So when is wrath okay? I know Mom was right to be furious with Dad after Beth's accident. But her anger destroyed their marriage. Mostly because it wasn't hot anger. It was cold. She froze him out. Silently. And he couldn't take it anymore. And I was angry at him too. But Beth wasn't, and she was the one who got hurt. She forgave him long ago. But Mom and I still haven't. I'm supposed to visit him more than I do. But he's got a girlfriend nowâMarlene something-or-otherâand I can't stand her. When I see them, Dad gets mad at me for being rude. So it all comes full circle, doesn't it? But right now, staying mad is going to help me get out of here. I need all the help I can get.
I put the pen down, rip the page off the pad and fold it up. After I slip it through the slot in the door, I take the pen and write
DAY 2âWRATH
on the wall. Next to it I draw a hand throwing a lightning bolt. The hand is hard to draw, but I do a pretty good job. Writing and art in one day. Mom would be so proud.
I think about going back to bed, but I'm worried that I'll lose all my muscle tone if I sleep too much. I have to eat. I have to stay fit. So I run laps around the apartment, which must look insane. When I'm too tired to run anymore, I lie down on the floor to stretch. From the floor, the ceiling looks miles away. I turn to look at my drawings and notice a pile of white dust on the carpet near the wall. I crawl over and stick my finger in it. It's gritty. Not cocaine then. Probably just as well. I need to stay focused. When I sweep my hand over the wall, my palm comes away white. I look up at the rows of glass block and suddenly I know what I need to do.
When I get to Cara's house the next morning, I wonder if it's too early to knock on the door. But then I remember the little girl. What was her name? Haley. Little kids don't sleep in, do they?
The door opens before I can knock. Cara is wearing yoga pants and a tight gray hoodie, and Haley is in a pink tutu. At eight o'clock in the morning. No wonder Cara looks tired.
“I'm a bal-reena,” Haley says.
“Nice tutu,” I say.
Haley twirls away into the living room, where the
TV
is on. All traces of the party are gone. The house smells like lemons.
I follow Cara into the kitchen. There are red place mats on the old wooden table, and the counters are clean and uncluttered.
“Coffee?” Cara says, holding up a bright red mug. “I'm on my third cup.” She laughs. “Only way to keep up with Haley.”
“I'm good,” I say. “Where's Devon?”
“At work, believe it or not. Valet parking at the Delta.”
“Did he tell you what he saw?”
She takes a sip of coffee before she speaks. “He told me he saw Amy and Shawna leave the party together.”
“And?”
“And he remembered the make and model of the car they got into. He's into cars. Always has been.”
“So?”
Cara frowns at me. I must have sounded impatient, but I'm not sure how this information helps me. Especially if the car is something generic. Like a silver Honda Civic. Or a beige Camry.
“Did he get a license-plate number?” I ask.
“Nope, but the car was some deluxe hybrid thingie. I wrote it down when he told me. He doesn't know I called you. Doesn't want to get involved. The cops will question him sooner or later though. He'll be involved whether he likes it or not. So will I. So I figured the least I could do is give you a heads up.” She digs a scrap of paper out of her pocket and hands it to me.
BMW ActiveHybrid 750 Li dark gray or black
I wonder how many BMW hybrids there are in the city. Maybe the information will keep the cops off my back though. I look up at Cara, who smiles and says, “Hope it helps. And don't worry about me and Devon. We can deal. Won't be the first time.” For a minute she looks like any teenage girl. Blue nail polish, messy ponytail, smudged mascara, nice ass. I can't believe I'm looking at another girl's ass when Amy is missing. Then Haley bursts into the room, singing, “Fruit salad yummy yummy!” at the top of her lungs. Cara picks her up and dances around the room with her as I make my way to the door.
As I'm about to leave, Cara says. “Keep me posted, okay?” I nod, and Haley pats my face with a sticky little hand. “Bye-bye, Ewic,” she says.
When I get to the police station, I can't remember the names of the cops who questioned me.
“I have information about the Amy Lessard case,” I say.
The woman at the front desk, whose name tag says
Volunteer
, barely looks up from the game she's playing on her cell phone. “The what case?”
“Amy Lessard. The girl who went missing. I talked to two cops. A man and a woman.”
