Pretty Girl Thirteen (22 page)

“So, how’s school going?” Bill asked her in a perfectly normal voice.

“Fine,” she muttered.

“Fine? That’s it?”

Angie imagined the look he gave Mom as he said, “Kids.” There was a shrug in his voice.

Mom, unfortunately, volunteered more information in a singsong voice. “Angie has a boyfriend.”

Angie heard his intake of breath. Soft and menacing. But his question came out in all innocence. “Angie! Is this true? Why didn’t you tell me?” And then pretend-hurt. “I thought your heart belonged to me.”

Mom leaped in to worsen the tension. “Well, she’s a bit shy about it. Besides the formal dance, they’ve only gone out once. His name’s Abraim.” She pronounced his name about as foreign as she could make it, with a long rolled
r
and the syllables stretched out. “Nice-looking boy. Angie tells me he’s very smart, applying to Harvard and all.”

The pride in her voice made Angie want to scream,
Shut up, Mom. Just shut up.
No-college Bill didn’t want to hear about Angie’s intelligent boyfriend. But of course, she didn’t. She just kept washing and passing the long-stemmed wineglasses.

Mom picked up the stack of dinner and bread plates. “I’ll stow these,” she said, walking toward the dining room.

As soon as Mom’s back was turned, Bill pressed up against Angie’s back, pinning her against the edge of the sink. His hands reached around and below her breasts. She froze.

“Boyfriend, huh?” Bill whispered against the side of her head.

Angie felt a pressure building inside. A flutter of panic. A tiny voice saying,
Hide
.

“No,” she said aloud to Tattletale. And in her head,
I’m not leaving. This stops here and now.

Bill heard only the “No” and nuzzled her neck. His hands moved higher and squeezed. “Has he touched you here?”

The frantic feeling in her head increased.
Go. Go now! Quick.

“No!” she said to Tattletale. And “Stop it” to Bill.

Mom’s return was seconds too late. Bill was innocently back to drying silverware. With his probing hands gone, Angie’s body tingled with feelings she loathed. Ugh. He had her body trained to respond to him while her mind resisted with all her strength.

Angie plunged her bare hands in the water. Red spots appeared on her arms, like oil spatter burns. She touched them, feeling nothing.

Mom had grabbed the four crystal stems between all of her fingers. The bowls touched with a gentle
ping
. She headed back to the china cabinet in the dining room. “You two finish up,” she called over her shoulder.

And Bill was back again, lifting the hair from her neck and pressing a kiss behind her ear. “We’ll sneak away as soon as we can,” he promised.

Angie shivered and whirled around, meat fork in hand. “No, we won’t,” she hissed. “Ever. Keep your goddamn hands off her.” She waved the fierce prongs under his nose.

“What’s wrong with you?” he asked in a hushed voice. He raised a fingertip to his lips. His eyes darted to the dining room door.

“She’s reclaiming herself,” Angie said. Her voice came out deep and strange.

“Aw, come on, Angie baby. Don’t play games. You were burning hot for me last time. Oh yeah, babe.” He grabbed her shoulders and did a little hip dance. “Your little boyfriend doesn’t need to know you got a real man.”

Angie shuddered. Invisible wings opened on her back. She clung to her core, but with the threat level rising to red, Angel was roused and angry.

Mom’s voice came from the living room. “Anyone want coffee with their pie? Mitch? Ma? I’ll put on a pot. Who was ahead at the half?”

Angie followed it with her ears.

Distressingly normal sounds from the other room—Dad urging the team through the TV, Grandma asking for decaf, if it’s not too much trouble—can’t have real at this hour, or I’ll be up all night.

Angie’s hearing was supernaturally amplified, her consciousness elevated outside the room, moving into the distance. Fragmented. Part of her was the little girl trembling before this man, who was her beloved Yuncle—anything to avoid the fire, she was thinking. Part of her had white, rustling wings, and a sword at the ready. Part of her stood aside and watched, wondering what her role was supposed to be.

“That’s better,” Yuncle sighed. “That’s my girl. That’s my pretty girl. You want it.”

Angie snapped back to find herself running her hands under his shirt. She snatched a handful of hair between her fingers and ripped. “Like hell,” she screamed.

“Shit,” Bill grunted. He raised a fist.

