Lost Girls

by Merrie Destefano

  “I remember you hooked up with Lauren.” I hated the bitterness in my voice, but for some reason, that betrayal had hurt the most.

  He nodded, biting his lip. “Yeah, I figured you knew about that. Although, it wasn’t really a hookup. I didn’t, I mean, I couldn’t, even though we were broken up—” There was a guilty expression in his eyes that wouldn’t go away, something that bothered him a lot more than what had happened with Lauren. “Look, everything that happened to you is my fault, okay? I had no idea the people in those clubs were kidnapping people. If I did, I never would have asked you to join. I was the one who took you to Phase Two. I’m the reason you got involved in all of this. I trained you in the beginning and taught you wrestling moves. Then you started figuring out other moves and kicks on your own. At first, we always went to the Silver Level together—”

  He was talking, but I was watching a movie in my head—us walking through the door, me not knowing anyone, but the energy and the thrill making it feel like a party where everyone was always high. You could taste it in the air, you could breathe it in, and then when you finally got up on that stage, oh, wow, there was nothing like it. Not even getting the lead role in Swan Lake had been like this.

  “And then, we started going by ourselves, on different nights,” he continued. “That was when we started forming our own teams and when you cut your hair and when we both started wearing black clothes all the time. We both changed—”

  I saw myself laughing, hanging out with Nicole, her suggesting I bleach my hair and me telling her to add pink to hers. I saw us standing at the edge of a stage, sweat beading on our foreheads, our fists pumping air as we chanted and screamed and cheered, both of us longing for the day when it would be us up on that platform.

  “None of this would have happened, if I never, if I hadn’t—” Dylan paused, staring out the window, at the world outside that didn’t seem to care that we’d been burned and shattered and nearly destroyed. I knew what he was going to say and I knew they were the right words, but they were also the worst words ever created. His eyes were focused on me again, the boy inside as defeated as Nicole had been. “If I hadn’t fallen for you, none of this would have happened to you. I’m not good for you, Rachel.”

  That was the horrible and beautiful truth. I hated it. And I hated him for making me admit it. I had planned on breaking up with him, asking that we take some time apart, so I could figure out who I really was and so he could give up Blue Thunder. But maybe that had never been an option. Maybe we had both been ripped and shredded too badly. I wiped away the tears that were forming in the corners of my eyes, I fought the trembling in my lips. I couldn’t show that I was weak, not now. I had to be brave and strong if I wanted to survive.

  “I don’t think we should see each other anymore.”

  His words.

  Right cross to my jaw.

  Him walking out the door.

  Me falling to the floor.

  It was a knockout. The girl who had never been defeated, not once, was flat on her back on the mat, staring up at the ceiling, at the black skies and the bolts of pink lightning, she was listening to the earth-quaking boom of thunder that temporarily turned the entire world blue. She was crying, glad she was alone, a lake of tears forming around her, a lake that would soon be deep enough to drown in.

  Chapter Forty

  It was the second Saturday after I was released from the hospital and we were on a mission. Zoe had borrowed her mom’s car and we were spending the day exorcising my demons, Molly in the backseat, me riding shotgun. Earlier, when the sun merely tickled the freeways with fingers of light, we had driven down to Orange County, then on to Compton, and finally back to Santa Madre.

  I talked to the remaining girls on that list from my closet. I met Alexis, Shelby, and Lacy, and found out that I had fought all of them, back in the Silver Level when I was putting my team together. But the good thing was, they were all still alive.

  It was now almost three o’clock and we were nearly done with our first objective.

  “Saturday traffic sucks. Don’t these people have someplace better to be than on the freeway?” Molly slurped down the last of her Mocha Frappuccino, then pointed out the window. “Turn here. Don’t listen to the GPS, this way is quicker.”

  Zoe gave me an indulgent grin as she followed Molly’s instructions.

  We had several goals today.

  Our second objective had been accomplished along the way. We vowed to do it every Saturday, forever, until we finally got results. Whenever we weren’t on the freeway, we’d stop every couple of blocks and hang up a poster.

  Missing Girl. Janie Deluca.

  A color photo of Janie was front and center. Below it was a description of her height and weight, where and when she was last seen, plus an 800 number to contact with information.

