“I don't know where she is, Mr. Lessard,” I say for the tenth time. “I don't know what I can say to make you believe me. I love her.”
He snorts. “You don't know anything about love,” he says.
“Maybe not,” I say. My phone beepsâincoming callâand I tell Mr. Lessard I have to go. I don't care who is calling. It can't be worse than talking to good ol' Charlie. But it is.
“Eric, this is Detective Rayburn. We'd like you to come down to the police station. Some new information has come to light. We've got a few more questions for you.”
“Like what?” Too late, I remember what Mom said about talking to the police.
“We'll talk when you get here.”
“What if I don't come?”
“Well, Eric, we can't force you to help us. But it might be in your best interest.”
“What do you mean?”
Detective Rayburn sighs. “You coming or not, son?”
“I'll get back to you,” I say. Then I hang up and call my mother on her personal line. I think it's time to get Mr. Franks on board.
The room we meet in at the police station the next day is surprisingly nice. Cream carpet, dark wood conference table, comfortable chairs. There are six people in the roomâand a video recorder. Mr. Franks, my mother and I sit on one side of the table. Detective Rayburn and the two cops who came to my house sit across from us.
Rayburn reaches out to start the recorder, and Mr. Franks says, “Bit soon for that, don't you think, Mitch? My client isn't under arrest, is he?”
Rayburn shakes his head and lowers his hand. “Not yet,” he says.
I have been instructed not to speak, but it's killing me. This is a total waste of time. I need to get out of here and find Shawna. Shawna is the link to Amy. Why don't they see that? While we're sitting here with our thumbs up our asses, someone may be hurting Amy. Or worse.
“A witness has come forward,” Rayburn says.
“Ah,” says Mr. Franks. “Do tell.”
Next to me, my mother is the perfect picture of the ditzy, clueless mom, letting the big man do all the talking. I can tell how pissed off she is by the way she clenches her fists in her lap.
“A young woman named Nicki”â Rayburn reads the file in front of himâ“Nicki Morrison says she saw Eric and Amy together after the party. She says they were arguing, and Eric hit Amy.” He looks down at the file again. “Apparently Eric hasâshall we sayâa history of violence.”
I almost laugh. A history of violence. That was an awesome movie. I wonder if Rayburn has seen it. But there's nothing funny about his accusation. Nicki was my girlfriend back when the whole assault thing went down. We broke up when I met Amy. Nicki wasn't very happy. Neither was Jason, Amy's old boyfriend. But it's ancient history. At least, I thought it was until now.
“The charges were dropped,” Mr. Franks says. “It was a boys' brawl that got out of hand. You know that as well as I do, Mitch.”
“Ms. Morrison says Eric hit her when they were together.” Rayburn picks up a photo and slides it across the table to us. Nicki with a black eye. A black eye she got when we were playing racquetball. She refused to wear goggles. Said she didn't need them. She was wrong.
“Iâ” I don't even get a second word out before Mr. Franks cuts me off.
“That all you got, Mitch?” he says. “Hardly evidence of a crime.”
“There's more,” Rayburn says. “Ms. Morrison has a friend named Shawna who says Eric drove away with Amy in an suv that matches the description of his father's car. We're getting a warrant to search the car.”
This time I do laugh out loud. Mom grips my arm, but I shake her off.
“You think this is funny, son?” Rayburn says.
“Hilarious,” I say. “Come on, Mom. We're done.”
We stand up and leave the room. Mr. Franks is close behind.
“I told you not to speak, Eric,” he says. “I can't help you if you incriminate yourself.”
We all speed-walk to the parking lot. Before Mom and I get in our car, I apologize to Mr. Franks.
“I'm sorry, but they are so full of shit.”
“I'm listening,” he says.
“Amy and Shawna got into a Beemer hybrid that night. I found a witness. A good one. My dad drives a Lexus, and it's not even a hybrid. Nicki's just a jealous bitch. And she's the link to Shawna.”
“You're sure about this?” Mom asks.
“Positive. And I'm going to prove it.”
Mr. Franks frowns at me. “I'd rather you let me handle it, Eric.” He turns to my mother. “I can put Pete on it right away, Donna. Find this Shawna girl, find Amy.”