“Well, that sure narrows it down,” she says sarcastically. She turns her back on me and picks up the desk phone. After a brief conversation, she points to a bench in the waiting area. “Have a seat. Someone will be out to talk to you.” She goes back to her game.
Half an hour later, I'm still waiting. I need to be out looking for Amy. I go back to the desk and ask for a piece of paper and a pen.
“What for?” the troll asks.
I resist saying that I want to stab her with the pen. “I have to go. I'll just leave a note.”
She shoves a small pink message pad at me, along with a chewed-up Bic stick pen. I write Amy's name and the date at the top of the page, followed by
Last seen getting into a BMW ActiveHybrid 7
5
0 Liâblack or dark gray.
I don't leave my name or phone number. When I hand the pad back to her, she tears the top sheet off and impales it on a spike on her desk. There are a lot of messages on the spike. Some of them are faded and curling. I guess volunteers don't take an oath to serve and protect.
I walk from the police station to the only BMW dealer in town. No one's going to believe I'm in the market for a BMW hybrid. But they might believe I'm an intern doing research for an article on green vehicles. So far, that's my plan.
When I stroll into the showroom, no one pays any attention to me. I find the 750 Li and walk slowly around it, crouching to inspect the tires. I mutter into my cell phone, as if I'm taking notes. After about ten minutes, a young guy in a dark suit approaches me.
I stick out my hand and introduce myself. “Carl Woodward. I'm researching an article about green cars. You know. Fuel efficiency, sustainability. I heard the BMW is very advanced.”
He nods and says, “BMW hybrid technology is second to none.”
“But aren't they kind of, uh, out of reach for most people?”
He laughs. “You might say that. But we still move lots of them.”
“So, this model.” I point to the 750 Li. “How many of these have you sold?”
“Let me check my files,” he says. “Don't want you printing any misinformation.”
“No, sir,” I say, trailing him into his office.
He gestures to a chair, and I sit while he consults his laptop. “Here we go,” he finally says. “Nationwide year to dateâ almost two hundred.”
“And locally?”
“Locally, about twenty.”
Twenty. My heart sinks. The salesman's eyes flick over to the showroom, where a man and woman are circling one of the sedans.
He stands up and hands me a brochure. “For the specs,” he says.
“Anyone else I could contact? For a human-interest angle. A happy customer, maybe.”
He shakes his head as he ushers me out. “No can do, Carl. Client confidentiality and all that.”
Like he's a doctor or a lawyer. Or a priest.
I stand outside the dealership, pretending to talk on my phone. If he takes the couple for a test drive, maybe I can get back into his office and read his files. But the couple comes out on foot a few minutes later. Lookie-loos. Just my luck.
I start walking to the bus stop. My phone rings and I'm so startled, I almost drop it. Maybe Amy has turned up. But it's not Amy. It's her dad, Charlie, ready to play “Blame the Boyfriend.”
Last summer my mom made me help her tile the kitchen backsplash. She said it would be fun. It wasn't. It was messy and boring. And it took two days. Two days I'll never get back. Mom said, “Someday you'll be glad you know how to do this.” I couldn't imagine how that might be true. Until now. The white powder is dried grout. Grout is what holds the glass blocks in place. Grout can be removed. It's hard work, but it can be done. You just need the right tools. All I have is a toilet rod. That will have to do.
First problemâhow to reach the glass blocks. I have two plastic tables (one large, one small), one plastic chair, a mattress, three wicker baskets and a recycling bin. I shove the kitchen table against the wall and drag the mattress next to it. If I do fall, at least I won't break my neck. I empty the baskets. They are full of clothing: yoga pants, T-shirts, underwear. I kick the clothes into a corner. No way am I going to wear that shit, no matter how gross I get. I position the baskets upside down on the table. They are fairly sturdy, but not exactly solid. Enough to support my weight, I hope. I'm still nowhere near the glass blocks. The recycling box goes on next, then the small table and finally the chair.
Second problemâI'm deathly afraid of heights. Phobic, almost. I lie down on the floor for a few minutes and force myself to take long, slow breaths. I am sweating again, and it's not just from exertion. Fear twists my guts, and I stumble to the bathroom and throw up the apple I just ate. What if I starve to death? What if I fall? What if I can't reach the glass blocks? What if my kidnapper comes in and finds me trying to escape? What if...