Mom’s voice penetrated from a distance. “Angie? Everything okay?”

Angie’s arms rose to protect her face. He captured her wrists and squeezed so hard, her hands started to go numb. “Don’t … say … a … word.” His mouth was only four inches from her face. His spit rained on her cheeks.

The deep voice of Angel broke through again. “I will not permit.”

“What?” Bill’s face was a riot of confusion. His hesitation was a definite mistake.

Angel twisted his right arm out of Bill’s hold and smashed his elbow down through Bill’s grip on Angie’s left. Bill shook his battered arm, and Angel grabbed the fingers, twisting them backward till there was a snapping sound.

Bill stared in disbelief at his deformed hand and gasped, loud enough to carry. “Why, you bitch!”

He moved to take a full-fisted swing at her, but Angel moved Angie’s hand to reach for the meat fork and plunge it deep into Bill’s forearm. She felt the sharp points scrape bone, and a sick, triumphant feeling surged through her.

Bill’s roar brought the others running from the living room. “Look what she did! Look what she did to me!” he hollered. “She’s insane!”

Her parents pulled up short, confronted with the stranger in their daughter, the hard, glittering eyes of the Angel, the set of his jawline.

Angie’s heart swelled with certain knowledge. He would never touch her again. She was free. Angel grinned.

A
NGIE WOKE IN A CLEAN WHITE BED, IN A CLEAN WHITE
room with green curtains. She felt dulled, empty. Where was she? Within moments of opening blurry eyes, she zoomed in on the chair next to the bed. A woman slept in it, her head tilted on her shoulder. “Mom?” Angie’s voice croaked between dry lips.

Mom leaped from the chair to Angie’s side. She clasped Angie’s hand. Angie noticed soft restraints on her wrists. A tear slipped out of the corner of her eye. She hardly sensed it. “What happened? What did I do? Am I under arrest?”

Mom stroked her forehead. “No, no, hon. You’re under observation. Something happened to trigger a very violent reaction. We were afraid you’d hurt yourself or someone else. You’ve been sedated for a day. Dr. Grant rushed back from her sister’s, bless her heart, and they did another one of those procedures that seem to help you.”

“Is she still here?” Angie desperately needed to talk to her, to process what had happened.

Mom tipped her arm to check her watch. “She said she’d check in very soon. I think she went to get some coffee. It’s been a long vigil.”

Angie winced. “I’m sorry, Mom.”

“Well, you’ll be glad to hear that Bill’s arm will be just fine. No nerves or arteries hit after all, so two stitches, antibiotics, and a big bandage is all he needs. Of course, the broken fingers will take a little longer, but they’ll heal straight, the doctor said.”

Angie was silent. Stone-faced.

“Angie, aren’t you glad? You didn’t do any permanent damage, and he forgives you.”

Angie’s stomach did a double flip. “He forgives me?” She tugged at the restraints in frustration. “What the hell!”

“Calm, Angie. Or I’ll send for another sedative,” Mom warned.

Angie froze in place. “Mother—that guy molested me for years, every time he babysat me. He molested me again a week after I came back. He’s just plain evil. I didn’t know how to tell you and Dad.”

Mom’s expression softened, but not in the way Angie expected. “You poor confused girl. Bill said he thought it was something like that. You’ve got him confused in your mind with the man who abducted you, who raped and abused you.” She cupped Angie’s cheek with her hand. “Remember? It was that evil man, not your uncle Bill.”

Oh, that sneaky bastard. Tears washed down her face. Someone’s tears, not hers. She was too tired to cry. “Mom, get this. Yuncle Bill, who I loved and trusted? He raped and abused me. For years.”

Mom shook her head dismissively. “You were only six, hon. He was a little boy. You’re trying to make me believe he molested you every Friday night for four years?”

“Yes.”

Mom’s head still shook slightly. None of this was getting through to her. “And you never said a word? Never hinted? Never told us not to go out? Why not?”

A question Angie had asked herself a hundred or more times since she’d learned Tattletale’s story. “Because he made me promise not to.”

“Oh, hon. You’re really, really confused.” Mom’s forehead creased with concern. “Our Bill would never do anything to hurt you. You should have seen how worried he was for you, even while he was bleeding like crazy. Somehow your wires have gotten crossed, is all.”