Pretty Girl Thirteen

by Liz Coley

  “Mom, can’t we make it just us, the nuclear family?” Angie pleaded. “I mean, it’s the first Thanksgiving I’ve had with you in a long time. Could we just enjoy it together?”

  “It’s Grandma’s first Thanksgiving without Grampy,” Mom reminded her. “She needs us.”

  “Can’t Dad pick her up, then? Or could she take the bus?”

  “Angela Gracie, what has gotten into you?” Mom asked. “Yuncle will bring her.”

  “But …” Angie stopped dead. She couldn’t put into words, at least not acceptable words, how much she dreaded seeing Yuncle again. The only consolation was that she was prepared this time. There was no way he would get her alone. She’d make absolutely sure of that.

  At eight o’clock, the guys’ car pulled up in the driveway. Angie wondered how they decided to split driving since they were twins.

  “Ali is twenty-six minutes older,” Abraim informed her. “So he claims the right of the firstborn. However, if I grab the keys first”—he dangled the keys in front of her—“I do not yield.”

  Ali and Kate were snuggled in the middle of the backseat. From the looks of it, Ali didn’t object to having a chauffeur. Angie buckled herself into the front passenger seat and wrenched her neck around to say hi.

  “Are we cheerful?” Kate asked.

  Angie forced a smile. “Working on it.”

  Abraim put his right hand on her shoulder. In a surprisingly in-tune tenor voice, he started doing Mick Jagger: “‘Angie, Angie, when will those clouds all disappear?’”

  Angie blushed and giggled. “Oh, please. That’s a sad song, isn’t it?”

  “That depends on your perspective. Sure it’s kind of haunting, but think of the refrain.” He leaned toward her and crooned in her ear, “‘Ain’t it good to be aliiiiiiiive?’”

  “Well, no doubt it beats the alternative,” she said.

  Abraim rocked back into his seat, his face instantly contrite. “Oh, forgive me.”

  “What? Oh.” She punched him gently in the arm. “No worries. As what’s-his-name said, the rumors of my death were greatly exaggerated.”

  “Mark Twain, I think,” Ali supplied from the backseat.

  Abraim still looked like he was beating himself for saying something foolish.

  Angie found herself in the reverse position of cheering up someone else, forcing her to make light of everything, which made her feel a lot better herself.

  They snuck into an R-rated movie—not sneaking for the boys, but sneaking for Kate and Angie. They were almost seventeen, sort of. Through whatever magic, whether it was Dr. Grant’s expensive therapy or Kate’s free therapy, Angie was growing into her age. She didn’t feel awkward about seeing a sexy spy thriller with a guy. In fact, she was looking forward to it. Abraim was very sweet, probably the right speed for her first real boyfriend. And if things didn’t work out, well, he’d be leaving for college eventually.

  Angie wasn’t at all hungry so soon after dinner, but she happily shared the popcorn Abraim bought for the excuse of bumping hands in the dark. Two inches away from her, Kate was missing the whole movie, locked in a quiet kissing marathon with Ali. When the popcorn was gone, Abraim stowed the bag and pulled her against his shoulder with a long arm. Angie rested against him comfortably for a moment; then with a jolt she recalled the last time she’d snuggled up like this, right after Slut had started her striptease. Oh God. Angie flushed in the dark. What did he think about that? Explaining to him “I’m not that kind of a girl” required too many other explanations. Best not to bring it up unless he did.

  After the movie, they went for ice cream, so by the time Angie was dropped at home, it was close to midnight. Abraim walked her to the front door and paused as she fumbled under the mat for the key. “I had a great time,” she said as she fitted it in the lock.

  “Me too.” He dropped a quick kiss on her cheek and ducked his eyes. “Thank you for coming out with me. I hope you don’t mind that you got the slow, shy brother.” He glanced back to the car where Ali and Kate were making out again. Poor Abraim would have to play the chauffeur, avoiding the rearview mirror.

  Angie rested a hand on his arm. “No. Not at all. You’re just right for me.”

  A slight tension in his shoulders loosened. “Ah, I’m glad of that. The other … well, I wondered … I hoped I didn’t disappoint you.”