“Pull yourself together, Amy,” I say out loud. That's what Mom always says to me when I get upset. The sound of my voice in the apartment is strange but sort of comforting. Only one person knows where I am, but my voice reminds me that I still exist. Me. Amy Lessard. Daughter. Sister. Girlfriend. Soccer player. Dancer. I stick the toilet rod in the waistband of my skirt and talk to myself as I start to climb.
“You can do this, Amy. The table is solid. You are strong. You don't weigh much. The baskets will hold you. The recycling box is stable. You're okay. Take a deep breath. Keep going.”
The tower is wobbly, to say the least. But I take it slowly. Very slowly. And I don't look down. I can't afford to be dizzy.
When I get to the chair, I kneel at first. I'm terrified, but I'm still not quite high enough to reach the grout. Slowly, very slowly, I stand up. “Ta-da!” I whisper when I'm upright. I feel like I'm in a really low-budget circus act. Amazing Amy and the Leaning Tower of Doom. The chair shifts, and I put one hand on the wall to steady myself. Vomit rises in my throat, but I swallow it down. I take the toilet rod out of my waistband and poke at the grout. A small trickle of powder slithers down the wall to the floor. I'm in business.
I have no idea how long I chip away at the grout. If I had to guess, I'd say a couple of hours. The light changes in the room, and my shoulder and neck start seizing up. My legs start to shake. The pot lights go on. I climb down before I fall down. The pile of grout dust on the floor has grown, but it's going to take a long time to loosen even one of the blocks. I need to eat and rest. Conserve my energy. Give my arm a chance to recover.
I splash water on my face at the kitchen sink and then make another cheese sandwich. As I eat, I wonder what's going on outside these four walls. Has Mom called the cops? Is Dad freaking out? Is Eric still mad at me for wanting to stay at the party? I put the sandwich down. The party. I was dancing with that girl, Shawna. I remember her getting us wine coolers. And I remember getting into a car with her. After thatâ nothing. I lie back on the mattress and close my eyes. My last thought before I sleep is, why would Shawna drug me?
When I wake up, I feel like crap. I smell bad, and my neck, shoulder and arm are on fire. A hot shower would help, but I can't do that. The tower looms over me, and I groan. I have to get up there again soon, but first I think I'll write my stupid daily essay. Get that out of the way. I sit with my back against the wall and write. It hurts even to hold the pen.
“Greed is good.” That's what the Michael Douglas character says in that movie
Wall Street
. I kind of agree with him. I know greed can get out of hand. Like when someone is greedy for power and kills people to get it. But if you're not a bit greedy, aren't you kind of passive? Dad used to call me Greedy-guts. I always wanted moreâ the last cookie, my sister's Barbie dolls, another push on the swings, extra butter on a bucket of popcorn at the movies. And I usually got what I wanted. My greed didn't hurt anybody except me. My sister was happy to share her toys. I was the one with cavities and a fat ass. So why is greed bad? Is it because you don't really need the things you're greedy for? Or you want something just so no one else can have it? Is it greedy to want money if you're poor? Is it greedy to want love if you're lonely? Is it greedy to want someone else's boyfriend? Last year I was going out with Jason Broderman. Nice guy. Hot. Not superbright. Eric was on-again, off-again dating this chick named Nicki. I thought Eric was cute and funny and smart. I decided I would be better for him than Nicki. When Eric and Nicki had a fight one night at a party, Eric and I hooked up. Nicki switched schools after that. So was I greedy? Sure, I hurt Nicki and Jason, but Eric and I are really happy. Does that make it right? I think I know the answer to that, but right now I don't care.
If I'm going to escape, I need to be greedy for freedom. Really greedy. So right now, yeah, greed is good.
Before I fall asleep again, I scrawl
DAY 3âGREED
on the wall and draw a pirate's treasure chest next to it.
I always thought Mr. Lessard liked me. Before Beth's accident, he was all easygoing, friendly. “Call me Charlie,” he'd say, or, “Sit down and take a load off.” He was always offering me food, asking about my games. He used to play football in high school too. Back in the day. I've hardly seen him since the divorce. Amy doesn't want to hang out with him, and she hates his new girlfriend. But now, as I listen to him accuse me of hurting his “little girl,” I realize that he has no idea who I really am. That I would no more hurt Amy than he would. Unless I'm reading him all wrong too.