Pretty Girl Thirteen (21 page)

Greg and Livvie had declared an all-out war on Angie—calling the press was only the first shot across the bow, ushering in a week of torture. Now her phone number was showing up in the bathrooms, both male and female. There were graphic descriptions of what she would and wouldn’t do with boys, girls, and animals, plus crazy claims of what turned her on—all untrue, all disgusting.

Angie started carrying around a small can of red spray paint to wipe out these little bombs of cruelty, as well as the crude drawings that often illustrated them. Now she wished she’d made more friends at school so she’d have more defenders, or at least more people who would recognize this as a hate campaign. But having painted herself as a blank, she left herself open to being painted in whatever colors Greg and Livvie picked.

Her friendship with Kate the leper didn’t help, but no way would she give up Kate. Kate held Angie’s head above water every day and yelled, “Just keep kicking and breathing.” Figuratively, that is.

“Did you see the new one in the stairwell?” Angie asked, threading her hair through her palms over and over. Her lunch tray sat untouched, as it had all last week, ever since the discovery of the actual cabin.

Kate rolled her eyes. “That’s not physically possible,” she said. “Not even for gymnasts.”

Angie groaned.

“It’ll pass,” Kate assured her. “It did for me. Worst case, they’ll repaint over the summer. The school is starting to look like it has chicken pox with all your tagging.”

“What I don’t understand is, why Liv? I mean, sure, I can understand why Greg would be pissed. But why is she helping smear me? She won. She’s got Greg. And … we used to be friends.”

“It’s the only way she can deal with taking Greg back and not feel like she’s eating your leftovers, so to speak. It’s how she changes the story of you dumping him into him dumping you because you’re trash—sorry—in her words.”

“Pathetic. How long till it all blows over?”

“Hey, relax,” Kate advised. “We’ve got our beloved five-day Thanksgiving break starting in a few short hours. They’ll lose momentum.”

“Doubt it,” Angie said. “They’ll stuff themselves on turkey and pumpkin pie and come back mean as ever.”

Darn Thanksgiving weekend anyhow. Dr. Grant was already at her sister’s out of town. Although Angie had pleaded with her about erasing Angel, Dr. Grant told her they couldn’t possibly do the next deletion any earlier than next Monday after the holiday—the facilities simply weren’t available. So Angie had to brood on her worries like an old hen until they were fully hatched. Any second now, Brogan would have a story put together, right or wrong.

Here’s how it would read. Angie had clearly lived in the cabin—hair and fibers everywhere. She’d been carrying a shiv away from the scene. Then a body would be found, with his throat slashed, or his wrists slashed, or his torso stabbed, or some other cause of death requiring a sharp, pointy implement—only Angel knew for sure. All the DNA evidence would come in next, linking the man to the cabin and Angie to the man. It made a neat, tidy package suggesting that Angie killed her captor (because who would blame her) and was faking amnesia and DID to get herself out of whatever they do to juvenile murderers. They’d stuff her under a lie detector. They’d hypnotize her and force Angel’s confession.

It would never stay secret. And even if what Angel did was ruled self-defense or justifiable manslaughter or something like that, no one would ever, ever look at her the same. Her life might as well be over. It was all coming down soon. She could feel it looming.

Kate snapped her fingers in front of Angie’s face. “Hey. Snap out of it. You’re sinking into self-pity again.”

“Not pity,” Angie said. “Just a reality check.”

“The guys want to double-date later tonight, but I’m not taking you along if you persist in acting like you’re getting hanged in the morning. I’ll take one of your other personalities. Who’s the funnest?”

“Depends on your idea of fun,” Angie said. “If you want to play dolls or dress-up, I’d suggest Tattletale. She’s six. If wreaking dreadful vengeance with a flaming sword is more your style, I’d send Angel. But he’s a guy, so perhaps not exactly right for Abraim. And if cooking over an iron-bellied stove trips your trigger, Girl Scout’s your girl.”

“Aw hell,” Kate said. “We’ll take Angie. She just better be in a better mood.”

Angie scowled. “Okay. I’ll try.”

But what she learned at home that afternoon didn’t help her lighten up. Exactly the opposite. Grandma and Yuncle Bill had been invited for Thanksgiving.

“Mom, can’t we make it just us, the nuclear family?” Angie pleaded. “I mean, it’s the first Thanksgiving I’ve had with you in a long time. Could we just enjoy it together?”

