Hostage by Willo Davis Roberts

the house.
    My aunt Jane had brought us all wristbands the last time she came to visit. They were different colors of leather—brown for Wally (appropriately dirt colored, Jeff had pointed out), black for Jeff, blue for me, and pink, of course, for Jodie. They had gold letters stamped on each of them—WWJD? The letters stood for “What Would Jesus Do?” and wearing them was supposed to remind you to reflect on your choices before it was too late.
    It was easy enough to figure out what Jesus would do in most situations. The right thing, the kind thing, the loving thing.
    But those choices didn’t apply here.
    The question was, what would Dad advise me to do? Call the police, if it were possible. But since it wasn’t, unless I went downstairs and found a working phone, would he want me to hide up here until the housebreakers were gone?
    The Andersons had lost a whole lot of stuff—a computer, TVs, the family silver—and so far they hadn’t retrieved any of it. I didn’t even know if all of our things were insured, except for Jeff’s piano. I knew nobody had carried off the piano, at least not yet. I had noticed it when I looked at those mysterious boxes downstairs.
    That didn’t mean the strangers wouldn’t come back and get it, even if it was hard to move, because it was very valuable. And thinking of valuable, I tried to recall if the new big-screen TV had still been in the corner of the living room.
    I hadn’t noticed. We hadn’t had it very long. Would it be included on our old home owners’ insurance, or would Dad have had to especially put it on the policy?
    In spite of what Mom had said about howeconomically feasible this new house was, I knew the family budget had been strained by our move. The money from the sale of the old place had provided the down payment and paid for the new living room set after they decided to put the old one in the family room. But they’d stretched things to cover the big TV and a few other things. Losing anything we owned would be a serious matter. I knew we didn’t have the money to replace any of it.
    So, what would Dad want me to do?
    Suddenly, downstairs, there were voices. Men’s voices.
    I jumped away from the window, which offered me nothing in the way of help, and tried to think. My parents always told all of us that we were intelligent and capable. If that was the case, why had my brain gone numb? I eased out into the hallway so I could hear better.
    â€œThey sure got a million books in this place,” somebody muttered. “They’re in just about every room. We gonna take any of those?”
    â€œNah. Books aren’t worth anything. Get that set of candlesticks off the mantle. I think maybe they’re silver.”
    â€œWegonna take that picture of the mountain?” one of the men asked clearly.
    I knew the picture they were talking about. It was of Mount Baker, in northern Washington, where Mom and Dad had met years ago on a hiking trip. It had been Mom’s first climb, and Dad had rescued her when she’d fallen into a snow-filled gully.
    â€œIt was love at first sight,” Dad had told us. “There she was, floundering around helplessly in a snowbank, with only a bright red knitted cap sticking out.”
    â€œAnd he had enough muscle to pull me out, one-handed, and he shared a Thermos of hot coffee,” Mom always added when they told the story.
    Mom had bought him the picture as a birthday present, and I knew he really liked it.
    I felt a sudden rush of rage at the way these strangers had invaded our home and were helping themselves to our belongings.
    How could I stop them, without access to a telephone?
    Was there a way to get out of the house without being detected? I could run to a neighbor’shouse to call the police before they got away. Well, Mrs. Banducci’s house was undoubtedly the only one where there was anyone home, but she’d call in a minute,