Deadly Read Free

write seven stupid essays and I will be set free. If it’s not true, then I need to protect myself and figure out a way out of my prison. It would help if my brain didn’t feel like sludge. Dark and thick and slow-moving. I look around the main room for something to block the door. There is no heavy furniture other than the mattress on the bed. I grab a corner and drag it toward the door. It is very heavy. Or I am very weak. Or both. But at least if my kidnapper tries to come into the room to rape me or kill me, I’ll know about it.
    When I get the mattress in place, I kneel on it and try and peer through the slot, but I can‘t see anything. And it’s way too small for me to get my hand through. And what good would it do to wave my hand out a letter slot anyway? Even though the letter said not to, I scream into the slot. “Help! Help!” I feel ridiculous, but I keep screaming until I go hoarse. Then I pound on the door for a while, but nothing happens except that my hands start to bleed. I flop back onto the mattress and close my eyes.
    When I wake up, the light in the room is different. Brighter. It feels like it might be lunchtime, so I make a cheese sandwich. The first few bites make me gag, but I force myself to swallow. If someone attacks me, I will need to have the strength to fight back. I wish I’d taken karate instead of dance. What good was a perfect split leap going to do me now? My dad used to watch this old TV show about a guy who could make a bomb out of a gum wrapper and a bungee cord and a single match. I wonder what he would do with bamboo cutlery, peanut butter and a wicker basket. I sure can’t think of anything.
    I need something metal. And sharp. I look around the room again. All the furniture is made of molded plastic. I stand up and hurl the night table against the wall, hoping it will shatter into sharp shards. It bounces. I smash the chair into the kitchen table, making a tiny dent.
    I am suddenly very thirsty. When I open the fridge to get some juice, there it is, right in front of me—a white metal rack. I throw the little boxes of milk and juice on the floor and yank out the rack. I don’t know how I’m going to get the metal rods out of the frame, but I have to try. My hands are still sore and swollen from pounding on the door, so I stomp on the rack until my feet hurt as much as my hands do. I wonder where my shoes are. And my phone. I wonder if anybody has missed me yet. I sit at the table and stare at the dent.
    Gradually, the room darkens and the pot lights come on. The quiet is deafening. No street noise. No voices. No footsteps. Just the faint hum of what I figure is some kind of air-exchange system. I look up and see a small vent near the ceiling. No help there. I’ll work on the fridge rack later. All I can do right now is write my first essay.

Chapter Four

Eric
    It’s been almost twenty-four hours since I last saw Amy. Ms. Lessard has called the cops, checked the hospitals and contacted Amy’s dad. He says he hasn’t seen Amy in weeks. I have been on the phone for hours. I call girls she dances with, girls she plays soccer with, girls who like to party. Guys she used to date, guys who want to get with her, guys on the swim team, guys on the chess team. It’s a long list. No one has seen her. No one knows Shawna’s last name or where she lives. Shawna isn’t answering her phone. I leave message after message, text after text. Call me. Call me. Call me.
    I fall asleep in the media room. Yes, that’s what Mom and Dad call it. Not a TV room, a media room. Massive HD - TV , Bose surround sound, blackout shades, leather couches and chairs, fully stocked bar, commercial popcorn machine. My dad likes his toys. Not that he’s ever around to enjoy them. Mom never comes down here—she prefers her office, on the top floor. And her white wine. And her tennis coach, Axel. Really. I bet his real name is Mike.
    My