Before my mother can speak, I say, “Twenty-four hours, Mr. F. That's all I ask. If I haven't found Amy by then, you can call in whoever you like.”
“Donna?” Mr. Franks says.
Mom nods. “Twenty-four hours, Eric. Then it's out of your hands.”
“For the record, I don't like it,” Mr. Franks says.
Mom laughs. “You never like anything.”
“I like keeping my clients out of jail,” he says.
I salute him as he drives away.
We drive home in silence. Mom doesn't ask me what my plans are, and I don't tell her. She still hasn't suggested calling Dad. Maybe she thinks this is a good test of my character. If I fail... I can't fail. Amy is depending on me.
I can't believe how much I'm sleeping. When I wake up, it's light again and I'm starving. I wish I could make toast, but there's no toaster. The first thing I'm going to eat when I get out of here is toast with organic peanut butter and banana. I fill a bowl with a mix of the disgusting cereals and pour some milk over it. It's not as bad as I thought it would be. Sort of nutty. I have two bowls, and then I eat an orange. I sit at the table for a while, trying to get up enough energy to climb my leaning tower. I ache all over now, but I can't let that stop me. I know the police must be looking for me, but I can't count on them finding me.
There must have been a lot of bran in the cereal. I stagger to the bathroom and take the most explosive dump of my life. The smell is beyond gross. I remember when my dad tried to convince us to save water by posting that stupid rhyme in the bathroomâ
If it's yellow let it mellow; if it's brown flush it down
. Who knew I'd ever agree with him. Now I hope I can remember how to put the toilet back together. I have a sudden longing for my dad. The dad before Beth's accident. The fun dad. The dad who always had time to watch me dance. The dad who made waffles on Sunday mornings. The dad who could fix anything and never did.
The toilet is pretty easy to put back together. Maybe I have a future as a plumber. Butt crack and all. I hike up my skirt, flush the toilet twice and then take the rod out again.
Before I climb the tower, I do the stretching routine we always do before dance class. It's sort of a fusion of yoga and Pilates, and it's meant to be done slowly. I try not to rush, but it's hard. I want to get back to work. I breathe deeply as I stretch, hoping it will calm me. Mom took up meditation after Dad left. She's always trying to get me to go. Now I wish I had.
When I feel a little more limber, I climb the tower again. It wobbles a bit, but I'm not as scared as I was yesterday. I'm totally focused on what I have to do. I chip away at the grout until my arm starts shaking uncontrollably. I take a lunch break, have a short nap and get back to work. The grout pile on the floor is growing.
As I work, I wonder again what's going on outside this room. Has my picture been on the front page of the paper? If it has, I hope Mom gave them the one of me that I use as my Facebook profile picture. Eric took it at the beach a while ago. I'm laughing and tanned and my hair looks great. Are the police interrogating Eric? Has anyone tracked down Shawna? Is Mom freaking out? Is Beth okay? Has someone started a
Help Find Amy
Facebook page? Maybe I'll be able to sell my story to, like,
People
magazine when I get out. Maybe I'll write a book. A bestseller. Mom would be so proud. And maybe I could buy her a nice house and a decent car. Take us all on a vacation. That's not greedy, is it? To want to be free and have a nice life?
On my next break, before I eat and nap again, I sit on the mattress and write about envy.
Right now, I'm envious of anyone who has their freedom. How can that be a sin? To want to feel the sunshine on my face? To hear Beth and Mom singing silly duets while they make dinner? To taste a strawberry-mango smoothie? To smell Mom's chocolate chip cookies? To see Eric's smile?
No, I think envy is a sin when you want something that someone else has and you want to take it away from them. And yeah, I've felt envy lots of timesâeven when I was really little. I remember when my friend Molly got Surf City Barbie for her birthday. I wanted it so much, I convinced myself it was okay to “borrow” it. It wasn't. Molly never forgave me. Seriously. For years she called me Barbie-stealer.
Now I'm mostly envious of people's cars or houses or clothes. But I don't do anything about it. And I don't think it hurts me to want a Beemer or a Prada bag. Maybe envy hurts you if it makes you hate your own life. Right now, my lifeânot my life in this room but my regular go-to-school, make-out-with-my boyfriend, go-to-a-dance-class lifeâ seems pretty great. Better than great.
