Читать книгу Pretty Girl Thirteen - Liz Coley - Страница 11

WHEN THEY LEFT DR. GRANT’S OFFICE, MOM GRIPPED A photocopy of the textbook article and a page of web references. Angie trailed her unhappily back to the car. She didn’t believe any of it. There must be more rational ways to explain her lost time, her blank memory. And jeez, they were just talking about camping. Of course Angie would have mentioned she was a Girl Scout. The doctor just got confused, is all—must have misunderstood something she said. Angie would straighten it out next time. She had been starting to like Dr. Grant, to tell the truth, and she didn’t want to argue with her.

“Do you think … ,” Mom began awkwardly as she started the engine.

“Come on, Mom. Isn’t that a bit out there? I thought we already decided that I have temporary amnesia from post-traumatic stress. That, I can believe. This multiple-personalities thing? Not.”

“Yes, well, Dr. Grant did say it wasn’t exactly typical, right?”

“Sure. The book she showed me said blah-dee-blah a pattern of abuse and blah-dee-blah in infancy or early childhood. I mean, I don’t have that. I had a perfectly normal childhood, right? I mean, you and Dad didn’t tie me up or stuff me in a closet and torture me, right?” She laughed.

Mom tried to match her light tone and failed. Her voice squeaked. “Of course we didn’t. What a ridiculous notion. No one could love a child more than we loved—love you.”

She corrected herself quickly, but the slip was another stab in the heart. Measuring Mom’s waistline, Angie wondered how long she had to get her feet back on the ground, to fix her life before the baby came and messed everything up again. She didn’t ask.

Angie put her guitar away, fingertips throbbing. Aside from mirrors, nothing else reminded her so much of the obvious time gap. Chords didn’t fit under her hands the same way—her longer fingers kept overshooting. And then, in spite of all the unexplained calluses on her palms, she’d lost the useful ones four years of guitar lessons had built up.

Mom’s call to supper echoed up the stairs. Angie hurried down, but her feet stuck fast on the landing at the sound of raised voices. Dad’s voice—no, his words—glued her in place.

“Just not the same,” he was saying. “Look in her eyes. Something’s missing. She’s angry, then she’s, I don’t know … brain-dead. Flat. For God’s sake, I haven’t seen her cry even once.”

What did he expect? That she would sob all over him? He’d never been that kind of teddy-bear dad, and now he was so uncomfortable and distant. She’d seen more of his back than his front.

Mom’s hushed reaction was too soft to hear, but Dad’s response sounded loud as a megaphone. “I don’t know. Just damaged. There’s no spark, no bounce in her.”

This time a few of Mom’s words came through. “… time to readjust … more if she remembers. And you know what Dr. Grant thinks… .”

“That’s bullshit, and you know it!” Angie had never heard Dad yell like that, or use that kind of language with Mom.

She thumped deliberately all the way down. Bounced hard so they had to notice. The voices stopped. She glared between her parents, who now had this strained silence to explain.

Mom whacked a spoonful of mashed potatoes onto Angie’s plate. “We were starting to discuss school again,” she said with deceptive calm. The spoon clanged on the edge of the pot.

An obvious evasion. Plus, what was left to say? They’d already had a discussion about private school, a fresh start in a new place. Sadly, out of the question. Dad crushed that hope with the excuse that with Mom working, it was too far to drive. The crease between his eyes told Angie that the truth was, after the search for her, there wasn’t enough money. Sacred Heart was out for the same reason, plus they weren’t Catholic. That left La Cañada High School, the place where everyone knew her as the girl who disappeared. Sure, the grades seven and eight teachers and classrooms were separate from nine through twelve, but it was still a small world. Same campus. Too small.

The only remaining question was what grade. Thank God Dr. Grant backed up Angie. With everything else going on, she said, and now this possible weird diagnosis, she ought to go back to school at the level where she felt most comfortable. Also, as soon as possible before she missed any more.

“I’ve already decided.” Angie striped the pile of potatoes with her fork. “I’m going to start in ninth.”

“But—” Mom began.

Angie cut her off. “Look, my old friends will be around, but they’re juniors. I can’t take classes with them. You can’t expect me to, even with tutors.” Since she had been a year ahead in math, ready for Algebra I, that would put her in the regular stream for ninth. She’d always been an A student in language arts, so she wasn’t afraid of skipping one year. But that was where she drew the line. Skipping more than one grade was too stressful to think about.

“I still think you’d want to be with your friends,” Mom said, a slight whine in her tone.

Dad chewed his baked pork chop and kept his opinion to himself.

Mom couldn’t let it go. “I really think being with kids your own age will help … will help you feel like yourself again. Your words.”

“Two days, Mom. I’ve been getting used to this supposedly sixteen thing for two whole days.”

Mom sighed and rested her forehead on her hands, elbows on the table. “Sorry. Okay. It’s just strange to think you’ve been aging in my mind but not your own.” She gave a tight, sad laugh. “I even lit candles on all your missed birthdays.”

