Suddenly, I hear the most beautiful song ringing out into the hallways. It sounds like the kind of melody you’ve heard at a funeral. Sad. Haunting. Sorrowful. Tears sprang instantly from my eyes. I’m heartbroken but I don’t know why. It’s as if the melody has etched the saddest possible memories into my heart. The pain is worse than any physical thing I could have experienced. I want to die. My captor looks into my eyes.
“Don’t listen,” he begs as he holds me closer to his chest.
The blanket he has spread over us has somehow gotten darker and heavier. The song sounds far away now. And although I no longer feel the desire to die, I am so saddened by what little melody I can make out; I continue to weep, loudly, into his chest. Somewhere in between the sobs I think I hear groaning, but I can’t be sure.
The shots stop just as suddenly as they had started, and the hallway is silent again. The blanket is pulled off of me. I was right. It was Rio who held me down.
“What the hell is—.” My voice dies in my throat. Lying about ten yards away from us are three bodies. And standing a few feet away from them is Miku, Rio’s twin sister.
Horrified, I make my way over. Three men lie lifeless on the floor. I’ve never seen them before. They have on dark suits and ties. A trail of bloody tears has run down their faces. Each of them had torn their shirts open, exposing large blue and green bruises on their chests. I lean in closer and see several bloody self-inflicted gashes. It’s as if they were trying to rip their hearts out.
“What did you do?” My voice is filled with so much anguish, I barely recognize it. Before Miku has a chance to reply, Rio comes towards us shouting, “We have to go! They’re coming.”
No sooner had he gotten the words out than a group of men comes barreling down the stairs wearing suits and carrying guns. They begin shooting.
“Emmy, let’s go!” She doesn’t wait for me to move. She grabs my hand and drags me down the hallway towards the exit. I fall in step with her for fear that if I don’t she’ll hurt me like she did the men on the floor. I knew it was her. She was the one singing. She had killed three people without putting a hand on them. And now I’m being dragged down the school hallway by a murderer and her brother. But I figure I’m better off with them than the “Wall Street” mafia back there, right?
The wonder twins and I dodge into the stairwell. Bullets whiz over our heads. The singer pulls the fire alarm. Kids quickly flood the stairwell. The PA system comes on. I can’t hear what the principal is saying as the brother and sister team and I run at breakneck speed past the student body and out the door. Once outside, a red sports car comes towards us at top speed, jumps the curb and stops just short of hitting us. The door flings open. The driver, whose face I can’t see, says, “Get in.”
They try to get me inside the car but I fight them off, kicking and screaming. I’d rather die here than get in this stranger’s car and end up bruised and broken in some dark alley.
“Get off me!” I shout back.
Had it not been New York City, the sight of a group of teenagers fighting would have been disturbing. But seeing as how the city is always full of strange characters and even stranger happenings, not one person even stopped. Although, there were a few who looked on as they walked by but dismissed it as juvenile horseplay.
Rio somehow gets both my arms behind my back and holds them there. I struggle, but it does no good. His grip is too tight.
“I got her. You clean up,” Rio instructs his sister.
“I cleaned up last time,” Miku replies.
“So you should be familiar with the process,” he retorts. She stares back at him coldly.
Rio lets his guard down for a half a second. That’s all I need. I shoot off down the street. They grabbed a hold of my shirt from behind. I scarcely manage to slip out of it. I thank myself for layering this morning because I didn’t trust the weather to stay this warm throughout the day. I’m half way down the block. My muscles beg me to stop or even slow down, but I don’t give in.
What’s going on? The question bounces inside my pounding head with every labored breath I take. Don’t stop to analyze, I reason with myself. Just get some distance.
I spot a cop car halfway down the block; seeing an end to their pain in sight, my muscles fully cooperate. I’m now running at top speed, mere yards away from help, when she appears before me, stopping me dead in my tracks.
