Panic

by Sharon M. Draper

  “So she wouldn’t be charmed by this Pierre fellow if he’d contacted her online or by text?”

  “Not a chance.”

  “And the others?”

  “Nobody special, really. She stays busy with her dancing and her schoolwork. We dance four or five nights a week. When we get home from dance, we do our homework and collapse. We don’t have time to look for dudes online!”

  The officer scribbled something, then continued. “We’ve read the text she sent you. Is Diamond a big fan of California Clover and Diva Dawson?”

  “Not any more than anybody else. They’re our age, and they’ve made it big, so we admire them, but it’s not like we’re fan stalkers or anything.”

  “So you don’t think Diamond would run away to be in a movie with either of those movie stars?”

  “Look, Diamond did not run away,” Mercedes insisted, her voice rising. “She was not lured away by some pedophile online. Somehow, somebody convinced her she could be in a movie, and she’s with that person now. Look, I don’t mean to be rude, but why don’t you quit asking me dumb questions and go out there and find her?”

  Officer Rockside’s eyes grew kind. “Miss Ford, I understand your frustration. I can assure you that we have a team scouring the mall and that parking lot. We have a team checking video surveillance tapes in the area. We have officers looking for anyone who has recently rented movie equipment. We are using every means at our disposal to find your friend, and the answers to your questions can actually help us.”

  Mercedes took this all in, willing herself to calm down. “Did you find out if a studio is filming a movie in the area? Wouldn’t it be on the news if Diva Dawson and California Clover were in town?” she asked.

  A shadow crossed Officer Rockside’s face. “I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but California Clover is in London, and we’ve tracked Diva Dawson to Brazil. Both are on location and have been for several weeks.” He paused, then added, “Neither of them has anything scheduled for this area.”

  Mercedes felt her heart grow icy, and let out a groan. “Uh, well, thanks for letting me know,” she finally said.

  The policeman rose and closed his notebook. “I appreciate your candor. I hope your friend is found soon. We’re doing our best. Trust me.”

  Mercedes stood up, feeling shaky, and found her way to the kitchen to make a sandwich for Shasta. She added a piece of her mom’s cake to the plate, then poured a glass of milk.

  As she trudged back up the stairs, she wondered how the heck she’d manage to keep cheerful and upbeat in front of Diamond’s little sister.

  “Hey, I cut you a slice with the thickest frosting,” she told Shasta as she entered the room. “And I made you a sandwich—your mom needs you to be strong and healthy. You don’t want her to worry about you being sick on top of everything else, do you?”

  Shasta took a bite, then set the sandwich down. “I heard you downstairs.”

  “What?”

  “Talking to the cop.”

  Mercedes’ mind churned as Shasta reminded her that she hid at the top of the stairs to get info. How much of that conversation would a nine-year-old have understood? she wondered.

  “You probably shouldn’t have done that,” was all Mercedes could manage to say.

  “That’s the only way I find out anything around here!” Shasta shoved the plate away, hitting it into the milk and spilling it. “Diamond’s never coming home, is she?” she asked, her voice fierce.

  Mercedes didn’t know what to say. She was worried about exactly the same thing.

  21

  LAYLA, Sunday, April 14 6 p.m.

  “It’s all a bit tragic, really, isn’t it?”

  —from Peter Pan

  Layla whipped off a text to Mercedes about the vigil, then flopped on the faded flowered sofa. She picked up the remote, but tossed it aside—she didn’t think she could handle the noise of the overly cheerful television commercials that encouraged everyone to buy this toothpaste or that pasta or that sleek new car.

  Layla and her mom had moved to their small apartment shortly after her father had been sent to prison. Those four rooms had seen many occupants. The floors and woodwork were scuffed, the walls needed a coat of paint, and the faucet in the kitchen dripped all night. But they kept everything dusted and the furniture polished, and Layla made sure the yellow curtains in the kitchen window stayed clean and fresh. She wasn’t much of a housekeeper in her own bedroom, but she kept the kitchen spotless.

