Stained (23 page)

Mom unbuckles her seat belt and twists around to face me. “You don't have to do this.”

“I want to,” I say, my voice shaking.

The reporters are getting louder. I'm surprised the whole neighborhood hasn't woken up.

“Okay, then,” Dad says. “Let's do it.” He opens his door, and the noise pounds in.

I step out into the warm night, goose pimples rising on my skin. Dad is immediately at my side. Mom joins us. I don't cover my cheek, don't turn my head from the crowd, just let them all see. Nick stands a few steps away, looking awkward and proud.

“Sarah! Can you tell us what happened?”

“Where were you kept?”

“How does it feel to be home?”

The questions are thrown at me, fast and relentless. The reporters' voices are hyped up, their eyes almost crazed, as they try to get their story. I want to run away. Instead, I raise my head and tell them what Brian did.

The reporters get quiet, trying to catch every word. There's one reporter in the back who is watching me intensely, a baseball cap shielding his face, his broad shoulders stiff with tension. I squint against the lights, trying to see him better. Is it Brian? He wouldn't be that bold, would he?

I blink, and he's gone.

The reporters shift restlessly, arms stretching closer with their microphones and recorders.

“Sarah, how did you escape?”

I hold up my raw, battered fingers. “I worked on the boards over the window with my hands, and then with the metal from a bucket handle. It took a long time, but I did it.”

“Sarah! I think I can say for all of us—you're extraordinary!” one reporter calls out.

“Thank you.” I clear my throat. “Brian's photo is up on my blog. I hope you'll help the police look for him, before he does this to someone else.”

The reporters look friendlier now, all of them more human somehow.

Exhaustion hits me, and my legs wobble.

Dad puts his hand under my arm. “That's all, folks. My girl's had a harrowing few months. We'd like to let her rest.”

I expect shouts and grumbling, but the reporters part for us.

Our house looks the same as it always did—a narrow, two-story house with white siding—but it's never looked so beautiful before. Lit up by the reporters' lights, it almost looks like it's bathed in sunlight. The blue curtains are like soft patches of sky, light streaming from every window, welcoming me.

Nick moves closer. “You were wonderful,” he says fiercely. “So strong.”

I hold his words to me, even as my face heats up.

Dad looks around at the reporters still watching us. “Those're all the quotes and photos you're going to get, folks. Sarah needs to get some rest. So it's time for you all to pack up.”

Some reporters mutter, others sigh, but most start walking away, pulling their camera crews with them. I breathe out in relief.

“It's late,” Dad says, looking at Nick. “We should get you home.”

Nick bobs his head up and down. “Absolutely, Mr. Meadows. I'm just glad I was able to come with you when you brought Sarah home.”

“Don't go yet!” I say. “I mean—” I turn to Dad and Mom, trying to keep the desperation out of my voice. “Can't he stay? Just for tonight? He helps me feel more . . . normal.”

Dad looks at me a long moment, then nods. “Come on in, Nick,” he says. “Why don't you call your dad and ask if you can stay.” And he opens our front door.

1:10 A.M.

 

I TRIP OVER THE THRESHOLD. Mom catches my arm, steadying me, and we walk inside together. It smells like home—old books and hyacinths. I breathe in deeply, trying to enjoy the moment, but it's hard to relax with Brian out there somewhere.

Mom steers me toward the kitchen. I hardly recognize it. Posters with my face are stacked on almost every surface, piles of dirty dishes sit in the sink and along the counter, and the trash can is overflowing. Old takeout food containers, piles of unopened mail, and dirty dishes cover the table.

Mom laughs self-consciously. “I had trouble caring about the day-to-day things with you missing. I'll get this cleaned up.”

“It's okay,” I say. It's not just me who's changed—me and Dad. It's Mom, too. Even Nick seems different, more serious somehow.

There's a sharp rap at the front door.

I jump.

“Reporters already? Didn't they get enough?” Dad frowns.

“Or Brian. It could be Brian,” I say. I run to the counter and yank a knife off the rack. Mom watches me with wide eyes. Nick hesitates, then grabs a knife, too. I look at him gratefully.

