Last summer my mom made me help her tile the kitchen backsplash. She said it would be fun. It wasn’t. It was messy and boring. And it took two days. Two days I’ll never get back. Mom said, “Someday you’ll be glad you know how to do this.” I couldn’t imagine how that might be true. Until now. The white powder is dried grout. Grout is what holds the glass blocks in place. Grout can be removed. It’s hard work, but it can be done. You just need the right tools. All I have is a toilet rod. That will have to do.
First problem—how to reach the glass blocks. I have two plastic tables (one large, one small), one plastic chair, a mattress, three wicker baskets and a recycling bin. I shove the kitchen table against the wall and drag the mattress next to it. If I do fall, at least I won’t break my neck. I empty the baskets. They are full of clothing: yoga pants, T-shirts, underwear. I kick the clothes into a corner. No way am I going to wear that shit, no matter how gross I get. I position the baskets upside down on the table. They are fairly sturdy, but not exactly solid. Enough to support my weight, I hope. I’m still nowhere near the glass blocks. The recycling box goes on next, then the small table and finally the chair.
Second problem—I’m deathly afraid of heights. Phobic, almost. I lie down on the floor for a few minutes and force myself to take long, slow breaths. I am sweating again, and it’s not just from exertion. Fear twists my guts, and I stumble to the bathroom and throw up the apple I just ate. What if I starve to death? What if I fall? What if I can’t reach the glass blocks? What if my kidnapper comes in and finds me trying to escape? What if...
“Pull yourself together, Amy,” I say out loud. That’s what Mom always says to me when I get upset. The sound of my voice in the apartment is strange but sort of comforting. Only one person knows where I am, but my voice reminds me that I still exist. Me. Amy Lessard. Daughter. Sister. Girlfriend. Soccer player. Dancer. I stick the toilet rod in the waistband of my skirt and talk to myself as I start to climb.
“You can do this, Amy. The table is solid. You are strong. You don’t weigh much. The baskets will hold you. The recycling box is stable. You’re okay. Take a deep breath. Keep going.”
The tower is wobbly, to say the least. But I take it slowly. Very slowly. And I don’t look down. I can’t afford to be dizzy.
When I get to the chair, I kneel at first. I’m terrified, but I’m still not quite high enough to reach the grout. Slowly, very slowly, I stand up. “Ta-da!” I whisper when I’m upright. I feel like I’m in a really low-budget circus act. Amazing Amy and the Leaning Tower of Doom. The chair shifts, and I put one hand on the wall to steady myself. Vomit rises in my throat, but I swallow it down. I take the toilet rod out of my waistband and poke at the grout. A small trickle of powder slithers down the wall to the floor. I’m in business.
I have no idea how long I chip away at the grout. If I had to guess, I’d say a couple of hours. The light changes in the room, and my shoulder and neck start seizing up. My legs start to shake. The pot lights go on. I climb down before I fall down. The pile of grout dust on the floor has grown, but it’s going to take a long time to loosen even one of the blocks. I need to eat and rest. Conserve my energy. Give my arm a chance to recover.
I splash water on my face at the kitchen sink and then make another cheese sandwich. As I eat, I wonder what’s going on outside these four walls. Has Mom called the cops? Is Dad freaking out? Is Eric still mad at me for wanting to stay at the party? I put the sandwich down. The party. I was dancing with that girl, Shawna. I remember her getting us wine coolers. And I remember getting into a car with her. After that— nothing. I lie back on the mattress and close my eyes. My last thought before I sleep is, why would Shawna drug me?
When I wake up, I feel like crap. I smell bad, and my neck, shoulder and arm are on fire. A hot shower would help, but I can’t do that. The tower looms over me, and I groan. I have to get up there again soon, but first I think I’ll write my stupid daily essay. Get that out of the way. I sit with my back against the wall and write. It hurts even to hold the pen.
“Greed is good.” That’s what the Michael Douglas character says in that movie Wall Street. I kind of agree with him. I know greed can get out of hand. Like when someone is greedy for power and kills people to get it. But if you’re not a bit greedy, aren’t you kind of passive? Dad used to call me Greedy-guts. I always wanted more— the last cookie, my sister’s Barbie dolls, another push on the swings, extra butter on a bucket of popcorn at the movies. And I usually got what I wanted. My greed didn’t hurt anybody except me. My sister was happy to share her toys. I was the one with cavities and a fat ass. So why is greed bad? Is it because you don’t really need the things you’re greedy for? Or you want something just so no one else can have it? Is it greedy to want money if you’re poor? Is it greedy to want love if you’re lonely? Is it greedy to want someone else’s boyfriend? Last year I was going out with Jason Broderman. Nice guy. Hot. Not superbright. Eric was on-again, off-again dating this chick named Nicki. I thought Eric was cute and funny and smart. I decided I would be better for him than Nicki. When Eric and Nicki had a fight one night at a party, Eric and I hooked up. Nicki switched schools after that. So was I greedy? Sure, I hurt Nicki and Jason, but Eric and I are really happy. Does that make it right? I think I know the answer to that, but right now I don’t care.
If I’m going to escape, I need to be greedy for freedom. Really greedy. So right now, yeah, greed is good.
Before I fall asleep again, I scrawl DAY 3—GREED on the wall and draw a pirate’s treasure chest next to it.