“So, where are all my presents?” Angie met Mom’s startled glance with the hint of a teasing smile. “Where’s that red convertible I always wanted?”

“That sounds more like my Angel,” Dad said. The worry lines on his forehead smoothed down a bit. He leaned back and loosened his tie.

Angie’s newborn smile stretched into a grin. Peace restored.

She didn’t entirely know why the idea of contacting her old friends filled her with terror, why she couldn’t even pick up a phone. It was just so hard to jump into the middle—much easier to start over. Blending in with three hundred ninth graders who didn’t know her, who had no expectations of her, sounded safer. If she caught up, she could move up.

“So we’re agreed,” Angie said. “Ninth.”

Mom nodded. Dad shrugged.

“Anyway,” Angie added, “are you in such a hurry for me to graduate and get out of the house?”

“Absolutely not.” Mom served the green beans, and not another word was mentioned about skipping ahead.

Wednesday morning, she walked through the doors of La Cañada High School with a backpack full of school supplies. Angie still hadn’t called her old friends to tell them, to warn them. Only the school administration knew that the missing girl had been found and had re-enrolled. They were just as anxious as the Chapmans to avoid turning the school grounds into a media circus. Detective Brogan had performed a miracle, keeping the press off the scene so far.

According to Mom, the teachers had been instructed not to make a fuss of any kind. Since none of them knew her personally—she hadn’t had any of them in seventh—her mysterious return wouldn’t affect them anyway. She was just a curiosity, no more. So she hoped.

Somehow, she’d had this crazy notion that she could slip into school unnoticed and disappear in a sea of ninth graders. But Stacey Tompkin’s punky little sister, Maggie, who was apparently in ninth grade now, recognized Angie as she squeezed into the back of first-period English. Her round green eyes kept swiveling from the whiteboard up front to gawk at Angie, as if making sure. Stacey had been on the campout, and her tagalong sister knew all the “big girls” Stacey hung out with.

Five minutes into school and she’d already been recognized.

After class, Maggie dashed to the desk next to Angie’s before she could gather up her stuff. “You’re Angie Chapman, right?” she asked breathlessly. “You disappeared.”

Angie kept her voice low. “Well, I’m back.”

“Yeah. I can see that,” Maggie said. “But why are you in my class?”

What was she going to say, anyway? She knew the question would come up over and over. “I didn’t go to school for three years,” she answered.

“Lucky,” Maggie said. “I mean …” She stopped with an embarrassed, stricken look on her face.

Angie took pity on her. “Not really. Now I have to catch up. A lot.”

Maggie’s face lit up. “I know what. I’ll make you copies of all my notes so far.” She grabbed Angie’s arm. “And I can come over and, like, tutor you, but just for English and history. Maybe Jessica should do math, and Alan can do science.”

She peered at the departing line of kids and yelled, “Hey, Jess, Alan, come here. Guess what?”

Angie slipped her arm away. “That’s okay,” she began. “I don’t need …”

But it was too late. The two who had to be Jessica and Alan headed in their direction. Another kid behind them yelled, “Oh my God. Is that Angie Chapman? The Gone Girl?”

Oh Lord. Angie stood helplessly as the kids who hadn’t left already surrounded her. She felt an arm on her shoulder, a hand on her waist.

“I’ll carry these,” a boy said, and snatched her backpack from her. “Where are you headed next? I mean what class?”

The clump shepherded her through the hall six doors down to math. Angie disentangled herself from the two girls who’d linked her arms on either side, like Scarecrow and Tin Man dragging her off to meet the Wizard. “I think I can handle it from here, guys,” Angie said. “Um. Thanks.”

Half the group dispersed and half stayed for math, waiting till Angie picked a desk before they surrounded her like bodyguards. Trying to plot her getaway, she didn’t hear a word the teacher said, but since she had two folded notes in her hand offering to study for next Friday’s test together, maybe that didn’t matter.

The classroom door opened onto a mob scene. Kids were holding their phones, supposedly off-limits during school, reading the screens. They looked up as the math class spilled out. She heard her name cut through the hubbub, spoken high and low. Everyone must know by now. The buzz of the excited mob was deafening.

She grabbed Maggie. “Get me to the bathroom,” she hissed in her ear.

Maggie raised her voice. “Make way. Coming through.” She elbowed their way through to the girls’ room door.

Oh God, Angie prayed. Please don’t let every day be like this.

At the end of the day, all she wanted to do was get home and shower off all the handprints, throw her clothes in the wash, and listen to silence for a while. She was hurrying for the bus with an armload of books in front and her backpack bouncing against her spine when she heard Livvie’s unmistakable voice closing in on her from behind.

“Hey, you. New girl. Slow down.”

She walked faster, a nervous feeling in the pit of her stomach. She’d only had to deal with ninth graders so far. What would her old friends think?

“Hey, wait up,” a deeper voice called. Heavy footsteps followed her at a run. A hand stopped her at the shoulder. “Hey, you dropped—holy crap,” he said, catching sight of her face. “Oh my God, you look so much like someone I used to know. Whoa.”