“It’s Grandma’s first Thanksgiving without Grampy,” Mom reminded her. “She needs us.”

“Can’t Dad pick her up, then? Or could she take the bus?”

“Angela Gracie, what has gotten into you?” Mom asked. “Yuncle will bring her.”

“But …” Angie stopped dead. She couldn’t put into words, at least not acceptable words, how much she dreaded seeing Yuncle again. The only consolation was that she was prepared this time. There was no way he would get her alone. She’d make absolutely sure of that.

At eight o’clock, the guys’ car pulled up in the driveway. Angie wondered how they decided to split driving since they were twins.

“Ali is twenty-six minutes older,” Abraim informed her. “So he claims the right of the firstborn. However, if I grab the keys first”—he dangled the keys in front of her—“I do not yield.”

Ali and Kate were snuggled in the middle of the backseat. From the looks of it, Ali didn’t object to having a chauffeur. Angie buckled herself into the front passenger seat and wrenched her neck around to say hi.

“Are we cheerful?” Kate asked.

Angie forced a smile. “Working on it.”

Abraim put his right hand on her shoulder. In a surprisingly in-tune tenor voice, he started doing Mick Jagger: “‘Angie, Angie, when will those clouds all disappear?’”

Angie blushed and giggled. “Oh, please. That’s a sad song, isn’t it?”

“That depends on your perspective. Sure it’s kind of haunting, but think of the refrain.” He leaned toward her and crooned in her ear, “‘Ain’t it good to be aliiiiiiiive?’”

“Well, no doubt it beats the alternative,” she said.

Abraim rocked back into his seat, his face instantly contrite. “Oh, forgive me.”

“What? Oh.” She punched him gently in the arm. “No worries. As what’s-his-name said, the rumors of my death were greatly exaggerated.”

“Mark Twain, I think,” Ali supplied from the backseat.

Abraim still looked like he was beating himself for saying something foolish.

Angie found herself in the reverse position of cheering up someone else, forcing her to make light of everything, which made her feel a lot better herself.

They snuck into an R-rated movie—not sneaking for the boys, but sneaking for Kate and Angie. They were almost seventeen, sort of. Through whatever magic, whether it was Dr. Grant’s expensive therapy or Kate’s free therapy, Angie was growing into her age. She didn’t feel awkward about seeing a sexy spy thriller with a guy. In fact, she was looking forward to it. Abraim was very sweet, probably the right speed for her first real boyfriend. And if things didn’t work out, well, he’d be leaving for college eventually.

Angie wasn’t at all hungry so soon after dinner, but she happily shared the popcorn Abraim bought for the excuse of bumping hands in the dark. Two inches away from her, Kate was missing the whole movie, locked in a quiet kissing marathon with Ali. When the popcorn was gone, Abraim stowed the bag and pulled her against his shoulder with a long arm. Angie rested against him comfortably for a moment; then with a jolt she recalled the last time she’d snuggled up like this, right after Slut had started her striptease. Oh God. Angie flushed in the dark. What did he think about that? Explaining to him “I’m not that kind of a girl” required too many other explanations. Best not to bring it up unless he did.

After the movie, they went for ice cream, so by the time Angie was dropped at home, it was close to midnight. Abraim walked her to the front door and paused as she fumbled under the mat for the key. “I had a great time,” she said as she fitted it in the lock.

“Me too.” He dropped a quick kiss on her cheek and ducked his eyes. “Thank you for coming out with me. I hope you don’t mind that you got the slow, shy brother.” He glanced back to the car where Ali and Kate were making out again. Poor Abraim would have to play the chauffeur, avoiding the rearview mirror.

Angie rested a hand on his arm. “No. Not at all. You’re just right for me.”

A slight tension in his shoulders loosened. “Ah, I’m glad of that. The other … well, I wondered … I hoped I didn’t disappoint you.”

Oh hell. He’d brought it up. “That wasn’t me,” Angie said. “That was like another girl. And you knew exactly what we both needed. Just a long hug. So thanks for being the slow, shy one.” She leaned closer and kissed his cheek back. He smelled fresh and spicy at the same time.

His confused and startled expression made her giggle long after she’d gone upstairs. She’d managed a perfectly normal date, no blackouts, no lost time. A small victory.

