Pretty Girl Thirteen. Liz Coley

      

      INTERROGATION

      “GO BACK NOW,” A VOICE SAID. ANGIE FELT A POKE between her shoulder blades. She tripped forward a step, arms out to catch her balance.

      “Don’t,” she protested, whirling to look behind, but no one else was there.

      She shivered and shook her head to clear it. When the wave of dizziness passed, she opened her eyes again. She blinked hard at her street. Her cul-de-sac. Her neighborhood. The sun was halfway up the cloudless azure sky. Hot Santa Ana winds tousled the sweet gum trees. A hint of red tinged the edges of the falling leaves. Sharp-pointy seed-pods scattered across the sidewalk. In August?

      An unexpected weight tugged at her left hand—just a plastic grocery bag. Where was her camping gear? She hefted the bag to look inside, and that was when the strangeness hit her. She dropped it in surprise and studied her left hand. Something was really wrong here. This wasn’t her hand. Those weren’t her fingers. These fingers were longer, thinner than they were supposed to be. And a strange silver ring circled the middle finger. The skin was dry and rough. Dark scars circled the wrists like bracelets. She turned over her right hand, studying unfamiliar cracks and calluses on her palm. She clenched it experimentally. It felt … wrong.

      Angie frowned and spun to look again behind her. How had she gotten here? She didn’t remember walking this way. She was just … in the woods?

      Her stomach growled, and her right hand flew to her waist—taut, thin. And where had this hideous shirt come from? Flowers and ruffles? Not her style at all. And no way would Liv or Katie have bought it. She wouldn’t have borrowed it even if they had.

      She picked up the bag and peeked at a collection of completely strange clothes. A sick feeling replaced the emptiness in her belly. Her head felt floaty, disoriented, disconnected.

      Angie’s eyes traced the houses around the cul-de-sac. Everything there was familiar, thank God. The cars in the driveways looked right, which was reassuring, until she caught sight of Mrs. Harris, pushing a stroller, just entering her garage. Mrs. Harris didn’t have kids.

      She broke into a run, feeling for the first time the blisters on her feet, the ache in her legs. Home, she had to get home. Of course. She’d been lost, in the woods. Now she was home.

      She felt under the woven grass mat for a key and opened the red front door. “Mom!” she yelled. “Hey, Mom, I’m home!” She stepped through.

      Tumbling down the front stairs, feet sliding, face a screaming mask of disbelief, her mom burst into tears. She engulfed Angie in her arms, speechless, gulping.

      “Mom!” Angie said into her hair. “Mom, I can’t breathe.” She dropped the bag of clothes with a small thump. She brushed a wisp of hair from her lips. Silver threads mingled with Mom’s loose brown curls.

      “Can’t breathe … can’t breathe?” Mom let go enough to hold Angie at arm’s length and devour her face with her eyes. “Can’t …” She laughed, a tight, hysterical bark. “Oh my God. Oh my God. A miracle! Thank you, God. Thank you.” She raised her eyes to the ceiling. “Thank you,” she said again.

      Upstairs, a toilet flushed, and Dad’s voice called down the stairs. “Margie, what’s all the commotion?”

      Mom whispered to Angie, “Oh, your father … He’ll just …” She couldn’t speak. Her face was white. Too round and white.

      Dad’s tread on the landing filled the pause. For a moment, he stood there, his hands plastered to his cheeks. His eyes met Angie’s and filled with tears. “Angela? Are you really …” His voice choked off.

      Angie looked back and forth between the two of them. “Um, yeah. I’m really … What’s going on?” It wasn’t just her. Something was wrong with her parents, too. A shiver passed across her shoulder blades.

      “Angel?” Dad whispered the word. He stood on the landing, frozen in weirdness. His black hair was completely gray. His damp eyes looked a hundred years old.

      Angie’s heart began to race, and her feet tingled like they wanted to take off running. “You guys are totally freaking me out.”

      “We’re freaking you …?” Mom’s hysterical laugh broke out again. “Angie, where … where have you been?”

      “You know.” Angie’s stomach squirmed. “Camping?”

      The way they stared and stared at her made it hard to breathe. “Camping,” she said again, firmly.

      Dad started down the stairs. “Camping,” he repeated. “Camping?” His voice rose in pitch. “For three years?”

      Angie locked the bathroom door and pressed her back against it. Her familiar towel set, cream with roses, hung on the rack, just where she’d left it. It smelled like Tide. She’d never been so happy to see a towel before. It was perfect. It was right. Unlike her parents.

      Were they kidding? Were they crazy? She couldn’t have been missing for three years. That wasn’t the kind of thing a person would … just forget.

      She turned on the sink first, then glanced up at a face that looked back at her with clear gray eyes. In that moment of utter surprise, she forgot how to breathe.

      The girl in the mirror could have been her older sister, taller, thinner. Her cheekbones were sculpted, where Angie’s were soft and round. Her face was pale, where Angie’s was tan from a summer at the pool. The girl had long, dirty-blond hair, where Angie’s was highlighted and bobbed. The girl had serious arm muscles, gray skin, healed-up scars, and another thing that made the girl in the mirror a stranger. She had a curvy shape—breasts. Angie dropped her eyes to her chest. What the hell. Boobs? Where had those come from?

      She fingered the top button on her shirt, scared to look.

      A wooden pounding startled her. “Angela! Angela, for God’s sake, don’t do anything.” Her father’s voice sounded panicked. “Don’t … don’t …”

      Angie turned the lock and opened the door. “I … I wasn’t,” she said. Her face flushed with guilt. For what?

      Dad’s face was drawn with tension. A bead of sweat stood out on his forehead. Angie was mesmerized by it. She realized only half his chin was shaved.

      His gaze slipped to the right, avoiding her. His voice was low and hoarse. “Detective Brogan will be here in fifteen minutes. He said not to touch anything that might be considered evidence.”

      “Evidence of what?” Angie asked. The sound of running water filled the heavy silence while Dad hesitated over his answer. His attention darted to the sink.

      “Oh God, Angela. You didn’t wash anything yet. Right?”

      She held up her filthy arms, dirt so