Angie grabbed the ninth-grade vocabulary workbook in Greg’s outstretched hand. She would have recognized him anywhere, anytime. His black-lashed eyes hadn’t changed, nor his thick wavy Italian hair. But he’d sure grown up from his thirteen-year-old self. In the most amazing …

He’d already turned to yell back to Livvie. “Hey, Liv. Check it out. Who does she remind you of?” Back to Angie. “What’s your name, anyway?”

Angie’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. Livvie jerked to a halt, staring at her. All the color drained from her cheeks. She reached a hand forward and lifted Angie’s long hair back from her face. Angie stood frozen in place as Liv traced the pale scar line under her chin from the time they’d been practicing spin jumps into the pool. Liv whispered. “Oh my freaking … no way. Are you for real?”

Angie bit her lip and nodded. She couldn’t breathe.

Livvie squealed. “Oh my God, oh my God. Gregory, you idiot. It is Angie. Back from the dead, or what?” She wrapped her arms around Angie and threatened to break a rib with her python-strength hug. “You didn’t call… . How long …? Where …? Oh, shit, there’s too much I want to know all at once. Tell me, now. Now! Now! I insist!”

Breath exploded out of Angie, breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. “Livvie!” She squeezed back. Her cheeks burst with grinning, the first completely happy moment she’d had. Mom was right. She should have called.

Greg gaped and gulped like an air-drowning fish. “You … but … holy crap.”

His arms joined the group hug, long enough to wrap them both. “Un-freakin-believable.”

Angie leaned against him, immersed in his warmth. Wow, he’d grown. His heart was racing right under her ear—almost as fast as hers. As a thirteen-year-old mini-stud, he’d been hot, no doubt. As a sixteen-year-old dark-eyed hunk, he was scorching.

His hand rested on her waist now, but she didn’t mind. Not at all. His eyes took all of her in. “We thought you were for sure dead. Everyone thought so. You vanished!”

“Well. I’m back.” Angie found it hard to catch her breath, impossible to explain.

“I … we all lit candles for you.” His forehead creased.

“It was so beautiful,” Livvie said. “You would have loved it. I mean, if you could’ve been there.”

Greg broke up in hoots of laughter. “If she’d been there? Liv, think about it.” He shook his head, smiled wide, and wagged his finger at Angie. “You know, you stood me up for homecoming, which I knew you would never, never do unless you were really dead. I believe you owe me an apology.” He moved his finger to lift her chin. “Care to apologize and explain?”

A happy giggle escaped her lips. “I’m sorry. And yes, I’ll explain as much as I can.” She noticed a couple of heads turned their way, studying her with curiosity. They began to move—her gravity field was drawing them in again. “Not here. Somewhere private.”

“Chah,” Liv agreed. “Greg’s house. It’s walking distance from here. We can be private and you can tell all!”

Greg put an arm around each of their shoulders. Angie’s heart raced through the roof. It was like no time had passed for them either. All still friends. And the way Greg’s fingers casually twisted through her hair, maybe he still felt the way she did. A low, laughing voice in her head said, Don’t worry, honey. We know how to find out, don’t we?

She snorted in surprise.

“What?” Greg asked. “Share the joke.”

“Sorry, a fly flew up my nose,” she lied. “Hey, where’s Katie? What’s up with her?”

Liv’s answer was completely unexpected. “Kate? Yuck. We don’t hang with her anymore. She’s, like, so immature, such a prude. We were having this bonfire last fall, and Kurt’s older brother got us a keg and she told.”

“Told who?”

“Her parents, the cops, the school. It was grievous. Kurt got three days’ suspension since he was hosting.”

An immediate sense of panic flooded her. “What? You can’t tell on your friends! That’s so completely wrong. She’ll burn in hell.” Angie was startled by the urgency and fear in her own voice. Hell? She didn’t even believe in Hell. Where had that come from?

Greg laughed. “Well, she got burned, all right. No one talks to her anymore. She’s lower than the outcasts.”

A fate worse than death in high school. Poor Kate, Angie thought. But she did it to herself. Telling. Didn’t she realize?

The sky hung overcast above them, and the breeze picked up—not a hot Santa Ana wind, but a preview of cooler weather. Angie shivered in her thin brown sweater—she hadn’t thought to buy a new jacket during her shopping spree. Greg pulled her closer under his arm, which totally made it worth freezing all the way to his house. He kept turning his head to look at her. She could feel his glance on her cheek, which was most certainly blushing.

Greg unlocked the front door and sent the girls into the kitchen. “Grab whatever you want to eat,” he said. “I have to make sure the coast is clear.” He disappeared.

“He’s shoving his dirty clothes under the bed,” Livvie explained. “He’s a total slob at home.” She stuck her head in the fridge and held out a can. “Want a Diet Coke?”

Angie accepted. “Thanks. It is so great to be with you guys again. You have no idea what kind of day I’ve had. Mobbed, flocked all day. Totally crazy.”

“I hear ya. Want some rum in it?” Liv asked. “I know where they keep it.” She grabbed two more cans and closed the door with her knee.