A knock sounds again.

Dad stalks to the door, his body tight. “Who is it?” he yells, his hand on the knob.

“Officer Ridley, sir.”

It's a young male voice, higher than Brian's, reedier. I let out my breath in a rush.

Dad opens the door.

A man with round, pink cheeks, cropped hair, and a crisp uniform steps in. “I've been assigned to protect you,” he says, holding out his badge.

“Well, good,” Mom says.

The officer's clean-shaven face looks only a few years older than mine, and his short red hair, his pressed uniform, and his shiny black shoes make him look like it's his first day on the job.

Fear shivers through me. The police didn't take me seriously. Or maybe they did, and this is all they could spare. A newbie.

I shake my head. I'm being unfair. I should know better than anyone—you can't tell who a person is just from his looks. Just because he's young and probably inexperienced doesn't mean he isn't good.

The officer's gaze keeps darting to my cheek; he can't keep his eyes away. I look back at him steadily, and he flushes.

“I'll check all the windows and doors, and then I'll make a round of the house every half-hour or so,” Officer Ridley says, “but I'll try not to disturb you.”

He walks off down the hall, and then we are alone again—my parents, Nick, and me. I am still holding the knife, but I can't let it go.

Maybe I made a mistake suggesting we come back home. Brian is probably watching us right now. My skin feels stretched taut over my body, like every particle of me is waiting for him to make his move.

Nick looks at the knife in his hand and laughs self-consciously, then sets it down. Dad and Mom watch me with shadowed eyes. I place the knife on the table with exaggerated motions. Mom and Dad look relieved.

Mom touches my hair. “You hungry? I could fix you some peanut butter and toast.”

My stomach lurches. “Not peanut butter. I can't stand it.”

“But you love . . .” Mom's voice trails off. She stands there patiently, not pressing me, but I can feel her wanting to know.

“That's what he fed me for four months. Peanut butter, crackers, and bananas. I don't think I'll ever be able to eat them again.”

“Oh, Sarah,” Mom says, covering her mouth.

Dad's eyes fill with tears.

Their pain cuts through me, amplifying mine.

“I'd hate peanut butter, too, after that,” Nick says quietly. “It'd make me want to puke.”

“Exactly,” I say gratefully.

“You want anything else, kitten? Anything at all?” Dad asks. “We've got all your favorites.”

I shiver. “How'd you know I was coming home today?”

“We didn't. We just kept stocking what you love. Figured you'd want them when you came home.”

Brian lied. Of course he lied. They wanted me back. I push down a sob. “Maybe later.”

Dad looks disappointed. “Nick?”

Nick shakes his head. “No, thanks, Mr. M.”

Mom starts tidying the counter.

Dad sees me staring at the posters and picks up a stack. “I'll put these out for recycling. We don't need them anymore.”

With their attention away from me, I lift up the leg of my sweatpants, slip the knife into my sock, flat against my leg, and let the baggy sweatpants back down over top. Nick watches me but doesn't say anything.

He's a good friend. I can't believe he's here, after all the times I ignored him or shut him out.

I've got to make things right with him. Whether anything happens to me or not, I can't let Nick keep thinking that I don't care. But I'm not sure I can tell him in front of my parents. “I'm going to show Nick my comic collection.”

“What?” Dad says, the recycling bin in his hands. “You just got home—”

“Hon,” Mom says firmly. “I think Sarah wants a few minutes alone with Nick.”

I blink. Dad's always been the one who understood me without my having to say anything.

“Oh.” Dad's face grows red, but not as red as Nick's. “Right. Okay.”

“You wanna?” I ask Nick.

Nick swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. “Sure,” he croaks.

“Come on.” I jerk my head toward the staircase.

1:15 A.M.

 

I RACE UP THE STAIRS ahead of Nick and skid to a halt in my doorway. My breath punches out of my chest. It feels surreal to be in my room again, surrounded by all my things, as if nothing happened. I feel creeped out by all the airbrushed models' faces staring inanely back at me from my walls. How could I have spent so much time poring over those magazines, making myself miserable?