She indulged in the treat of sleeping in, so that by the time she worked her way out of the warm covers, through a hot shower, and down to the kitchen, Mom had already put the stuffed bird in the oven and had an apple pie cooling on the countertop. Angie peeked out the window, happy to see that journalists had their own family obligations on Turkey Day, too. No sign of satellite trucks and roving reporters. Everyone was watching parades and football games.

“Can I help?” she asked. “What are you working on now?”

“The outside stuffing,” Mom said. “You know, some like it in and juicy; some like it out and crispy. And cranberry cobbler.”

Angie grabbed the stuffing bag and read the back. Melt tons of butter. Sauté tiny pieces of onions and celery, toss them with the seasoned croutons, and add broth to perfect moistness. “Simple enough,” she said. “I’ll do this.” It was nice to feel competent. And confident. She could handle stuffing, especially with Girl Scout on hand to advise.

“That’s great, Angie,” Mom said. “I’ve always said that if you can read, you can cook, but you were always so reluctant to try … before.”

Angie waved away Mom’s flustered expression. “True. I was. But I had to learn a lot of practical skills. One of the unforeseen benefits of being kidnapped, right? I don’t expect there are many.”

“Uh, no.” Mom made a pained sound. “So how do you feel about fruit salad?”

“Point me to the fruit,” Angie said. “I’ve got it under control.”

Mom showed her the collection of canned fruit on the counter—peaches and pears and apricots, as well as the bananas hanging on the monkey stand and a pair of green apples. “Cutting board is in the drawer, and the paring knife is right next to you.”

Angie found the manual can opener and got to work slicing and dicing fruit into a large bowl. She didn’t even hear the doorbell ring. Next thing she knew, there was a tall, strong someone behind her. Yuncle. She recognized his scent. He had his hands on her waist. A foot away, Grandma was kissing Mom, careful not to get flour on her visiting clothes.

“Smells wonderful, Margie,” Yuncle Bill said, but his nose was pressed to Angie’s hair. “Hey, Angie baby, turn around and say hi.”

Angie’s skin prickled, not with her own memories, but with others rising to the surface. She squashed them down. She’d handle this.

“You’re crowding a woman with a sharp knife,” she warned in a playful voice. “Bad move.”

He chuckled and stepped back.

Grandma tsk tsked at him. “Bill, darlin’, stop making a nuisance of yourself and get out of the kitchen. There’s women hard at work in here. Go watch the game with Mitch. I hear cheerin’ from the other room.”

“Yes’m,” Bill said with a slight chuckle. “I’ll bother Angie later.”

Was it only her imagination or was he sending her a coded message? Damn him, playing that game in front of everyone. Had he always pushed like that? She didn’t remember him well enough to know.

She shook off the gross feeling where his hands had wrapped her waist. She could handle this. She
would
handle this. She sent a message deep into her head, hoping Tattletale was receiving.
You don’t need to come out today, honey. I won’t let anything bad happen.

She hung out with Mom and Grandma in the kitchen, set the table with the best china and crystal, started a load of laundry—anything to avoid coming into contact with Bill again before she had to.

Everyone was totally oblivious at dinner. Had it always been like this? Bill stared at her intensely the whole time and no one seemed to notice. Her heart ached for Tattletale—how lonely and scary and unfair it must have seemed.

Angie picked at the banquet on her plate and forced herself to eat enough to avoid attention. Finally, when Bill declared he couldn’t eat another bite, Grandma offered to do cleanup.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Ma,” Mom said. “Angie and I have it covered.”

Bill stepped up. “Will it go faster if I help dry as well?”

Mom smiled broadly. “Well, of course it would. Come on in.” She tossed a dish towel at him. “Isn’t that sweet, Angie? You don’t see a lot of men volunteering to help with dishes.”

“No, ya don’t,” Angie said. Crap. He was on the prowl.

Mom grinned. “He’ll make a fine catch for some girl.”

Angie’s stomach burped up a little bit of dinner. She forced it back down.

Bill snorted at Mom’s comment. “Angie’s my best girl. You know that, Margie.”

Mom was charmed, as usual. She snapped her towel in his general direction.

Angie found herself scowling at the dishwater. Damn, he was smooth with the grown-ups. He probably always had been. The china plates clinked together under the suds.

“Careful with those, Angie,” Mom said. “Would you rather dry and put away?”

No, she’d rather not make eye contact with Bill. Washing the breakables gave her the perfect excuse to be glued to her work. The hot water ran in a gentle stream as she passed the soapy dishes through it and into the rack. Mom and Bill alternated grabbing plates to dry.