Pretty Girl Thirteen. Liz Coley

who belonged in a sitcom or family drama. Now she was the unwilling star of her own special crimes unit episode. Someone was rewriting the script of her life. Without her permission.

      Angie didn’t realize she was crying until a tear rolled off her chin and splashed the cold tile floor. What was she doing here? What happened? According to Mom and Dad, more than a thousand days had been stolen from her. And no matter what the calendar in her head said, the flow of time and some cruel experience were written all over her. Right there. On her arms and legs and face.

      Salty teardrops burned tracks down her cheeks. She smeared them off with the heels of her hands.

      Angie stepped to the sink to splash cold water on her face, and there she was again. That stranger in the mirror. With the eyes that looked old and tired, full of knowledge they refused to share. Regretful, concerned.

      Angie hurled a handful of water at the image. “I want my life back, you bitch,” she hissed at her reflection.

       Oh, Angie, you were so angry at us. You didn’t know how we saved your life—how I worked with the girls and the gate to keep you pure and hidden and untouched, our Pretty Girl-Thirteen. That’s what we called you. We’re sorry there was nothing we could do about the scars.

      “She can’t start school yet,” Dad said. “Not until we get a thorough psychological evaluation. We don’t even know which grade to put her into, after all.”

      He and Mom were “discussing” her life in the front seat as if Angie weren’t there inches behind them and hadn’t just been strip-searched in the hospital. She felt sore and sticky, though she couldn’t remember any part of the short exam to account for it.

      Dad hadn’t made eye contact with her the whole way through the hospital and out to the car. When Angie tried to slip her hand into his, he fake sneezed and moved his hand away to get a handkerchief. Was sixteen too old for public displays of affection? The rejection hurt, all the same.

      “Eighth,” Angie said, leaning between their seats. “I’m supposed to be in eighth grade. And I’ve already missed almost three weeks of school. I have to get started.” Her double scoop of mint-chip ice cream sat melting and untasted in its cardboard cup on her lap. At least Mom had remembered.

      Mom’s face ran through three tries before she found an expression she liked—polite disagreement. “It’s only three weeks. And the school will help us with tutoring to catch you up—I’ll insist on it. But hon, you need to be with your peers right now. You need their emotional support.”

      “My peers are in eighth grade,” Angie insisted.

      “Angie, your friends are all in eleventh grade now—Livvie, Kate, Greg.”

      “Greg?”

      Oh my God. She hadn’t thought of him in … well, whether it was three years ago or two days, the recollection of Greg was a ray of light that pierced this strange, dark day.

      A whole bunch of them had gone to Soak City Water Park together at the end of July for the last great adventure of summer. It didn’t start out as a date for Angie and Greg, but then everyone else in the group ditched them at the lazy river. The joke was, they didn’t even notice.

      They floated along on their stomachs like seals, sharing one raft. Their feet trailed out behind them in the swift, warm water, the sun blazing down on their backs. And pretty soon, their legs were sliding against each other, and Angie was really glad she’d just shaved. Around the river again, and their feet were twined together and when Greg put his hot, tanned arm across her back, it was the most natural thing in the world to turn her head and look into his shining eyes and meet his kiss halfway. Chlorine and cola flavored.

      They crashed into a wall, bumped teeth, cracked themselves up, and kissed some more until the teenage lifeguard blew a whistle and screamed, “Watch where you’re going or I’ll kick you out!”

      “Ooh, attitude,” Greg said. “Give them a whistle and they’re boss of the world.”

      Angie giggled. “So do what he says and keep your eyes open this time!”

      They floated around one more lap, lips and eyes locked on each other but blind to everyone else in the water, in a personal bubble the size of one raft and two people. By the end of the day, they were officially going out. But then they hadn’t actually gone out again before the campout.

      Greg. Wow. He was a junior now—how incredibly awkward. How could a junior go with an eighth grader? Wait. She wasn’t, really. But what if he was going with someone else now? That was totally possible—likely, even.

      Her heart raced at the idea of seeing him again, but which track was it speeding down—anticipation or fear? Like it was yesterday, she could still taste his kisses.

      “Mom, there’s no way I’m skipping to eleventh grade. No way. Think about it. I’m totally unprepared. I can’t catch up that fast.”

      Dad jumped in. “Which is why I suggested we give the psychologist a chance to weigh in on the decision. Especially since she has this temporary mental block. Who knows what else it might have affected—spelling, algebra—who knows?”

      “She needs a normal routine,” Mom said. “And her best friends.”

      A dreadful thought socked her in the stomach. The air punched out of her in a moan. They might not be her best friends anymore. They might have nothing in common. The in-jokes would all be stale. She wouldn’t know the songs and shows and websites they were talking about. And she’d be an oddity, a celebrity, the girl who disappeared for three years.

      “Dad’s right,” she blurted. “And I might want to go to a new school anyway.”

      “Well, we’ll just have to see,” Mom said, admitting defeat in her own way. “Detective Brogan very kindly arranged for the psychologist to see you tomorrow afternoon. All you have to do for the next twenty-four hours is eat and rest and put everything else out of your mind.”

      “It already is,” Angie said with a hint of bitterness.

      Dad pulled the car into the garage and killed the engine. His shoulders hardened into a wall. “Angela, I’m not so sure you want to remember anything based on what Dr. Cranleigh told us. Repression is a natural defense. If even half of what he suspects is true … well, never mind.” He turned his head away, but not before Angie caught the sickened look on his face and the swimmy film of tears in his eyes.

      “Don’t get me started,” Mom hissed at him, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Right now we’re celebrating our Angie’s miraculous return, however it happened.” She slammed the car door. “I’ll start dinner while you clean up,” she said. “Your favorite? Macaroni and cheese?”

      They were acting so weird. So emotional. Angie’s stomach hurt. She could only nod and pretend it sounded good.

      “Welcome home, Angie,” Mom said. “Remember we love you with all our hearts, no matter what.” She gave Angie an uncomfortably tight hug.

      No matter what? What was that supposed to mean? Angie stood in the circle of Mom’s arms for a minute before breaking loose.

      She ran upstairs and opened the door to her bedroom, like the door to a time machine. Everything was picked up and in place, the way she’d left it before the campout. Her cozy blanket was folded in a square on the rocking chair. Her guitar was put away in its niche by the window.

      The dresser top displayed a set of four colorfully beaded cream cheese tubs for her jewelry—rings, necklaces, bracelets, and earrings sorted out from one another. A plastic palomino horse, saved from a storage bin, galloped toward a photo of Angie, Livvie, and Katie squished cheek-to-cheek-to-cheek in a Disneyland giant teacup. She dragged her finger through the thick layer of dust over everything.

      Her finger came to rest at the foot of the angel statuette Grandma had given her for confirmation a few months ago—or what felt like a few months ago. She picked it up, and stroked the pure white