  One of the best conversations she remembered having with her dad was in the kitchen of their old house. It had been a big, rambling house, also old, but not sad and ragged like their apartment. The house had what her father had called “character,” with a porch that wrapped around the whole building. She’d played on that porch every day in the summer. It had been a puppet show backdrop, a racetrack, and a modeling runway. And, of course, a practice stage for her dancing.

  “They don’t build houses like this anymore,” her dad had told her. He’d been sipping a tall lemonade from an icy glass while glancing at the newspaper at the kitchen table. “This house was built to be a home, a place where a family can always feel safe.”

  “I always feel safe with you around, Daddy,” Layla had said to him, climbing onto his lap. He had smelled yummy—he had worn a leathery lemon-tinged cologne. Now, whenever she sipped lemonade, she thought of her dad.

  “See those curtains?” he’d said, nodding toward the ones in the kitchen.

  “Yeah.”

  “When I come home from work and see you dancing like a pretty little bird on our big ol’ porch, and I see those yellow curtains doin’ their own dance in the breeze, I know I’m home with my girls and everything is fine, just fine.”

  When Layla and her mother were forced to leave the house with the wonderful porch because they simply could no longer afford it, they had to leave much of their furniture and many of their belongings behind. Who needs a lawnmower or a snow shovel when you’re living in an apartment? But Layla, even though she had only been ten years old, carefully took down those kitchen curtains and swore to herself that when her father got home, those yellow curtains would be waiting for him.

  Whether her mom would be waiting was another question. She knew her mother rarely made the five-hour drive to where her father was being held, and they hardly ever talked on the phone. Jail phone calls were crazy expensive for both parties.

  Thinking about jail cells made Layla remember that Diamond was out there somewhere. Maybe being kept against her will. Maybe scared and alone. She wrapped her arms around her knees, hoping against hope that she wasn’t.

  When the phone rang, she jumped. The ringer sounded muffled, so she followed the noise until she found the phone—stuffed in the junk drawer in the kitchen.

  “Hello?”

  When she pulled the phone from the drawer, the phone bill, the light bill, and a folded sheet of paper all came out with it, tumbling to the floor.

  “Hey, Layla. Uh, this is Justin.”

  “Hi, Justin. What’s up? Why you calling on the home phone?”

  “Oh, my bad. I meant to call your cell.”

  Layla reached down to stick the bills and the letter back in the drawer. Her mom had one strange filing system, she thought.

  “I just wanted to let you know I thought you did a great job at the showcase last night.”

  “You’re kidding, right? Didn’t you see me splat my fat butt all over the stage?”

  “I think you handled it gracefully and professionally. It happens to all of us. You ever watch Dancing with the Stars? They wipe out all the time, and they’re on national television!”

  “Well, I’m glad there were no cameras last night!” Layla paused. The folded letter had fallen open. The heading read, in large black letters, BUREAU OF CORRECTIONS.

  “You know, you look awesome every time you dance,” Justin told her.

  Layla picked the letter up distractedly, hardly noticing the nervousness in Jus
tin’s voice.

  “Huh? Oh, thanks.” Layla quickly scanned the letter.

  “Are you there? Do we have a bad connection?” Justin asked. “My cell phone is funky, and sometimes I have trouble getting enough bars for a signal.”

  “What? No. I mean, I’m here. I got sidetracked—I just was reading a letter I found.”

  “A letter? Are you okay? You sound shaky.”

  “Yes, I am. I mean, no, I’m not. I don’t know.” Layla stuffed the letter back in the drawer, her hand trembling.

  “What’s wrong, Layla? Tell me.”

  Layla hedged. “Well, it’s, like, uh . . . I guess everybody knows my father is in jail.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “I just found this letter in the kitchen drawer. It’s from two weeks ago.”

  “What’s it say?”

  Layla shook her head in disbelief. “I can’t believe my mother didn’t tell me!”

  “Tell you what?”

  “My dad—he’s coming home—this week! My daddy’s coming home!”

  “That’s great news, Layla! You must be so psyched.”

  “Maybe my mom wanted to surprise me,” she said, wondering why her mother hadn’t told her yet— Why hadn’t she?