My room looks neater than when I left it—like someone's tidied up my piles of comics, magazines, and clothes, and there's an indentation on my bed like someone sat there regularly. I turn on my laptop, and my Superman screen saver comes up, reassuringly normal. I wonder if the cops went through my computer trying to find a lead. It feels weird to think that there were probably strangers in my room, going through all my stuff.

Suddenly I can't stand wearing the nurse's T-shirt and baggy sweatpants anymore. “Hang on a minute,” I say. I grab clean clothes and duck into the bathroom to change. I still look different, and my clothes are a little loose, but I feel better. Stronger. Like I can face things easier. Amazing what my own clothes can do.

When I walk back in, Nick looks at me appreciatively. I feel embarrassed and good at the same time.

“Charlene's with Gemma,” Nick blurts.

“What?” I stare at him.

“
With
with her. They're a couple now.”

“Oh.” I blink. Wow. I didn't see that one coming. Brian actually told me the truth about that. Worry twists inside me— what if everything he said is true? But I know he used truth to make his lies stronger. “Is she happy?”

“Yeah.” Nick nods. “I think so.”

“Good. She's been through so much crap; I'm glad she's got someone who loves her.” I've got to call her. But right now I've got to deal with Nick.

“Listen,” I say awkwardly, “I need to apologize to you.”

“No, you don't,” Nick says so fast, it almost sounds like one word. His face looks wary, closed up, like he's waiting for me to hurt him.

My heart tightens. I've been inside that expression so many times. “Yes, I do. Just let me, okay?”

Nick nods.

“I used to spend so much time trying not to be on anyone's radar that I ignored what I wanted and who I liked.” I sound lame. “What I'm trying to say is—I
like
you—and I'm sorry I never spent much time with you.”

“It's okay,” Nick bursts out, his cheeks mottled.

“No, it's not. Listen—I thought about you a lot when I was locked up.” My voice shakes like china rattling in an earthquake. “I feel good around you. I want to be . . . better friends. If you'll have me.”

“Of course I will.” Nick reaches for my hand. “You had to know I have a crush on you.”

“You do?” It's incredible that Nick likes me the way I like him.

Nick releases my hand like I burned him. “Don't look so happy.”

“No! I am! I just—I never thought anyone would . . .”

“Why?” Nick looks at me incredulously. “You're beautiful, spunky, brave—”

Beautiful? Brave? For hiding myself?

Nick takes my hand again. “You never let anyone tell you how to be. You stand up to bullies, protect other kids, even though you don't want anyone to notice you. You escaped the man who abducted you, for god's sake! Admit it. You're awesome!”

Nick looks so sure of me. Like he believes in me. Really cares about me.

I lean forward and brush my lips against his. They're soft and sweet beneath my own. Nick groans, his chest rising and falling against mine.

I yank away. “I'm sorry, I—”

Nick's gaze burns into mine. “I've been waiting for that for three years. Don't tell me you're sorry.”

“I—I'm not.”

“C'mere.” Nick pulls me close and kisses me softly. It feels so good, the way a kiss should feel. Not like Brian's . . .

Rain spatters against my window like tiny pebbles.

Nick's hands graze my back, but Brian's hands flash over top. I pull away.

Nick's lips are parted, his eyes half closed. “You okay? You want to stop?” he croaks.

I feel guilty; I know how much Nick wants this. I want it, too. But not with Brian in my head. Not with the feel of him on my skin. “I'm sorry.”

Nick straightens his shirt. “It's okay. I want it to feel right for you.”

“It did!” How can I make him understand?

Thunder crashes outside, like a giant boulder slamming into concrete.

I raise my voice. “It's just . . . I had a flash of Brian, and—”

“God. That bastard.” Nick clenches his jaw. “How about if I just hold you?” He opens his arms like a question.

I move into them, my face against his neck. We stand like that while the storm rages outside, our bodies pressed together, as though if we press hard enough, the last four months won't have happened.

Standing here holding Nick, being held by him, is something I never thought I'd have. Yet it's the most normal I've felt since this whole nightmare began.