Pretty Girl Thirteen. Liz Coley

even fierce, like Old Testament angels who frightened mortals with their flaming swords. She replaced it carefully, back on the dust-free spot.

      In one of the jewelry tubs, the thick silver ring caught her attention. Oh. She’d left it in the bathroom, but somehow it had migrated back to her room. She picked it up for a closer look.

      The ring was engraved all the way around with six tiny leaves branching off a single stem, familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. She probably should have turned it in as evidence. A beam of sunlight from the window sparkled off an irregular pattern on the inside curve. What was that? An inscription? She squinted to read it: DEAREST ANGELA. MY LITTLE WIFE. The words bounced off a brick wall in her memory, leaving the reflection of one panicked thought. No one should see this.

      The ring leaped onto her third finger and nestled into its groove, like it belonged. She must have worn it a long time to reshape her finger like that. She twisted and tugged until the ring pulled free of her knuckle, reluctant to leave its proper place. Her hand looked pale and naked.

      She slipped it back on, forgotten already.

      The bed was neatly made, with Grandma’s summertime patchwork quilt. On the bedside table was a bookmarked paperback—Animal Farm—which she’d been reading before the trip. Beneath it was her journal. The lock was broken, and it flopped open, somewhere in the middle of seventh grade. The familiar handwriting looped across the pages, day after faithful day until the last entry. August 2. She had written this in the tent by flashlight. Last night. No, not last night. More than three years ago.

      She tried to imagine her innocent excitement as she read her own words. “Ouch. Long hike in. Everything hurts but camp stew was amazing and s’mores even better. Tomorrow we hike along the crest trail. Cool. Can’t wait.”

      Before that, every page was filled. After that, every page was blank. It gave her the shivers.

      Mom’s voice came from the doorway. “When they brought that back from the campout, it was all I had left of you.”

      Angie kept her eyes down. She whispered, “You broke the lock. You read it, didn’t you? My private journal.” Not that she had any great secrets, but there were a lot of very personal comments about Greg. About his body, his arms, his lips. The blood rushed to her cheeks.

      Mom crept up behind and slipped her arms around Angie’s waist. Mom’s chin nestled on Angie’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Angie. We had to for the investigation. Any clue …”

      “Oh God. He read it too.”

      “Dad? No, no. I told him there wasn’t anything he needed to know. Just girl stuff.”

      “I meant Detective Brogan.” Angie shrank with embarrassment. Of course he’d read it. That was his job.

      She felt Mom’s nod against the side of her head. “Anyway.” Mom’s voice brightened into forced cheerfulness, trying to sound normal. “I didn’t change anything in here. I wanted it to be just right when you were found.”

      Angie turned and hugged her hard, a life preserver in this crazy, wind-tossed sea. In her arms, she felt Mom sob and shudder once. “I never gave up,” Mom said. “Believe me.”

      Angie rubbed her face into Mom’s shoulder. “Do you think I’ll ever remember?”

      For a long moment, Mom was silent. Angie pulled back and caught the tortured expression on her face, the mourning in her eyes, a split second before she fixed her expression.

      Finally, Mom answered. “For three long years, all I’ve wanted was to know what happened to you. Now … I don’t honestly know if I want you to remember.”

       On that point, we had to agree.

      

      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