— Help me! Untie me! What’s going on?”

  “Are you done crying?”

  “Please! Please call my mother. I want to go home!”

  “That’s not going to happen.” He laughed—and Diamond felt the coldness of it through her bones.

  She fought to keep her voice under control, to keep the panicked sobs down. “My clothes—please, can I have my clothes?” She fought against the restraints. “I don’t understand! Why am I tied up?”

  Thane walked around the bed, his eyes never leaving her. “You said you wanted to be in a movie, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, but, I thought—”

  “You thought you were coming to a casting call. And you are. Oh yes, you are,” Thane said.

  “But—but what about Chloe and the other girls? I’m so confused. I need my clothes. Please, please untie me!” Her head pounded, and her brain felt so fuzzy. She couldn’t think. Why was the room spinning?

  Thane laughed again. “You still don’t get it, do you? You wanted to be in a movie, and you’re just in time for your audition.”

  Diamond tried to think straight. Nothing made sense. She felt drugged. “Wha? What? I—I don’t understand.”

  Thane flicked on the lights, and Diamond twisted her head away from the sudden brightness.

  “You will be the star tonight, my dear girl,” Thane whispered. Then, in a louder voice, he called, “Lights. Camera. Action.”

  Diamond blinked her eyes open, straining to see in the harsh, glaring light. Two large movie cameras were positioned directly over the bed. Oh, no! Oh, no! Her heart thudding, she jerked and thrashed against the ropes once more.

  “No!” she screamed. “Let me go! Please, please, let me go!”

  Thane ignored her. “Jimmy. Mickey. Come on in.”

  Diamond gasped as two huge men entered the room. The first, heavily bearded, wore a crisp, white sleeveless T-shirt—a sharp contrast to the coarse black hair that covered his arms. His arms were broad and burly. The other man, who was extremely overweight, was clean shaven. He wore a flowered Hawaiian shirt and plaid shorts.

  “Meet my cameramen,” Thane said genially.

  The two men grinned at Diamond and took their places at the cameras, one at the foot of the bed, and one on the side.

  Diamond’s mind went in a dozen directions—she struggled through the haze of her cloudy thoughts. Slowly, she began to put together the pieces of what was happening. Oh, no. Oh, no. Oh, no.

  Thane removed his pale yellow silk shirt and folded it carefully, then set it on the chair.


  Diamond’s eyes grew wide with horror. “Oh, no. Please, no. Please don’t. You can’t do this. I’m only fifteen,” she begged softly. “Please.”

  “I can. And I will. Now relax and shut up—I’m very good at this.”

  He nodded to the two men. A red light blinked on the front of each camera.

  Stunned into silence, Diamond finally understood the horrible enormity of her situation.

  18

  MERCEDES, Sunday, April 14 11 a.m.

  “I don’t see how it can have a happy ending.”

  —from Peter Pan

  Mercedes sat in the seventh row of the congregational church, next to her mother. They always sat in row seven. Even though there were no names engraved on the back, Mercedes had noticed that church folk tended to take ownership of certain seats. Her mom had claimed the aisle seat on the seventh row many years ago. Visitors who made the mistake of sitting there before her mom arrived were glared at until they scooted over. Mrs. Ford would then offer her gloved hand and a broad smile in welcome.

  Who still wears gloves to church? Mercedes thought. Then she just laughed the thought away because her mom dressed straight out of Essence magazine—perfectly coordinated and stylishly chic. Today she was decked out all in blue: a deep blue two-piece suit with a skirt that hit her legs exactly three inches below the knee—she never wore slacks to church—navy blue patent leather pumps with sensible two-inch heels, and the latest Coach purse. She always wore a hat—a big hat. For this particular Sunday morning, she’d chosen one with an elaborate blue brim and a bright pink feather. Mrs. Ford was the fashion statement of Sunday service.

  Mercedes purposely wore slacks and sneakers. She’d tried to wear jeans a couple of times, but her mom had acted like she was about to die of a heart attack or maybe embarrassment. Either way, Mercedes had rolled her eyes, but changed her clothes.

  The service was quiet. Peaceful hymns, controlled prayers, and a sensible sermon. But Mercedes wanted to, needed to, scream. She could have really used a good, old-fashioned holy-roller church today. She yearned for a hundred-voice choir dressed in red robes to holler and sing, an amped-up organ to blast the beat with the singers, booming drums to pound, and a preacher who shouted and sweated and prayed for Diamond to come home.

  Instead Mercedes sat next to her impeccably poised mother while another polite hymn was sung in perfect harmony. She’d grown up in this church, and in spite of her rebellion against what she told her mother was “mind-boggling boredom,” she knew how to find that quiet place within herself. She’d never let her mother know, of course, but she had found how to let herself be carried by the serene melodies to a place where she could do her own praying. She didn’t think of God as some bearded guy in the sky. God was like a person she felt like she could talk to.

  So, rather than let her head explode in frustration, she bowed her head and sought that place. Lord, please forgive me for letting Diamond get kidnapped. Friends are supposed to protect friends from bad guys, right? I hope this isn’t out of line, but where were You? How come You let this happen? I’m not blaming You, but couldn’t You have whipped up an earthquake or something—just enough to make her think that maybe getting into that car was a really bad idea?

  She needs Your help, Lord. Can You whisper to her that we’re all looking for her, that we all care about her? Can You give her some kind of heavenly hug that lets her know she’s not alone and that there’s hope? There is hope for her, right? I know You’ve been getting lots of prayers about Diamond lately. I guess folks clog Your in-box all the time with stupid prayers for dumb stuff. But this is real and serious. Please let Diamond come home safe. Please?