  Oh hell. He’d brought it up. “That wasn’t me,” Angie said. “That was like another girl. And you knew exactly what we both needed. Just a long hug. So thanks for being the slow, shy one.” She leaned closer and kissed his cheek back. He smelled fresh and spicy at the same time.

  His confused and startled expression made her giggle long after she’d gone upstairs. She’d managed a perfectly normal date, no blackouts, no lost time. A small victory.

  She indulged in the treat of sleeping in, so that by the time she worked her way out of the warm covers, through a hot shower, and down to the kitchen, Mom had already put the stuffed bird in the oven and had an apple pie cooling on the countertop. Angie peeked out the window, happy to see that journalists had their own family obligations on Turkey Day, too. No sign of satellite trucks and roving reporters. Everyone was watching parades and football games.

  “Can I help?” she asked. “What are you working on now?”

  “The outside stuffing,” Mom said. “You know, some like it in and juicy; some like it out and crispy. And cranberry cobbler.”

  Angie grabbed the stuffing bag and read the back. Melt tons of butter. Sauté tiny pieces of onions and celery, toss them with the seasoned croutons, and add broth to perfect moistness. “Simple enough,” she said. “I’ll do this.” It was nice to feel competent. And confident. She could handle stuffing, especially with Girl Scout on hand to advise.

  “That’s great, Angie,” Mom said. “I’ve always said that if you can read, you can cook, but you were always so reluctant to try … before.”

  Angie waved away Mom’s flustered expression. “True. I was. But I had to learn a lot of practical skills. One of the unforeseen benefits of being kidnapped, right? I don’t expect there are many.”

  “Uh, no.” Mom made a pained sound. “So how do you feel about fruit salad?”

  “Point me to the fruit,” Angie said. “I’ve got it under control.”

  Mom showed her the collection of canned fruit on the counter—peaches and pears and apricots, as well as the bananas hanging on the monkey stand and a pair of green apples. “Cutting board is in the drawer, and the paring knife is right next to you.”

  Angie found the manual can opener and got to work slicing and dicing fruit into a large bowl. She didn’t even hear the doorbell ring. Next thing she knew, there was a tall, strong someone behind her. Yuncle. She recognized his scent. He had his hands on her waist. A foot away, Grandma was kissing Mom, careful not to get flour on her visiting clothes.

  “Smells wonderful, Margie,” Yuncle Bill said, but his nose was pressed to Angie’s hair. “Hey, Angie baby, turn around and say hi.”

  Angie’s skin prickled, not with her own memories, but with others rising to the surface. She squashed them down. She’d handle this.

  “You’re crowding a woman with a sharp knife,” she warned in a playful voice. “Bad move.”

  He chuckled and stepped back.

  Grandma tsk tsked at him. “Bill, darlin’, stop making a nuisance of yourself and get out of the kitchen. There’s women hard at work in here. Go watch the game with Mitch. I hear cheerin’ from the other room.”

  “Yes’m,” Bill said with a slight chuckle. “I’ll bother Angie later.”

  Was it only her imagination or was he sending her a coded message? Damn him, playing that game in front of everyone. Had he always pushed like that? She didn’t remember him well enough to know.

  She shook off the gross feeling where his hands had wrapped her waist. She could handle this. She would handle this. She sent a message deep into her head, hoping Tattletale was receiving. You don’t need to come out
today, honey. I won’t let anything bad happen.

  She hung out with Mom and Grandma in the kitchen, set the table with the best china and crystal, started a load of laundry—anything to avoid coming into contact with Bill again before she had to.

  Everyone was totally oblivious at dinner. Had it always been like this? Bill stared at her intensely the whole time and no one seemed to notice. Her heart ached for Tattletale—how lonely and scary and unfair it must have seemed.

  Angie picked at the banquet on her plate and forced herself to eat enough to avoid attention. Finally, when Bill declared he couldn’t eat another bite, Grandma offered to do cleanup.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Ma,” Mom said. “Angie and I have it covered.”

  Bill stepped up. “Will it go faster if I help dry as well?”

  Mom smiled broadly. “Well, of course it would. Come on in.” She tossed a dish towel at him. “Isn’t that sweet, Angie? You don’t see a lot of men volunteering to help with dishes.”

  “No, ya don’t,” Angie said. Crap. He was on the prowl.

  Mom grinned. “He’ll make a fine catch for some girl.”