She looks to be about my age, maybe a year or so older? She stands at a statuesque five feet nine inches. Her beauty defies logic. No one that stunning can be real. Even if she wasn’t blocking me, I would have had no choice but to stop and marvel at the sheer radiance of her face. Her skin looks as if it had been carved out of the night sky: smooth, black, glowing. Her eyes are the color of gleaming pennies; her full lips spread across her face and form a spectacular smile.
Her hair reaches past her shoulder and down to her lower back in thick curls with streaks of copper matching her eyes. She wears black leather pants that hug every flawless curve and a matching fitted black leather vest. I gasp at the impossible perfection before me.
I want frantically to reach out and touch her for two reasons. First, to make sure she is real, and second, I long to put my hands on something so flawless. But I can’t reach out and touch her. That’s not to say that she isn’t real. She’s real, as is the silver handgun she’s pointing at me.
I hear a car pull up, but I can’t tear myself away from the girl in front of me. “Get in,” she orders. She doesn’t need the gun. I know from the chill going down my spine that she is dead serious, and disobeying isn’t in my immediate best interest. I tear myself away from her face and see the same red car, its door open. I get into the car.
Once inside, the car zooms up Broadway going at nearly twice the speed limit. The twins are seated next to me. I want to ask where they are taking me, but I’m afraid the minute I open my mouth, I’ll cry. I refuse to give my conquerors the satisfaction of seeing me weep. Instead, I look out the window at the crowds of New Yorkers passing by. As usual they are all in a hurry to get where they need to be or leave where they’ve just been.
They remind me of my mom. She’s always racing home to make me dinner. But neither of us are good cooks, so we always end up ordering out. I wonder if I’ll ever see her again. I had been in such a rush this morning, I didn’t say good bye. I didn’t even say goodbye to Ms. Charlotte, my cat. She waits for me on the windowsill at exactly 3:30 p.m. everyday. I don’t know how she knows it’s time, but I swear she does. She’ll be waiting today….
I try to swallow but can’t. A big lump forms in my throat. Tears stream down my face. Then I remember the emergency card the man in the closet gave me. I had told him that I would help find this boy and tell him to run. It made no sense to me, but it had mattered to the man, and I should have done it. Oh well. I’m sure this boy is safer than me, wherever he is.
I surreptitiously remove the crumpled, blood-stained paper from my pocket. I can’t make out the home number or address of the boy the closet man had failed to reach. But there, printed clearly underneath light splotches of blood, it reads:
“Emerson H. Baxter.”
*
I was wrong about the alley. We pull into a quiet, charming, tree-lined street somewhere on the Upper East Side. Everything about the neighborhood says “old money lives here,” from the rows of five story brick townhouses to the pristine community garden. When we get to the townhouse at the end of the block, the car pulls into the driveway. The twins get out of the car and hold the door open for me. I know I should try to run, but I’m sure my limbs won’t comply. I slowly get out of the car.
I see the driver for the first time. He’s black and slightly taller than Rio, but his muscular body makes him a hundred times more intimating. He’s wearing a black hoodie and a platinum twisted chain. I can’t make out his eyes under his Gucci shades. The twins motion to me to go into the house. Sensing I’m about to object, Rio sighs impatiently, and Miku takes my hand and walks me through the frosted glass door.
The house is breathtaking. From the high-dimension ceiling to the smooth wheat-colored finished floor, there isn’t one square inch that’s not appealing to the eye. The house has a historic feel, but the décor is modern with sleek, clean lines. The browns and reds that highlight the décor make the space warm and cozy. The paintings are mostly Monet. Some I recognized but two I have never seen before. The bay window looks out onto the Park.
Rio and the driver come in behind us and close the door. I’m feeling lightheaded and find it hard to focus. Miku looks at me, smiles brightly and says, “I’ll get you a soda,” as if this were any other day and I’m a good friend who happened to come by. Rio goes into another room and comes back with a small trash can and places it at my feet. “Don’t bother,” he says to Miku. Just then a wave of nausea hits me. I double over and vomit. I miss the can completely.
Miku goes away and comes back with a wet towel. She bends down and pats my face. “I want to go home. You can’t keep me here. Please,” I beg her. She walks me over to the plush sofa and sits me down.