39
Sage
Twenty-three hours, thirty minutes buried
They saw our faces. We should cover up the air hose right now … Nobody will ever find them …
They ’ d seen the scratched-out peephole I ’ d made in the paint.
There was no question anymore of whether they were going to do something horrible to us. Mr. Edward and Greasy Hair were going to leave us down here—or kill us.
And soon.
Even worse, it was at least partly my fault.
I ’ d made that hole in the paint, even though Ms. Jessa had told me not to. And for all my Harriet-the-Spying and scraping away at the plywood with sweat pouring down my skin and feet aching from standing so long, the hole still wasn ’ t big enough for my body to squeeze through. I could fit my arms, but I ’ d wasted precious time digging at the place beneath whatever big, heavy thing they ’ d shoved on top of the plywood to hold it in place.
Car doors slammed, the two men ’ s voices disappeared, and the sound of tires hummed into silence away from us.
I listened hard, barely breathing. They ’ d said they were both going to get the money. After that, there were no more sounds from above. They were both gone, for now.
“ What did they say?” Bonnie asked, where she lay on the mattress with her arms wrapped around the bucket.
I didn ’ t answer. Just swallowed, frozen where I stood on top of the bucket with my legs shaking. I was glad Bonnie didn ’ t hear what I ’ d heard. But not hearing wouldn ’ t save her—or any of us—from what was going to happen when the men got back from picking up the ransom money.
The fear that we might die wasn ’ t just a horrible idea anymore.
It was real. Roaring toward us. A matter of when, not if.
“ Sage? ” Ms. Jessa called out when I didn ’ t say anything.
“ I have to talk to you,” I choked past the strangling feeling in my throat.
Then I climbed down from the mattress stack, leaned close to Ms. Jessa ’ s ear, and repeated everything I ’ d just heard and everything I ’ d figured out—including the thing about Mr. Edward being the old bus driver. Including what they said about her. How she ’ d been arrested. Which I knew meant she ’ d been to jail.
That last part didn ’ t even scare me anymore, because I was too busy being terrified about the first part.
Ms. Jessa stayed quiet and let me lean against her and choke the words out so the other kids wouldn ’ t hear. I didn ’ t want anyone else, especially not Bonnie, to be as scared as I was right now.
She didn ’ t pull away even when I knew that my snot and tears were dripping like a gross faucet while I pressed my mouth against her ear.
The horrible thought came again: We were all going to die, and it was my fault.
“ I couldn ’ t hear most of what Mr. Edward said, and only some of what Greasy Hair said,” I hissed into her ear, realizing I was probably repeating myself but needing to make sure Ms. Jessa knew how bad things were. “ But he definitely saw the hole I scratched in the paint on the van window. I ’ m sorry, I ’ m so sorry I didn ’ t sit down when you told me to. They ’ re going to kill us when they come back, and it ’ s all my fault.”
I was close to having what Grandpa called a “ conniption. ” I couldn ’ t stop it, though. I was too panicked and too scared.
I tried to keep talking, but all of a sudden Ms. Jessa was pulling me to her chest and into a tight hug. Then she leaned her head down and whispered in my ear, “ It ’ s not your fault. It ’ s their fault, Sage. Only theirs. You understand?”
The way she said it reminded me of Mom all over again. The way she ’ d gotten mean and fierce on the phone the time Bonnie got pushed off the monkey bars and the recess monitor tried to tell Mom that Bonnie should have been more careful.
It wasn ’ t Bonnie being careless. It was the fifth-grader who pushed her, that was the problem. That ’ s what Mom said in the exact same voice Ms. Jessa was using now.
My tears came even faster.
No matter whose fault it was, and I was still pretty sure it was mine, we were still going to die.
“ What ’ s wrong?” tiny voices kept asking all around us.
“ Sage? Sage? ” Bonnie was repeating, over and over, as a small hand that felt like hers stroked the back of my sweaty T-shirt.
I only cried harder.
“ Sage is feeling really tired,” Ms. Jessa said, sounding like she was sucking in air through a straw. It was so stuffy and hot by this point, all of us were breathing that way. Heavy in, heavy out. Ms. Jessa kept her arms tight around me though, and I was glad she did even though it was a lot sweatier and it hurt the blisters and skin on my raw hands. “ That makes sense, because this is a hard time.” She drew in another painful-sounding breath. “ I think we ’ re all having a pretty hard time, huh?”