  Angie’s stomach burped up a little bit of dinner. She forced it back down.

  Bill snorted at Mom’s comment. “Angie’s my best girl. You know that, Margie.”

  Mom was charmed, as usual. She snapped her towel in his general direction.

  Angie found herself scowling at the dishwater. Damn, he was smooth with the grown-ups. He probably always had been. The china plates clinked together under the suds.

  “Careful with those, Angie,” Mom said. “Would you rather dry and put away?”

  No, she’d rather not make eye contact with Bill. Washing the breakables gave her the perfect excuse to be glued to her work. The hot water ran in a gentle stream as she passed the soapy dishes through it and into the rack. Mom and Bill alternated grabbing plates to dry.

  “So, how’s school going?” Bill asked her in a perfectly normal voice.

  “Fine,” she muttered.

  “Fine? That’s it?”

  Angie imagined the look he gave Mom as he said, “Kids.” There was a shrug in his voice.

  Mom, unfortunately, volunteered more information in a singsong voice. “Angie has a boyfriend.”

  Angie heard his intake of breath. Soft and menacing. But his question came out in all innocence. “Angie! Is this true? Why didn’t you tell me?” And then pretend-hurt. “I thought your heart belonged to me.”

  Mom leaped in to worsen the tension. “Well, she’s a bit shy about it. Besides the formal dance, they’ve only gone out once. His name’s Abraim.” She pronounced his name about as foreign as she could make it, with a long rolled r and the syllables stretched out. “Nice-looking boy. Angie tells me he’s very smart, applying to Harvard and all.”

  The pride in her voice made Angie want to scream, Shut up, Mom. Just shut up. No-college Bill didn’t want to hear about Angie’s intelligent boyfriend. But of course, she didn’t. She just kept washing and passing the long-stemmed wineglasses.

  Mom picked up the stack of dinner and bread plates. “I’ll stow these,” she said, walking toward the dining room.

  As soon as Mom’s back was turned, Bill pressed up against Angie’s back, pinning her against the edge of the sink. His hands reached around and below her breasts. She froze.

  “Boyfriend, huh?” Bill whispered against the side of her head.

  Angie felt a pressure building inside. A flutter of panic. A tiny voice saying, Hide.

  “No,” she said aloud to Tattletale. And in her head, I’m not leaving. This stops here and now.

  Bill heard only the “No” and nuzzled her neck. His hands moved higher and squeezed. “Has he touched you here?”

  The frantic feeling in her head increased. Go. Go now! Quick.

  “No!” she said to Tattletale. And “Stop it” to Bill.

  Mom’s return was seconds too late. Bill was innocently back to drying silverware. With his probing hands gone, Angie’s body tingled with feelings she loathed. Ugh. He had her body trained to respond to him while her mind resisted with all her strength.

  Angie plunged her bare hands in the water. Red spots appeared on her arms, like oil spatter burns. She touched them, feeling nothing.

  Mom had grabbed the four crystal stems between all of her fingers. The bowls touched with a gentle ping. She headed back to the china cabinet in the dining room. “You two finish up,” she called over her shoulder.

  And Bill was back again, lifting the hair from her neck and pressing a kiss behind her ear. “We’ll sneak away as soon as we can,” he promised.

  Angie shivered and whirled around, meat fork in hand. “No, we won’t,” she hissed. “Ever. Keep your goddamn hands off her.” She waved the fierce prongs under his nose.

  “What’s wrong with you?” he asked in a hushed voice. He raised a fingertip to his lips. His eyes darted to the dining room door.

  “She’s reclaiming herself,” Angie said. Her voice came out deep and strange.

  “Aw, come on, Angie baby. Don’t play games. You were burning hot for me last time. Oh yeah, babe.” He grabbed her shoulders and did a little hip dance. “Your little boyfriend doesn’t need to know you got a real man.”

  Angie shuddered. Invisible wings opened on her back. She clung to her core, but with the threat level rising to red, Angel was roused and angry.

  Mom’s voice came from the living room. “Anyone want coffee with their pie? Mitch? Ma? I’ll put on a pot. Who was ahead at the half?”

  Angie followed it with her ears.

  Distressingly normal sounds from the other room—Dad urging the team through the TV, Grandma asking for decaf, if it’s not too much trouble—can’t have real at this hour, or I’ll be up all night.

