It felt like I’d been to Mars and back since I went to sleep last night.
Even worse, I didn’t fit in with my family.
I was as tall as Mom now, but I used to be two inches shorter. Kyle, my little brother, wasn’t little anymore. He towered over both me and Mom.
Dad was the same. Almost.
There were worry lines on his forehead and around his eyes, an expression of dread that never seemed to leave him. I was used to him making me feel safe. Now something about me put him on edge.
It was weird, but I could remember almost anything, as long as it had happened more than a year ago. It felt like someone had erased the hard drive in my brain, leaving a handful of important folders empty. It didn’t make sense to me. Why had I only been gone for two weeks, but my memories of the whole last year were gone? The therapist had tried to explain it, saying that I had a form of retrograde amnesia, possibly combined with PTSD, and that it would take a while before my memories came back—if ever.
In the meantime, I was left with a family that all stared at me when they thought I wasn’t looking, like I was made out of porcelain and was about to break.
I missed how things used to be.
Sighing, I pressed my forehead against the cool window. The San Gabriel Mountains curved beside us as we drove—all the way from L.A. to Santa Madre—a massive chain of peaks that bordered the suburban sprawl, purple and hazy in the smog. Mount Harvard, Mount Wilson, San Gabriel Peak, Mount Lawlor, Monrovia Peak, and Strawberry Peak, all of them linking hands across the valleys and gaps.
Was that where I’d been for the past two weeks, wandering through the Angeles National Forest, forging a path down the mountains, trying to find my way home after being kidnapped? It reminded me of the survival training Dad always drilled into us every time he took Kyle and me backpacking. Since we were about five years old, he’d been taking us into deep forests, teaching us how to find our way back to the main trail, even if it took us days to get there.
But Dad hadn’t been there when I went missing, and I wasn’t five. And there were more things to be afraid of now than tree spiders or empty canteens.
...
Except for the landscaping, our house looked almost exactly the same. Living room, family room, dining room…all decorated in muted tones that said Nothing Very Exciting Ever Happens Here. As soon as we got in the door, Kyle nose-dived into the sofa, flipped on the big-screen TV, and launched Halo 4. Mom and Dad watched me as they pretended to go about normal activities: her making a grocery list even though the pantry door hung open and it was fully stocked, him flipping through a recent Sunset magazine, zeroing in on the garden section.
I wanted to be alone, so I jogged upstairs and headed toward my room.
But once my door swung open, I wasn’t sure if I was in the right house.
My room looked like it belonged to someone else. The pale yellow walls had been repainted dark burgundy and all my Taylor Swift posters were gone, replaced by Amy Winehouse, The Cure, and Marilyn Manson. My glitter eye shadows and pale pink lipsticks had been traded in for dark, somber shades—grays, browns, and burgundies. Apparently Mom had left my room just as it had been right before I disappeared. Black shirts and skirts and pants were draped over everything.
Had I gone Goth?
This wasn’t right, this wasn’t me.
I tore down the posters one by one, my fingernails scratching the wall. By the time I was done, Amy, Marilyn, and The Cure lay in a tattered pile on the floor. I opened the curtains to let in more light, then lifted the window and gulped in fresh air. After that, I rooted through my top drawer looking for my iPod, and found a pack of condoms instead.
I was a virgin.
Wasn’t I?
Behind me, the closet door swung open with a lazy creak and I flinched at the sound. That door never stayed closed. Humidity would make it stick, and then, when the weather was dry, the door would unlatch and creep open. It used to scare the crap out of me when I was a kid, and it was the main reason my best friend Molly refused to spend the night. We both used to worry that a monster or a serial killer was going to spring out, right when we fell asleep and were defenseless.
Apparently that invisible monster in the closet finally got me.
Beads of sweat slicked my forehead and upper lip.
I stared at my bed. At the neatly folded afghan blanket. I had fallen asleep right there, in that exact spot, and that was the last thing I remembered. But then I woke up a different person, alone in a ditch.