  “That would be so cool,” Justin offered. His voice sounded cautious, as if he weren’t sure exactly what to say.

  “But . . . maybe she’s ashamed of him. Maybe she won’t want him in the house. She wouldn’t do that, would she? Not let me see him? Maybe that’s why she didn’t tell me!”

  “I don’t know. All I know is I’d give anything to see my mom again. You’re really lucky, Layla.”

  “Oh, Justin. I’m sorry. I forgot about your mother. Jeez—I’ve been feeling sorry for myself for the past six years because I didn’t have my father with me, and for you, that pain is forever.”

  “Yeah, it kinda is,” he replied, his voice getting husky. Then he asked, “Are you coming to the candlelight vigil for Diamond tonight?”

  “Of course! Donny’s picking me up in a few.”

  “Uh, yeah, right. I guess I’ll see you there, then,” Justin said.

  “Hey, I gotta go, Justin. I’ve got to wash the kitchen curtains.”

  “Huh? Tonight?”

  “It’s a private thing between me and my dad. And I have to call Donny and tell him the good news! I’ll see you tonight at the vigil. Bye!”

  She hung up before Justin had finished saying good-bye.

  22

  JUSTIN, Sunday, April 14 8 p.m.

  “ . . . the world was round, and so in time they must come back to their own window.”

  —from Peter Pan

  In spite of the chilly drizzle, the crowd surrounding the flagpole at Broadway High grew from just a few students to a huge throng in a matter of minutes. Huddled five and six deep, whispering softly, many held umbrellas, so from a distance, the group looked like a multicolored cloud.

  Justin carried no umbrella. He wore a thick black hoodie, which he knew would be soaked by the end of the evening, but he didn’t care.

  The principal, Mrs. Gennari, in the brightest green raincoat he had ever seen, passed out candles and paper plates. Justin was glad to see that his father had come, and he noticed Layla’s mom in the crowd as well. Mercedes’ mom was helping pass out the candles, while her dad had gone to talk to the news crew that had materialized out of the darkness.

  “Stay back and show some respect,” Mr. Ford was saying. “This is a vigil, not a breaking news story. You understand?”

  The reporter nodded, but moved to a prime position anyway.

  “Punch a hole in center of the paper plate,” Mrs. Gennari was explaining, “and push your candle through. That way you won’t get burned by the melting wax. But please be careful with the flames. I can’t deal with any more trauma this weekend.”

  Jillian glided over to Justin, her movements fluid even when she wasn’t dancing. She handed him a red ribbon, pinned in the middle. “Wear it for Diamond,” she told him.

  “You made all these?” Justin asked in surprise, looking at the shoebox full of ribbons she held.

  “I couldn’t sleep,” she said with a shrug. She moved to another group of students and gave each of them a ribbon as well.

  There were lots of kids from the dance studio in the crowd, as well as Miss Ginger and nearly all Diamond’s teachers from school.

  Zizi was passing out flyers. Each one had Diamond’s picture on it, and the words, HAVE YOU SEEN THIS GIRL? PLEASE CALL 800-555-3344 IF YOU HAVE ANY INFORMATION. More details, like police phone numbers and e-mail contact information, filled the bottom of the flyer.

  When Diamond’s parents, looking both drained and tense, arrived and joined the crowd, people reached out to touch them. To show their support, Justin guessed. Shasta, her eyes large and frightened, clung to her mother’s hand.

  Mercedes hurried over to them and led them to a few chairs that had been set up inside the circle, close to the flagpole. Mrs. Landers thanked her, looking grateful for a place to sit.

  Justin heard Donovan’s car before he saw it. The engine rumbled and the music blared—loud and disrespectful, Justin thought. A few minutes later he saw Layla and Donny join the crowd, holding hands.

  Jillian hurried over to give them ribbons. Layla pinned hers to her jacket. Donny glanced at the slim red ribbon, then stuffed it into his pocket.

  As one by one, everyone began to light their candles, the tiny sparks of light seemed to converge into a huge, glowing blossom of fire, a ring of incandescence in the darkness.