  Angie’s hearing was supernaturally amplified, her consciousness elevated outside the room, moving into the distance. Fragmented. Part of her was the little girl trembling before this man, who was her beloved Yuncle—anything to avoid the fire, she was thinking. Part of her had white, rustling wings, and a sword at the ready. Part of her stood aside and watched, wondering what her role was supposed to be.

  “That’s better,” Yuncle sighed. “That’s my girl. That’s my pretty girl. You want it.”

  Angie snapped back to find herself running her hands under his shirt. She snatched a handful of hair between her fingers and ripped. “Like hell,” she screamed.

  “Shit,” Bill grunted. He raised a fist.

  Mom’s voice penetrated from a distance. “Angie? Everything okay?”

  Angie’s arms rose to protect her face. He captured her wrists and squeezed so hard, her hands started to go numb. “Don’t … say … a … word.” His mouth was only four inches from her face. His spit rained on her cheeks.

  The deep voice of Angel broke through again. “I will not permit.”

  “What?” Bill’s face was a riot of confusion. His hesitation was a definite mistake.

  Angel twisted his right arm out of Bill’s hold and smashed his elbow down through Bill’s grip on Angie’s left. Bill shook his battered arm, and Angel grabbed the fingers, twisting them backward till there was a snapping sound.

  Bill stared in disbelief at his deformed hand and gasped, loud enough to carry. “Why, you bitch!”

  He moved to take a full-fisted swing at her, but Angel moved Angie’s hand to reach for the meat fork and plunge it deep into Bill’s forearm. She felt the sharp points scrape bone, and a sick, triumphant feeling surged through her.

  Bill’s roar brought the others running from the living room. “Look what she did! Look what she did to me!” he hollered. “She’s insane!”

  Her parents pulled up short, confronted with the stranger in their daughter, the hard, glittering eyes of the Angel, the set of his jawline.

  Angie’s heart swelled with certain knowledge. He would never touch her again. She was free. Angel grinned.

  Your victory was short-lived. A moment later, your f
ather tackled you to the ground. “Call the doctor, Margie! No, call 911! She’s having a total breakdown.”

  Angie, you tried to breathe, tried to explain, but the fall had knocked all the wind out of you. You gulped for air, like a fish pitched out of a bowl.

  Above you, Grandma already had a clean towel around Yuncle’s arm, staunching the blood flow. “Oh, Bill, how lucky she missed your torso.”

  Dad’s chest heaved with short, quick breaths. “Thank—thank the Lord she grabbed the fork. Not the carving knife.” He pinned your shoulders against the hard kitchen tiles.

  In total disbelief and unable to say a word, you lay there gasping. There was only hatred and fear in Grandma’s face. You blinked your eyes pleadingly at Mom, who was dialing the phone. Mom reached out her other hand to you, but Dad stopped her.

  “Margie, keep away,” he barked, his voice cracking. His hands dug into you with strange energy. “God only knows what she might do to you and the baby. I knew this would happen. I knew … she’s been too calm … just waiting to break.”

  You finally grabbed enough air to wheeze, “Dad, please. Let me explain.”

  Dad’s head snapped around, and he looked straight into your eyes for the first time. His breath caught. “Angel? What—?”

  “No, Daddy. Angel’s gone. It’s me, Angie.” You tried so hard to make him understand.

  Bill’s good hand grabbed Dad’s shoulder from behind, and he loomed over both of you, there on the floor. “She nearly killed me, Mitch. She hit an artery. My goddamn fingers are broken.” His voice was level, but his eyes promised revenge. You flinched away, and the connection with Dad broke.

  “Restrain her. Keep her calm,” Bill ordered.

  Dad tensed and pinned you tighter. Sweat beaded on his forehead. His mouth was a pale slash in his dark red face. He looked like he was about to have a stroke. And his fingers pressed lines into your shoulders.

  You twisted weakly, trying to escape his grip.

  “They’re coming immediately,” Mom said. “Angie, hang on, honey. Help is coming.” She reached out again, met Dad’s warning glare, and retreated, twisting her hands. She looked away, toward the front of the house. “And thank God there aren’t any news trucks today. An ambulance would put them over the top.”