I sank onto my bed, suddenly exhausted.
I pulled my new iPhone from my jacket pocket. Dad had given me this when I got out of the hospital, knowing my old one had gotten lost when I went missing. I cradled it in my hand for a moment, almost as if I expected it to burn my fingers, then I started thumbing in Molly’s number. At least I remembered that. I’d wanted to talk to her since I woke up in that ditch, but when I got to the last digit, I panicked and hung up. What was I supposed to say when she answered? Hi, did you notice I was gone for two weeks? Yeah, I was kidnapped, but I don’t remember anything, it’s like I’ve forgotten a whole year.
How could I tell anyone that? I couldn’t even think it without wanting to clench my fists so tight that my fingernails cut into my palms and made them bleed.
That was not like me.
The phone awkwardly slid from my fingers onto the bed. A series of unexpected images began to flash through my mind, all the colors wrong, like I was watching a video that had been manipulated and altered. Without realizing it, I stood up and backed across the room, retreating as far from my iPhone as I could.
My back slammed against the wall and my room disappeared—
.
I was standing in a corner, trying to make a phone call, hoping no one would notice me, my fingers trying to punch in 9-1-1. But I only made it to the first two numbers before someone knocked the cell phone out of my hand. It clattered to the ground, a cement floor spattered with glowing paint, the phone casing shattering, the face cracking, and the battery flying out. I tried to speak, but someone grabbed me and tied a gag around my mouth—
.
I sank to the floor, shivering.
Was this my first memory of the kidnapping? It was awful, like plugging my finger in an electrical outlet until my insides were charred.
I didn’t know if I’d ever be able to pick up my phone again.
Instead, I crawled into my bed and wrapped myself in the afghan Grams made me. Cocooned in darkness, I clutched my pillow tight against my stomach.
I tossed and turned while the sky outside my window burned bright and brighter, until finally it faded to murky gray. Night blossomed around me, the air turning chill, before I finally fell asleep. But my dreams never fully matured, as if they couldn’t decide whether or not they should be nightmares.
Chapter Four
The sun came up in the morning as if nothing had changed, thin April beams pouring in my open window through the smog that had collected at the base of the mountains. Sunlight glinted off bottles of perfume on my dresser, and carried the pattern of the lace curtains that hung on my window, big flowers that changed shape with each breath of wind.
Air filled my lungs and I remembered.
I was home. I was finally home.
Mom and Dad were chattering downstairs, their voices hushed as if they didn’t want to wake me, the rich aroma of scrambled eggs and turkey bacon and pancakes drifting up to my room. I dressed quickly, ready to head downstairs, although I wasn’t sure if I felt like eating.
My fingers ran through my hair—a reflex after tugging a shirt over my head—brushing my bangs out of my eyes. I vowed to dye my hair back to dark brown later today. Every time I saw myself, it caught me by surprise. I looked like someone else, my limbs too long and skinny. Granted, I had more muscles than before, but it looked like I never ate. Last year I had weighed a hundred and thirty pounds. I hadn’t been fat, not exactly, since I was five foot seven and danced a
bout twenty hours a week. But I’d never looked like this.
Now, I was a hundred and eighteen. Maybe I was anorexic. Maybe that was why I didn’t have an appetite.
The smell of cedar and pine washed over me again.
My stomach twisted. My skin prickled. I felt trapped, like my hands and legs were bound. I needed to break free, to get outside, go for a run. I grabbed a sweatshirt and headed out the door of my room. Down the stairs, through the family room where Kyle slouched on the sofa, once again playing video games.
“I’m going for a run,” I said.
He glanced up and gave me a strange look.
My parents paused in the kitchen, Mom setting plates on the table, Dad in front of the stove, spatula in hand. Yesterday, I’d gone upstairs like I never wanted to see the world again. Now I was racing out into it.
