Pretty Girl Thirteen (18 page)

“So that’s okay, then?” Greg’s voice.

Angie was home, standing by the rolled-down driver’s window of his car.

He tugged a strand of her hair to pull her face in close and kissed her with his tongue. He tasted weird. “But after the dance, I promise. I’ll tell her then.”

Angie nodded numbly. What had happened? And what had she agreed to? Clearly, he wasn’t taking her to the dance. He was still taking Liv.

She had to call Kate.

“That cowardly bastard,” Kate declared. “Sorry. I guess you still want him?”

Angie shrugged, then realizing that her gesture didn’t transmit well across the phone, added, “I think so. I mean, all I can think about is kissing him.”

“Oh, great. That’s your libido talking, not your brain. Sure, he’s a hottie with a body, but how does he treat you?”

Damn, she wished she could answer that question firsthand.

“Silence?” Kate commented. “Excuse me for being a buttinsky, but here’s how I see it. You guys have a history, of a mild sort. Now you’re like the all-American cover girl, and he wants to keep you in reserve for when he gets tired of Livvie and her attitude. So he’ll do just enough to keep you enthralled, and I do mean enthralled like enslaved.”

“I’m not his slave,” she said indignantly.

“No? You’re not his slave, but you’ll just … just hop into his car and do him in the parking lot without a commitment?”

All the blood drained from Angie’s head. She collapsed back onto her bed, phone pressed to her ear. She whispered, “How, uh, why do you think …”

“I saw you, crazy girl. I can recognize the back of your head.”

“Oh my God. That’s impossible. I’ve never … I wouldn’t even know how!”

“Ange. Apparently you do.”

Or someone did. That damned Slut. It was definitely time to pull the plug on that part of her brain before she got her into deeper trouble.

Angie breathed hard, no answers coming. “Kate, what do I do now?”

“Ask yourself if a guy who’d use you like that is worth it and come to the obvious conclusion.”

“You don’t mince words, do you?” Angie said, a small piece of her innocence in tatters. She didn’t want to give him up. He was a link, a bridge across the lost time.

“I don’t have to,” Kate replied. “I’m already a leper. Gives me the freedom to be honest.”

Angie sighed deeply. “Nope. You’re a friend. Gives you the responsibility to be honest. Damn. You’re right, of course.”

“Come with us,” Kate suggested. “Happiness is the best revenge. Double-date with me and Ali. You’d actually be doing me a favor, since Abraim was going to tag along with us anyway. He can be your escort. Two problems solved, since you already have a dress.”

“Okay,” Angie said. “Since I already have a dress.” And although she knew she shouldn’t go there, part of her wondered how jealous Greg would be seeing her with another date. “Talk tomorrow. Bye.”

She lay back on the pillow and experimented with her emotions. She tried to be deliriously happy that she had a friend like Kate. She tried to be furious with Greg. She tried to cry. A tear or two squeezed out, but mostly she felt numb. Shell-shocked. God help her if any of this got back to Livvie. She’d tell the world.

Friday morning, she told Dr. Grant she had absolutely, positively decided. No take-backs. She was ready to go ahead with the procedure. While she waited, Dr. Grant called and confirmed arrangements with Dr. Hirsch for first thing Monday morning. Angie’s head pounded through the rest of the school day and all night.

Saturday afternoon, Kate drove over with a set of hot rollers to do Angie’s hair. “You are going to need major makeup,” she said. “More mad rocking?”

“That, and headaches, too,” Angie said. “I hope I make it through the evening tonight.”

Kate smiled. “Once the party starts, you’ll be great. The boys are picking us up here at six.” She found an electrical outlet. “And now, let the magic begin.”

She rolled Angie’s long hair and went to work on her nails and makeup. By the time she’d finished, soft blond curls of hair framed the face of a porcelain doll with wide gray eyes. Angie stared in the mirror at the beautiful girl who supposedly was her.

While Kate did her own final tweaking, Angie tore herself away to dress. She had figured out the hideous scar issue, she thought, crossing her fingers that Kate would approve.

She twirled in front of Kate in high-heeled ankle boots and sheer black stockings. “Okay?”

Kate tipped her head, giving her the once-over. “Yeah. Different, but kind of sexy. That’ll work. Here, let me show you mine.”