I wonder why we say someone is green with envy and we also call jealousy the green-eyed monster. Why green? Why not orange? Or puce, which is a gross color. Green is a great color. Think grass and emeralds and limes and Kermit the Frog and Granny Smith apples. When I get out, I'm going to be green with joy.
So is jealousy a form of envy? Isn't jealousy about being insecure? I wasn't jealous of Nicki when she was dating Eric. I was envious. I wanted him for myself. So I took him. I bet Nicki still calls me the boyfriend-stealer. But if I said I regretted what I did, I'd be lying (which must be some kind of sin). But I kind of miss Nicki sometimes. And Molly.
As I finish the essay and start to fold it up, I hear something outside the door. A scratching sound, followed by a sort of wheezing noise. Someone is there. I'm sure of it. I watch the door handle, waiting for it to turn, waiting for my captor to enter. My heart pounds as I clutch the metal rod in my hand and prepare to defend myself, but nothing happens. The sounds stops, and I crawl over and peer through the slot in the door. As usual, I can't see anything. Was it my imagination? Am I going crazy? I shudder and push my latest essay through the slot.
DAY 4âENVY
I write on the wall. Then I draw a horned monster with huge eyes and dripping fangs. Envy. And because I have no green pen, I scrawl an arrow pointing to the monster and add the word
green.
Then I get back to work on the grout. I'm no longer afraid to climb the tower. I scamper up it like I'm Jack and it's a beanstalk. My toilet rod is my magic wand. I work until my arm goes numb, and then I sleep again.
The next day after school (Mom won't let me skip anymore), I borrow Mom's car and drive out to where Nicki lives. Amy calls Nicki's neighborhood “the suburb without a soul.” Not very nice, but true. All the houses look the same. Nice enough, but boring. And getting a bit shabby. I haven't been here in over a year. The paint on Nicki's house is peeling, and the lawn is long and brown. Nicki's mom's old Hyundai is in the driveway. It needs a wash.
I ring the doorbell and brace myself. When the door opens, Nicki is standing there in a tiny denim skirt and a skimpy pink halter top. No bra.
“I knew you'd come,” she says.
I follow her into the living room, where she curls up on the couch and pats the cushion next to her. I stay standing. The room is a mess. Greasy pizza boxes on the coffee table. Empty beer cans on the floor. Dust everywhere.
“Why are you telling lies to the police, Nicki?” I say.
Nicki pouts and says, “I don't know what you're talking about. I would never do that.”
“I never hit you, and I never hit Amy. You know that.”
“Do I?” Nicki shifts on the couch, just enough for me to see that she is going commando under her tiny skirt. I look away, but she knows I've noticed.
“Like what you see, Eric?” she says. “Now that Amy's goneâ”
“What do you know about that? And where's Shawna? She a friend of yours?”
“Yeah, I know Shawna. Why?”
“She was the last person to see Amy, and she won't return my calls.”
“Maybe I could help you with that.”
I sit down in a stained La-Z-Boy recliner that smells like cat piss. “Maybe you should,” I say. “I need to find Amy.”
“She's probably with another guy, you know.” Nicki twirls a strand of her hair between her fingers. Her nail polish is baby blue with glitter. “She's not exactly the faithful type. Not like me.” She starts counting on her fingers. “Jamie, Gabe, that Swedish exchange student, that geek Fritz, Jeremy, Max, Jason. Oh yeah, and you. And those are only the ones since grade eight.”
“Is that what this is all about? Me choosing Amy over you? You're nuts, you know that?” I turn to leave, and she leaps off the couch and runs to the door ahead of me. She tries to block me from leaving, but I shove her aside. She stumbles and falls on the tiles in the entryway.
“Those anger-management sessions didn't do much good, did they?” she says as she gets up. “Gonna be a bruise for sure.” She runs her hand down her hip and smiles. “I'll be sure and document this.” She grabs her phone from the hall table and snaps a picture of her bare thigh.
“Your word against mine,” I say. “No witnesses.”
“And who are the cops gonna believe? A big dumb football player with an old assault charge or a cute little cheerleader?” She strikes a coy pose, blue eyes wide, glossy lips parted.