“Rachel,” Mom called, her voice louder and sharper than I think she expected. “Don’t you want some breakfast?”
“Maybe later.”
She gave my father a look.
“Kyle, go with her,” Dad said, taking charge of the situation. Like he always did. “You’ve got your tennis shoes on and you could use some exercise.”
Kyle started to argue, but stopped. Like he realized he didn’t want to lose me again. He jumped up, right in the middle of a Spartan Op, and joined me at the door. I didn’t really want company, but if it had to be someone, my little brother was a good choice.
I was already out the door and jogging across our lawn toward the sidewalk by the time he caught up with me. I tugged on the jacket I was carrying, realizing it was one of Dad’s old sweatshirts. Even though it had been washed a hundred times, it still smelled like his aftershave. Wearing this always made me feel warm and safe, so I’d stolen it from the Goodwill bin when he was getting rid of it.
But when was that? Last month or last year?
The landscape of suburbia fell away behind us. Nothing looked familiar. There were more houses here than I remembered, the suburban sprawl reaching toward the 210 and then back toward the foothills. The Keefers must have remodeled their house, because it was almost twice as big as it had been last year. Every block we passed had countless foreclosure signs stuck in brown grass, houses abandoned.
“Did the Taylors move?” I asked, noting that the swing set in their front yard was gone and there was a For Sale sign in its place. I used to babysit their kids.
“Yup.”
I wondered if I’d had a chance to say good-bye.
I forced my attention on the road, knowing that the houses of Santa Madre would thin out eventually. My feet slammed pavement, Kyle keeping pace with me, as familiar hills rose around us. On our right, tangles of wild morning glory dotted the foothills with white blossoms, while flowering yucca spikes towered above them, waving in the breeze.
A trail appeared to our left.
“This way,” I said, jogging across the street toward a path that snaked up a San Gabriel foothill. We continued to run side by side, higher and higher, our pace slowing as we struggled to get up the switchbacks, until finally we were surrounded by trees that pushed the sky away, branches like thick arms with clawed fingers, pine needles on the ground and a sharp fragrance in the air.
This used to be one of my favorite places. Whenever I wanted to be alone, I’d hike up here. Half an hour in these wooded trails and I’d feel better, no matter what had been bothering me.
It wasn’t long before I realized I’d made a huge mistake.
Every step I took kicked up the smell of pine needles, making a fine cloud of dust that hung in the air, while my hands started to shake. The trees were pinning me in, blocking out the rest of the world.
I started running faster. Off the trail and into the forest, wending a crooked path through the trees, darting first one way then another, as if trying to get away from someone.
I forgot all about Kyle and the fact that my home was just a quarter mile away—
.
I was trying to escape and someone was chasing me, matching me step for step through the woods. He’d been after me all day, through shadowed thickets and sun-dappled vales, both of us with chests heaving and skin glistening with sweat. My only advantage was the fact that I knew the mountains better than he did. If I could keep up this pace until nightfall, I’d lose him. He wouldn’t be able to see in the dark—
.
A hand reached out and grabbed me by the arm, pulling me to a stop.
“Rachel!”
I spun around, temporarily not recognizing the person who stood behind me.
“We should go back,” he said, tugging at my arm.
The image of my brother faded away, turning into someone taller, heavier, stronger, older. The man’s face wasn’t clear, but that didn’t matter.
It was him or me.
With a couple of moves I’d only seen in films, I flipped him over and pinned him to the ground, my knee in his back, his face in the dirt. He chuffed, a long thud of air coming out of his lungs, unable to talk because I’d knocked the wind out of him.
“Hey!” he said, spitting out pine needles and twigs with each syllable. “What the hell, Rachel? Let me go!”
The image of the man faded away, changing back into that of my brother. I gasped and released Kyle, stumbling away, my hands reaching for whatever might be behind me. Finally, I latched onto the bark of a nearby tree.
“Oh my God.” That was all I could say.