Kate tossed her shirt and jeans aside, slid her own dress out of the garment bag, and wriggled into it.

Angie was amazed at the fashion makeover. “How’d you do that?” Gone were the puffy sleeves and gauze overlay. The pale blue under-sheath was now a strapless, backless satin dress. Kate had turned the blue gauze into a wrap that concealed her back and shoulders in a way that was both mysterious and hot.

“Get this,” Kate said. She reached into the bag and pulled out a long, silvery scarf, which she draped over her dark hair, crossed under her chin, and threw back over her shoulders to hang down her back like a pair of silver wings. “Think he’ll like it?”

Angie giggled. “Chah. Though if that’s supposed to make you look modest, I bet all he’ll think about tonight is how to unwrap you.”

Kate gave a smug smile. “Good.”

“I so can’t believe Liv called you a prude,” Angie said. She clapped a hand to her throat. “Oops. Sorry.”

Kate shrieked with laughter. “Livvie kills me. She’s the one who needs a couple of shots to loosen up enough to let a guy near her.”

Angie had an aha moment. She chuckled low in her throat. “She’s not a hot, fast Porsche?”

“Huh?”

“Something Greg once said. Explains a lot. No wonder he’s obsessed with my inner slut.”

Kate’s jaw dropped. “You have an inner slut?”

Angie rolled her eyes. “Surely you remember the wardrobe sabotage? The black lace? Et cetera?”

“The fire-red lipstick? Cleopatra eyes?”

“Oh yeah. That’s her.” Angie snorted.

“The no-bra white stretch top?”

“Oh, no. Please tell me you’re making that up,” Angie begged.

Kate’s mouth turned down. “Sorry. You didn’t know about that?”

“That was definitely her.” Angie sighed. “Anyway, she’s totally history Monday morning.”

“Wait, what do you mean? Are you getting cured?”

If only it were that easy. “Well, there’s this experiment—” Angie started.

“Hang on. An experiment? With your brain? But I love you the way you are!”

A rush of happiness flowed over Angie. “Hey, don’t worry. I’ll be—”

The doorbell rang, and Kate scrambled for her shoes. “Oh kill me. This is so to-be-continued …”

Ali’s eyes nearly dropped out of his head when Kate answered the door in her sparkling, homemade head scarf. At least, Angie hoped that one was Ali. She didn’t want her date ogling her friend instead of her. Of course, his eyes went straight to Kate’s neckline after that. Boys will be boys.

Angie watched for Abraim’s reaction. Would he approve of his blind date? He gave her a shy smile as he stepped forward with a corsage box, the twin of the one in his brother’s hand. “You look pretty, Angela,” he said. “Thank you for saving me from being such a hanger-on.” He had the slightest hint of British in his diction. “I hope roses suit you?”

Angie held out her wrist without thinking. She was completely used to the scars, but she saw them again through the boys’ startled eyes. Abraim hesitated just a second too long with the corsage elastic.

Kate plunged to the rescue. “Old Girl Scout hunting accident,” she improv-ed on the spot. “Ran into a bear trap. She had to gnaw her own hand off to escape.”

Angie picked up her cue. “That’s where the doctor sewed it back on.” She gave a light laugh.

Abraim gently took her fingertips and bent her wrist back and forth. “Fascinating. I didn’t know microsurgery had reached this advanced level.” He adjusted the trio of roses on her arm, just hiding the strip of scar tissue. “I am planning on medical school. After college.”

“Where are you applying?” Angie asked.

The boys chanted in unison, ticking off the colleges on their fingers as they went: “Harvard, Yale, Stanford, Tufts, and Hopkins.”

Angie’s eyebrows rose to her hairline. Quite a list. “What are you going to do if you get into different ones?”

The boys looked at each other like they’d never considered that possibility.

“How about you?” Abraim asked Angie. “What are your plans?”

“To get through Monday. I’m kind of living a day at a time. Long term? No clue.”

“Hungry here,” Kate said. “Shall we?”

Abraim put a hand under Angie’s elbow in an old-fashioned, gentlemanly way to lead her to the car. “How about college?”

Angie shrugged. “That’s a long way off. I’m only in ninth grade.”

Abraim’s hand abruptly dropped from her arm. “So young?” He looked frantically at Ali.

