Panic by Sharon M. Draper Page B

tried to think straight. Nothing made sense. She felt drugged. “Wha? What? I—I don’t understand.”
    Thane flicked on the lights, and Diamond twisted her head away from the sudden brightness.
    â€œYou will be the star tonight, my dear girl,” Thane whispered. Then, in a louder voice, he called, “Lights. Camera. Action.”
    Diamond blinked her eyes open, straining to see in the harsh, glaring light. Two large movie cameras were positioned directly over the bed. Oh, no! Oh, no! Her heart thudding, she jerked and thrashed against the ropes once more.
    â€œNo!” she screamed. “Let me go! Please, please, let me go!”
    Thane ignored her. “Jimmy. Mickey. Come on in.”
    Diamond gasped as two huge men entered the room. The first, heavily bearded, wore a crisp, white sleeveless T-shirt—a sharp contrast to the coarse black hair that covered his arms. His arms were broad and burly. The other man, who was extremely overweight, was clean shaven. He wore a flowered Hawaiian shirt and plaid shorts.
    â€œMeet my cameramen,” Thane said genially.
    The two men grinned at Diamond and took their places at the cameras, one at the foot of the bed, and one on the side.
    Diamond’s mind went in a dozen directions—she struggled through the haze of her cloudy thoughts. Slowly, she began to put together the pieces of what was happening. Oh, no. Oh, no. Oh, no.
    Thane removed his pale yellow silk shirt and folded it carefully, then set it on the chair.
    Diamond’s eyes grew wide with horror. “Oh, no. Please, no. Please don’t. You can’t do this. I’m only fifteen,” she begged softly. “Please.”
    â€œI can. And I will. Now relax and shut up—I’m very good at this.”
    He nodded to the two men. A red light blinked on the front of each camera.
    Stunned into silence, Diamond finally understood the horrible enormity of her situation.

18
MERCEDES, Sunday, April 14 11 a.m.
    â€œI don’t see how it can have a happy ending.”
    â€”from Peter Pan
    Mercedes sat in the seventh row of the congregational church, next to her mother. They always sat in row seven. Even though there were no names engraved on the back, Mercedes had noticed that church folk tended to take ownership of certain seats. Her mom had claimed the aisle seat on the seventh row many years ago. Visitors who made the mistake of sitting there before her mom arrived were glared at until they scooted over. Mrs. Fordwould then offer her gloved hand and a broad smile in welcome.
    Who still wears gloves to church? Mercedes thought. Then she just laughed the thought away because her mom dressed straight out of Essence magazine—perfectly coordinated and stylishly chic. Today she was decked out all in blue: a deep blue two-piece suit with a skirt that hit her legs exactly three inches below the knee—she never wore slacks to church—navy blue patent leather pumps with sensible two-inch heels, and the latest Coach purse. She always wore a hat—a big hat. For this particular Sunday morning, she’d chosen one with an elaborate blue brim and a bright pink feather. Mrs. Ford was the fashion statement of Sunday service.
    Mercedes purposely wore slacks and sneakers. She’d tried to wear jeans a couple of times, but her mom had acted like she was about to die of a heart attack or maybe embarrassment. Either way, Mercedes had rolled her eyes, but changed her clothes.
    The service was quiet. Peaceful hymns, controlled prayers, and a sensible sermon. But Mercedes wanted to, needed to, scream. She could have really used a good, old-fashioned holy-roller church today. She yearned for a hundred-voice choir dressed in red robes to holler and sing, an amped-up organ to blast the beat with the singers, booming drums to pound, and a preacher who shouted and sweated and prayed for Diamond to come home.
    Instead Mercedes sat next to her impeccably poised mother while