Pretty Girl Thirteen. Liz Coley

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      EVALUATION

      DAWN LIGHT FILTERED THROUGH THE CURTAINS A LITTLE after six thirty. Angie had the strangest urge to leap out of bed and start cooking, but that was ridiculous. She didn’t know how to cook. She stretched like a cat, working the stiffness out of her legs. Her feet touched the carpet with a jolt. The blisters and rubbed spots clearly hadn’t healed overnight. She forced herself to look away from the scar bands around her ankles.

      “If I can’t see them, they aren’t there,” she lied to herself.

      Angie listened for her parents moving around in the house. Water was running—probably Dad’s shower. She padded over to the dresser to find some clothes. She picked out one of her favorite tops, a long-sleeve tee with a dark blue silhouette of a rock climber on a pale blue background and sparkles spelling out ROCK ON. Katie had given it to her to celebrate their rock climbing badges last May … last … May. Oh no. She held it up to her chest and realized it was at least two sizes too small now.

      Well, great. Wonderful. What would she wear? She crushed the shirt into a ball and hurled it across the room. It landed on the carpet dents where her rocking chair usually sat. The chair had moved three feet closer to the window. Carpet skids showed where it had been dragged since yesterday. Angie frowned and dragged it back.

      With a heavy sigh, she went back to the dresser for the too-big gray sweatshirt she liked to wear when she needed to feel cozy. Without rolling up, the sleeves were just the right length now to cover her wrists. She glanced into her dusty jewelry dishes for inspiration and realized with a start—they weren’t dusty. In fact, the entire dresser top was clean. And so was her desk, and her nightstand, and the windowsill.

      Had Mom snuck in at midnight to clean? How totally stupid, but how totally nice of her.

      “Knock, knock.” Mom’s voice on the other side of the door startled her.

      She jumped back into bed, not to be caught standing there in her underwear. “Come in, Mom,” she called.

      Mom pushed the door with her foot, her hands filled with a bed tray and a plate of steaming pancakes. Pancakes in bed! It didn’t get any better than this. And she was starving, even after eating half the macaroni and cheese last night.

      “Don’t think I’m going to do this every day,” Mom said with a little smile. “Just days that end in Y.” She couldn’t tear her eyes away from Angie’s face. Maybe she expected her to disappear again overnight.

      “Thanks, Mom. This is great, really, but you don’t need to make such a fuss.”

      “Of course I do,” Mom said. She perched on the edge of the bed and set the tray across the bump of Angie’s legs. She fluffed the pillows behind Angie’s back.

      “The novelty will wear off, and then I’ll just be spoiled.”

      “No, it won’t. Never.” Mom laughed and stroked her hair. “Can I brush this for you? It’s grown so long.”

      “I’ll probably get it cut soon,” Angie said. “Feel more like me.”

      Avoiding mirrors was possible, but ignoring the strange sweep of silky hair over her shoulder wasn’t. It made her wonder about all the things she couldn’t remember—washing it, brushing it smooth every morning. And that led to where had she slept? What had she eaten? Who had cooked for her? Was someone missing her now that she was gone? Ugh. All too weird to think about. Better not to think at all.

      She squeezed a huge glob of fake maple syrup over the four-high stack of buttermilk pancakes, watching it waterfall over the cliff into an amber pool on the plate.

      Mom was silent until Angie looked up again, wondering why she was so quiet. Mom’s face had that smoothed-over sad look again. “I’m sorry you don’t feel like you. Maybe once you’re back in school, or taking guitar again—I’m sure Ms. Manda would be thrilled to …” She trailed off.

      Angie shrugged.

      “I’m sorry,” Mom said again. “I’m not helping, am I? Who do you feel like?”

      “That’s the weird thing.” Angie cut a wedge with the side of her fork. “I’m the same person on the inside as when I packed for camping. But my clothes don’t fit right, my hair is all wrong, and when I walk by a mirror it’s like I’m seeing the ghost of Angie-yet-to-come. It’s creepy.” She stuffed the whole wedge of dripping pancakes into her mouth. The sweetness stayed on her lips after she swallowed. She sighed. “I don’t know. Who do you see?”

      Mom took her left hand. “Just my daughter. A lovely girl on the verge of becoming a young woman.” She rubbed Angie’s knuckles, her fingers stopping on the strange silver ring. “Pretty,” she commented. “I don’t remember this ring from … from before.”

      Angie didn’t either, but something stopped her from admitting that. “Sure. I’ve had it for a long time.” A half-truth.

      “Oh. СКАЧАТЬ