  When it seemed that all the candles were lit and all those who were coming had assembled, Mrs. Gennari asked for their attention over her portable microphone. “We are here tonight to show our support to Diamond’s family and to pray for her safe return. We want Diamond to know, wherever she is, that we love her and just want her to be back here with us. We’d like to ask Mr. Ford, who is the youth pastor of the Broadway Avenue Congregational Church, to say a few words.”

  Justin noticed a small smile on Mercedes’ face as all eyes looked to her father.

  “The Bible tells the story,” the pastor began, “of a man who had a hundred sheep and lost one of them. He left the ninety-nine and went looking for that one lost sheep. And when he found it, he called his friends and neighbors and celebrated. That’s what we’re going to do when Diamond comes home.”

  “You throwin’ the party?” someone asked from the crowd.

  “I’d be glad to,” Mr. Ford replied. “We’ll have it at the church.”

  The voice from the crowd didn’t reply. Justin figured that that wasn’t the kind of party he’d been looking for.

  “Let us pray,” Pastor Ford continued. “Dear Lord, please be with Diamond tonight. Let her know we love her. Let her know we care. Please keep her safe from harm and bring her back safely so we can rejoice. Amen.”

  “Amen,” many of the students murmured.

  “Would anyone like to add something?” Mrs. Gennari asked. She held up the portable microphone.

  Justin was surprised to see that Layla was the first to raise her hand. Mrs. Gennari nodded to her.

  Layla began to speak, her voice shaky. Justin thought the flickering light from the candle made her face look almost angelic. “Diamond is my friend,” she said, “and I believe with all my being that she is coming home. I gotta believe that. I gotta believe that.” She started to cry and, leaning into Donovan, handed the mike back. Justin watched in frustration—he wanted so badly to be the one comforting her.

  Mercedes spoke next, without the mike. Holding her candle in one hand, she squeezed Steve’s hand with the other and said, “I just want to tell you guys to look out for each other. Stick with a friend when you go out. I don’t want to go to another one of these vigils. Diamond, wherever you are, you know you’re my girl. Come back, you hear? Come back.”

  Justin walked up and took the microphone next. “I just wanna say to Mr. and Mrs. Landers, and Shasta, that it’s
gonna be okay. Seriously. I just know it. Diamond is like her name—bright but tough. She will be back, and soon.”

  At least two dozen students and teachers made comments, many of them, like Justin, sharing words of encouragement to Diamond’s family. In spite of the nasty drizzle, nobody seemed to want to leave.

  Mrs. Gennari took the mike once more. “As we leave this place, I want you all to think of the power of these candles we see flickering here tonight. Diamond is missing. But the lights I see around me give me hope.”

  She paused and unfolded a sheet of notebook paper. “I’d like to read something—something written by Diamond last year, for a language arts research project that she did on missing children,” she said. “Her mother found it in Diamond’s desk drawer and has given us permission to read it. I’ve only changed the very first and very last lines.”

  Justin looked up sharply.

  Mrs. Gennari said, “Please hold up your candles, my friends.” She lifted her own arm, and her candle burned brightly. She cleared her throat and began.

  “This candle is Diamond, who’s missing tonight

  This candle is Lisa and Ken

  This candle is all those who can’t find the light

  This candle is love deep within.

  This candle is Shayla, who’s lovely and thin

  And Kelly, who lived on the phone

  It’s Mona and Alex and Buddy and Kim,

  Whose parents have hope made of stone.

  This candle is searchers who look for the lost

  Officers and friends with no fears

  Who never get glory or count up the cost

  As they seek to erase all the tears.

  This candle is dancers, musicians, and scribes

  Who ease all our pain with their art

  It’s dreamers and poets and rappers with vibes

  Who help us to unbreak our hearts.

  If the glow from one candle can brighten the night

  The glow of one thousand can blind.

  And when Diamond comes home, she’ll feel this great light

  And know how our love for her shines.”

  Justin thought the poem was pretty weak, but the message was strong. It’s kinda creepy that she wrote it over a year ago, he thought.