“Sixteen,” Angie said quickly. “I’m sixteen.”

It was strange to hear herself say the words, and stranger still, for the first time she actually meant it. She
was
sixteen. She was moving forward. “I, uh, was abroad for a couple of years. I didn’t go to school. So now I’m catching up.” Yeah. She was. Catching up. The unfamiliar emotion of sheer happiness made her light-headed.

Dinner was amazing, a Middle Eastern all-you-can-eat buffet. It was a long drive to get there, but the guys promised it was totally worth it. They were right. Angie rolled the new foods around on her tongue, trying to guess the spices. Help me out here, she thought deep into her brain. She imagined the creak of wood on wood, the sound a porch rocker might make.

A tentative thought came back.
That’s cumin. Turmeric. That sweet one is cardamom. Garlic, of course.

“Thanks,” she said, filing the tastes away in her own memory.

“Thanks for what?” Ali asked.

“Oh, uh, for passing the water,” Angie improvised. Talking to herself was “a new hazard of the thinning walls,” as Dr. Grant had informed her. Great. It could be awkward if she didn’t watch herself.

On the long ride back to school for the dance, Kate and Ali chatted in the front seat, loudly enough to make up for the slightly delicate silence in the back. Angie studied the stars through the window until a touch startled her.

Abraim held her hand gently in his. “Did it hurt? The surgery?” he whispered.

Angie’s eyes filled unexpectedly with tears. “Yes,” she whispered back. “I believe it did.” Abraim lifted her arm to his lips and kissed her inner wrist, his dark eyes soft and compassionate. Then, as if shocked by his own actions, he jerked his head away to look out his own window. But he never let go of her hand.

The decision was made. There was no going back now. Angie sat motionless in the surgical suite, her head secured in place with cushioned clamps. The room was very, very white, and the lights hummed at a high pitch that didn’t seem to bother the doctors and nurses.

Dr. Grant’s eyes poked over the top of her surgical mask. The corner crinkles suggested she was smiling underneath. She gave Angie two thumbs-up.

Angie smiled weakly. The mild sedative kept her calm enough to hold still, but she was alert and awake. The tiny holes in the top of her head were hidden under her hair and filled with sterile biological putty. Three weeks ago they had prepped her brain by letting a virus carry those special genes into the web of neurons where the alters Slut and Angel lived. Who could’ve dreamed that a gene from an archaebacteria would save her sanity?

Dr. Hirsch confirmed that the genes were absorbed and working, making these special light-sensitive membrane proteins called opsins. So far, so good. Now, finally, Slut’s neurons were at the mercy of the laser lights on fiber optics that would be oh-so-carefully threaded through Angie’s brain into just the right places. Yellow light would blast aside the total darkness inside her skull, and those opsins would stop working—would shut down the ability for communication. Painlessly. Instantly.

Angie was almost surprised that Slut hadn’t taken over by force and hitchhiked out of town. She’d been strangely quiet about this whole thing, and that worried Angie. Was she resigned to her fate or biding her time for some dramatic explosion?

Dr. Grant had warned her about the possibility of memory cascade. “Often in therapy,” she cautioned, “there may come a point where the walls are fractured. Something will add the final stress, and the whole structure will come tumbling down, flooding you with memories. Repressed and hidden stories will whirl through your mind with hurricane force. If Little Wife unloads her personal history of abuse on you all at once, the overload could be devastating. But,” she advised, “if that happens, I promise I will be here to help you clean up the mess and rebuild.”

“Great,” Angie answered. “You’re my personal disaster-response team.”

So Angie held tight to the hope that this would all be uncomplicated, that Slut would leave her, not with a bang, but with a whimper; that the worst of the experience would forever remain someone else’s memory—not hers.

Gowned and gloved, Dr. Hirsch stood behind her where she couldn’t see his expression. She knew he was excited, though. Another success, and his technique would be on its way to a major medical journal. There were whispers among the techs and nurses about a future Nobel Prize in Medicine.

She felt only the slightest jostle as he threaded the optic bundles with their microfibers deep into her hippocampus, the location of all her memories, good and bad. Angie had time for one moment of complete terror. What if the genes had leaked? Would anything else be wiped out? And then the doctor said, “Roll the laser.”