  Mercedes’ mother nudged her. “Wake up.”

  “I’m not asleep,” Mercedes whispered.

  The congregation rose for the final hymn and prayer. Well-dressed, hat-wearing women like her mother and casually dressed ladies in flip-flops. Fidgety, probably hungry, children. Men looking dapper in white shirts and dark suits and red striped ties, as well as men in golf shirts and khakis. Teenagers in shorts and T-shirts. Old ladies with walkers. Young married couples with squirming babies.

  Her father, who was the newly appointed youth pastor, stepped up to the pulpit and took the mike from the lead pastor, who handed it to him with a nod. “I’d like to make a special request this morning,” Mr. Ford explained. “Please join hands.” Everyone looked around in confusion. This was not part of Sunday service.

  He waited until hands linked. “As we leave this place of worship,” he began, “let us all be thankful for the gifts of God. And let us also be mindful of a gaping hole in our midst. All of you, I’m sure, have heard about the disappearance of a young woman from our community. Let us bow our heads and pray for her now, and I ask that you continue to pray for her from your homes.” He took a deep breath. “Dear Lord, we ask that You keep Diamond Landers in Your arms of protection and bring her home quickly and safely to her family. Amen.”

  Mercedes looked up in surprise as the whole church erupted with a loud and hearty “Amen.” Maybe this prayer stuff is gonna work.

  19

  DIAMOND, Sunday, April 14 10 a.m.

  “Hook wounded me. I can neither fly nor swim.”

  —from Peter Pan

  Pain, searing pain, woke Diamond up the next morning. She was covered by a thin sheet that only came up to her waist. She felt like she would vomit. Still tied to the bed, but by only one arm this time, she groaned as she pulled the sheet the rest of the way up to hide her nakedness. Every muscle ached, bringing back the horrible details of the night before. She couldn’t stop crying. She wanted her mother, her father, her sister, the warmth and safety of home. It hurt. It hurt so much.

  And she felt so ashamed.

  And furious! Thane, that evil, lying monster, was holding her prisoner. She was—oh God! He’d kidnapped her! She had no idea where she was or how to get away. And it was her own stupid fault. Stupid stupid stupid fault. She thrashed and screamed and clawed at the rope, but it did not budge—the knot would not give. She lay there finally, quiet, trembling, overwhelmed with terror, trying to keep her mind from imagining what he would do next.

  The door opened suddenly, and Thane entered carrying a tray. He smiled broadly. “Good morning, my princess! I brought you breakfast.” He carefully closed and locked the door behind him.

  Diamond pulled her knees to her chest, pain surging through her. “Will you let me go now? I won’t tell anyone, I swear. Please just let me go,” she pleaded, covering her face with her free arm.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t hear of it, my dear. You are a star! Your movie debut was amazing!”

  Diamond thought she was going to gag. “Please, please let me go home. I’ll never tell. Never!”

  Instead of answering her, Thane walked over to the bed and untied her arm. Diamond flinched as he began to gently rub where the ropes had gouged angry red marks into her wrist. “Go on and take a shower; the bathroom is right over there. You’ll feel a lot better. I’ve got fresh clothes laid out for you, and then you can eat.”

  Diamond was too scared not to do what he asked. She let him help her sit up, let him carefully wrap the sheet around her, then walked with him to the small bathroom. Each step sent pain flashing through her abdomen. Her mind was racing—should she try to fight him now that her hands were free? Make a run for it? To where—the locked door? He’d catch her, and what then? What if he got mad? What if he tried to kill her?

  She couldn’t risk it—not yet—she had no chance right now. Despondent, she let herself be led into the bathroom. Thane turned on the shower, then closed the door and left her alone. Diamond looked around wildly, but the bathroom, of course, had no window. There was no lock on the door either. Who didn’t have a lock on a bathroom door? Heart sinking, she stood in the shower for what seemed like an hour, trying in vain to wash the stench of last night’s nightmare from her body.

  When the water turned cold, she toweled off, but she still felt filth
y. Wincing, she put on the clothes Thane had left for her—underwear, jeans, and T-shirt that, weirdly, fit perfectly, and peeked into the bedroom. He was gone.

  She stepped back into the room, noticing that he had changed the sheets and fluffed the pillows. A breakfast of a banana, orange juice in a Styrofoam cup, and a Krispy Kreme doughnut sat on a tray decorated with one red rose lying on a napkin. Diamond stared at the rose, then flung it away against the far wall. What a pig! What a . . . Wait! Utensils! Maybe there was a fork—she could use a fork as a weapon! She pulled aside the napkin. There were no utensils.

  Diamond tried the door. Locked. She pounded on it, kicked it with all her might, beat it until her hands were sore. She screamed, “Let me out of here! You can’t do this! Let me go! Please! I want to go home!”

  But all was silent.

  Exhausted, she sat down and paid close attention to where she was. The room was small, the walls steeply slanted. It made her feel a little dizzy to look at them. A converted attic, she figured. The only window, a small octagon, was tucked at least twenty feet above her head, in the triangle where the two walls met. A chance to escape? Probably not. How would she ever get up there? Thin light, made gray by the rainy weather, filtered through it.

  She paced the room, checking for anything she could use to help her. She tried to remove a picture from the wall, but found it was nailed there. There were no lamps. No decorations. No television. There was nothing she could use as a weapon. Not one thing. She put her ear to the door, but she all she could hear was thick silence. It was as if she were in a tomb.

  The cameras had been removed, she noticed, but the massive, heavy-duty tripods stood poised and ready, permanently attached to the floor. She could not budge either one. The dresser drawers were nailed shut. The single chair was bolted to the floor. She swung open the closet door. It was empty.