@ Admin, I hope this isn't too long...you can cut it in half if you need to, the second part is pretty long

Okay, here goes

Chapter Three
Alex

Brooklyn Public School. Grades 6-12. Tuesday, April 10. 3:02. All the kids rushing out of school, anxious to be home. Normal school day.
As soon as I emerge from the doors, I’m jostled by the moving crowd of kids. Laughing. Talking. Cell phones ringing. I push away and start the walk home.
It quiets down fast. None of the kids at school live in my part of town. Partly the reason I have no friends, I guess. The walk home is pretty lonely. The only company I get is the people waiting at bus stops, and even those thin as I get closer to home.
Ugh.
Home is an ugly square apartment building near industrial Brooklyn, built like a hotel. All red brick and moldering foil made to look like fake plastic made to look like fake wood. All the windows are closed. No view, unless you count abandoned warehouses. The door creaks when I open it. Behind the desk is an old man with a scalp of thin, brittle white hair. Bob Kestrel. Co-owner/doorman/clerk of Brooklyn Quality Apartments. (Quality? Don’t make me laugh.)
Because the elevator’s not working, I take the stairs. I wouldn’t be surprised if one day I came home and the stairs had an Out of Order sign on them too. As it is, they creak dangerously and sway unpredictably. The handrail is so old it splinters if you try to grab on to it.
I knock on the apartment door. Mom’s usually home by now. No answer. I knock again. Still no answer. Nothing unusual. Sometimes she gets detained at work. I pull out my spare key and unlock the door.
Luckily, our apartment is a little nicer than the rest of the building. As soon as we moved in, Mom spent a small fortune replacing furniture and upholstery. There’s not much, though. A black sofa, made for two, a cherry dining table. Pale blue walls. I still remember the name on the flaking paint canister: “Country Sky.”
I wish we lived in the country.
“Mom?” I call. Maybe she didn’t hear me knocking. “Mom?” No answer. I decide to check her room.
Down the hall. It used to be painted vomit-green, but Mom had it repainted blue. She bought a green carpet for the floor.
“Hey, Mom?”
There’s the creak of a door opening.
At first, my brain doesn’t register what that means. But then I realize that if Mom was already home, why would she a.) not respond to my calls and b.) hide in the closet?
Meaty hands clamp over my eyes and mouth. I kick with my feet. My shoes strike flesh, but my captor’s grip remains as firm as ever. “Don’t bother shouting,” says a husky voice in my ear. “No one can hear you.”
Thoughts explode like fireworks in my head, but my mouth is still clamped shut. I grunt behind his palm and get a taste of sweat and stale nicotine. I clamp my mouth shut immediately.
He pulls me out of the hall. My feet drag on the carpet. I try to grab on to furniture, but the man keeps yanking me away from anything I could use as a weapon. I feel like crying. What’s happening to me?
Out the door. Not the front door. The fire escape. Ever been dragged down a fire escape with your eyes covered? I would not recommend it. My feet thunked against each metal step, making the fire escape rattle. I could hear the grunts of the man behind me. Finally, a step down; I feel concrete beneath my feet.
Sound of a car door opening.
Suddenly my mouth and eyes are free. I’m tossed into the backseat of a small silver Japanese compact. The door shuts. I lunge for it, but it’s locked. Safety locks? Yeah. Windows. Locked as well.
The man gets in the driver’s seat.
He has red hair and watery blue eyes. He looks skinny, but I know from his grip he’s stronger than he looks. His skin is pale. Freckles all over his arms and face.
“Where are you taking me?”
He punches the accelerator. “Seatbelt on.”
“Answer my question.”
“Why?”
Somehow, I can’t find the energy to argue with that.
Being kidnapped is simultaneously a.) more scary and b.) more boring than they show in movies. Driving through crowded Brooklyn in a tiny car is not exactly the thrilling chase shown in movies. But at the same time, it’s terrifying. Need I say more?
Suddenly we’re turning onto an abandoned street, lined on both sides with gray, derelict warehouses. I groan. “What the heck are you going to do with me?”
“Why should I tell you?”
“ ’Cause you’re taking me somewhere against my will. I should have a right to know where.”
He chuckled. “Europe.”
I rolled my eyes. “South of France, is that it?”
“Nope.”
I had no doubt he was being sarcastic. No doubt he was going to lock me up in one of the warehouses and ask for a ransom.
As it turned out, I was wrong.