There were a few murmurs of “ Yes,” and “ I am,” and “ Me too, Sage,” and “ It ’ s okay to cry.”
“ Even though we ’ re all having a hard time, I need everyone to do something for me now, okay? We all need to help Sage,” Ms. Jessa said.
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the blackness in the hole. “ How can we, though?” Rose asked. “ We can’t reach the ceiling like she can.”
I forced myself to stop sniffling so I could hear better.
I hadn ’ t been expecting Ms. Jessa to say what she had, and I had the same question Rose did. How could anyone help me?
I swallowed the sob-scream trying to squeeze through my throat. Part of me was sure I was going to suffocate right here, right now. It felt impossible to make air go into my lungs. Ms. Jessa and Bonnie and the other kids were all counting on me, but I was so tired and so scared. How far away was the ransom money the men were talking about? How quick would they return? The questions spun sticky like sugar in a cotton candy machine at the fair.
Even if I could get out of the hole, how long would it take me to find help? I had no idea where we were.
Maybe I could pull some of the taller kids up with me if I could get on top of the plywood?
I shook my head in despair. That narrow chimney we ’ d first climbed through wasn ’ t very wide. It was just big enough for the sheet of plywood I was digging away at and whatever heavy thing was plunked on top of it that I kept running into.
“ Sage, how big is the hole you ’ ve made in the plywood now?” Ms. Jessa asked, interrupting the terrible thoughts.
“ I can fit both arms all the way through it,” I said, clearing my throat so the other kids could understand me.
“ That ’ s really, really good,” Ms. Jessa said. Then, louder, “ We ’ re going to help Sage by doing something I learned how to do once when I was having a really hard time. When I had to be apart from my daughter for three whole years.” Her voice broke. “ And I missed her the same way you miss your mommies and daddies.”
There were a few quiet “ Oh” sounds from around the mattress pile.
I wiped my eyes, thinking she must be talking about the time she was in jail.
“ The thing I learned,” she said, talking faster, “ that a really smart counselor told me to do, was to imagine what I wanted . Instead of thinking about what I didn ’ t want. Like, I was always thinking about how long it would be until I saw my daughter Sophie again. Or how much I missed her. But that just made me feel stuck and scared. So instead, the counselor told me to think about the two of us eating cereal together for breakfast, or running through the sprinklers on a hot summer day, or just saying goodnight at bedtime.” Her voice caught. “ So can you all help me do that for Sage while she tries really, really hard to get us out of here?”
I noticed that Ms. Jessa said the counselor told her to do it. Not that she actually did it.
This didn ’ t sound like it would work.
“ Yes,” Bonnie said, without even missing a beat, and her yes was followed by a chorus of voices repeating the same thing.
For a second I wanted to tell them not to bother. It wouldn ’ t make me dig any faster. That we didn ’ t have enough time before Greasy Hair and Mr. Edward came back.
The other kids didn ’ t know that part, though. That worst, most awful part.
Somehow, that made me want to try again, though. I wanted so badly not to let them down, and I ’ d protect them from this bad thing as best I could because they believed in me so hard. I ’ d never had that feeling about anything before, and it made more tears drip down my cheeks.
“ I ’ ll start,” Ms. Jessa said. “ When we get out, I ’ m going to eat an ice cream sundae with all the toppings. Whipped cream and cherries and so much hot caramel.”
Ked jumped in, his voice quiet and firm. “ When we get out, I ’ m going to give my mom and dad a big hug. So tight they ’ ll laugh and say, ‘ Whoa there, tiger!’”
Then Bonnie. “ I ’ m going to watch TV with my sister, Sage, and she gets to pick the show. I won ’ t say I don ’ t like it. It can even be Family Guy , and I won ’ t tell Mom on her.”
I smiled even though it hurt. To my surprise, Ms. Jessa was actually right. It felt good to think about what was waiting for us outside this hole in the ground, even if it was maybe far-fetched.
We just had to get there.
“ Help me back up,” I croaked, getting to my feet.