Kyle brushed himself off and rubbed his neck as he climbed to his feet. “Son of a bitch!”
I crossed my arms over my chest, so tight it felt like I was wearing a straitjacket.
“Did you think I was gonna hurt you? You know I’d never do anything like that.” Then he paused. “When the hell did you learn to fight?”
I leaned against that tree until the bark pressed into my back, the pain forcing me to stay focused. “I don’t know,” I confessed. “Every time I smell pine or cedar, it triggers something. Then, when you grabbed me, your face disappeared—you turned into somebody else.”
A silence stretched between us, until finally the sounds of the wood swelled, revealing the hiss from a waterfall up the trail and the chatter of birds in a nearby meadow.
“My sister, the assassin,” Kyle said at last, a grin teasing his lips.
“You have to promise not to tell Mom or Dad what happened,” I said. I took a step closer, my feet crunching over pine needles, stirring the scent that made my stomach knot up. “My therapist wanted to keep me in the hospital longer. I was worried I’d never go home again.” My voice was shaking. “Please don’t tell them.”
“It’s okay. But what you don’t know is, I was this close”—he held up his thumb and forefinger, spread an inch apart—“from showing you my Wild Ninja Skills.” He grinned, shaggy brown hair hanging in his eyes. “I’m not gonna tell anyone you tried to kill me. Your secret’s safe.”
I sat awkwardly on a nearby rock, hands on my knees. “What happened to me, Kyle?” I ran my fingers through my short hair. “I dyed my hair, got a tattoo, and the only clothes I own are black.”
He frowned. “So?”
“So, that’s not me. I like pastels and miniskirts, not long dresses and ripped jeans. I was trying to grow my hair long, but then I just chopped it all off?”
Kyle stared at the ground, rubbing one finger over his lip. He always did that when he had something to say that he knew I didn’t want to hear.
“Spill,” I said. “Now.”
He took a deep breath then looked me in the eyes, a hesitant expression on his face. “You have been different this past year, Rach. Kind of a bitch, if you really wanna know. Short-tempered. Sneaking out at night to hang with your friends. Then coming home either high or drunk—”
I frowned, not sure I wanted to hear this.
“The weird part is, you started doing really well in school. It made me a little mad that you could act out so much and then do better in your classes. Like you’ve been getting straight
As in everything—”
“That’s not possible,” I interrupted, thinking about how hard I struggled in some subjects. I wasn’t stupid, but I wasn’t an A student, either.
“It’s possible, all right. On top of that, you got the lead role in one of the ballets your class put on, Swan Lake—”
“Seriously?”
He didn’t argue. He just pulled an iPhone from his pocket, scrolled through some screens, punched a button, then held it up for me to see. It was a video of me dancing. There I was in a tutu and slippers, my hair pinned back, my chin raised, and all of my body poised on the toes of my left foot, my right leg extended behind me, my left arm reaching up as if it could pluck clouds from the sky. Then I started to leap across the stage, my body hovering in the air, like I was flying. I stared at the screen, astonished. I’d been taking ballet lessons since I was six, but I’d never gotten a lead role and I’d never been able to dance like this, no matter how hard I practiced.
“I really did that?” It was like watching a movie of someone else. “Can you send me this video?”
“Yeah,” he said, punching a few buttons before he slid his phone back in his pocket.
Apparently I’d gotten some mad skills in the past year.
“Look, I won’t tell Mom or Dad what you did. But could you teach me that move, the one where you flattened me and pinned me to the ground?” Kyle asked, his eyebrows raised.
“No.”
He had that look on his face—the one he used when he wanted the last bowl of ice cream or when he wanted the whole family to watch one of his Bruce Lee DVDs on movie night. Half his life he’d been the brat I had to babysit, and the other half he’d been a video-game-addicted, bad-joke-telling best friend. But that look of his wouldn’t work, not this time.
“No way, I don’t know how I did that, but I never want to do it again. Okay?”
Lost Girls Page 2