  As we hung the posters, blue bracelets would slide down our wrists, bracelets that proclaimed Find Janie. Everyone we knew was wearing these bracelets, our parents, our siblings, our friends at school. And there was a memorial down in front of that hall in Rosemead where she had gone missing, with a big cross, candles and bouquets of flowers.

  But the hardest thing I had to do was up ahead.

  Molly set down her empty Starbucks cup, while Zoe slowed the car and parked at the curb. We all stared at that house, that very nice house surrounded by flowers and hedges, with shutters on the windows, that house that looked like it should have been in an animated fairy tale but accidentally got cast in a horror movie instead.

  Nicole’s house.

  It still whispered for her to come home, come home, please, I miss you, I love you, why did you have to go away...?

  I swallowed with difficulty, my limbs wooden as I climbed out of the car. Zoe and Molly opened their doors and I turned toward them. “You don’t have to come with me.”

  “Yes, we do,” Zoe said, her tone sweet but firm.

  “Damn straight,” Molly said. “Would Boo-Boo let Yogi go into the forest alone?”

  I shook my head. “Probably not.”

  We walked together up that stone walkway, past palm trees and birds of paradise and bougainvillea. It felt wrong and right at the same time.

  The door opened as soon as I knocked, as if Nicole’s mother had been waiting for me. She gave me a smile and I tried to echo it but couldn’t. She invited us in, gave us cookies which I couldn’t eat—I tried, but I just couldn’t swallow. That smile she had given me faded, inch by inch, as I told her my story.

  I told her everything.

  It’s what I would have wanted someone to tell my mom. I would want her to know.

  She was weeping, quietly, before I finished and she didn’t stop. I wanted her to yell at me, to beat fists against my chest. But she never got angry. She merely got up and made me another bag of cookies, tucking another photo of Nicole inside.

  This photo showed Nicole grinning, holding a teddy bear. She was nine years old and her whole life was before her. It sparked in her eyes—all those dreams she’d had, dreams of college and marriage and children, dreams of vacations in Hawaii and a nice house down in Huntington Beach and a career where she’d make a difference in the world.

  I put that photo on my bulletin board, next to the other photo Nicole’s mom had given me, and I looked at both of them every day. They hung next to an extra blue wristband that said Find Janie.

  Dreams could be lost too easily. I knew that now.

  So I dreamed that one day, one of us would bring Janie back home.

  ...

  The months after I got out of the hospital went by quicker than I expected. Ms. Petrova and the students in my ballet class became like a second family. I found myself attending several sessions per week and, even though I was no longer taking Pink Lightning, I somehow landed the role of Titania in a production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

  School hadn’t been a good fit, though—I still had too much stuff to sort through, too many emotions and nightmares and unexpected react
ions to normal things, like hiking in the woods or watching someone get beat up on a TV show. So my parents got a special program set up for me, a cross between home schooling and independent studies, so I could finish the semester at home. That nerdy college kid down the street and Dad worked together to help me. By the time June came, everyone I knew, me included, was done with school and we finally had time to hang out, non-stop.

  Sammy, aka Komodo, had gone through a transformation, almost like I had. She came over a couple of times a week. Her, Zoe, Stephanie, and I would spar in the backyard.

  No reason to lose our skills. That was our new motto.

  We even taught Mom a few moves, self-defense stuff, just in case. She ended up really liking it and signed up for a Tae Bo class at the local junior college.

  Molly joined our kick-ass group, too, though we had to be really gentle and patient with her. More than once, Sammy wanted to knock Molly on her butt, to make her learn faster. But I reminded Sammy we didn’t do things that way anymore. Molly would get it, sooner or later. For now, she was more of a mascot, knowing that we had her back if she ever needed it.

  Lauren sent my mom and my dad cards on Mother’s Day and Father’s Day, since if it wasn’t for them, she’d either be a pile of bones rotting in a ravine or a punching bag for her dad whenever he got pissed off.

  The mountains didn’t scare me anymore. That recurring nightmare finally faded away and now I could look at the peaks and valleys without getting short of breath. That didn’t mean I wanted to take one of Dad’s infamous survival hikes, though. Not yet.

  I see Dylan every now and then, usually by accident, like at the mall or Starbucks. Like me, he’s not Goth anymore, but he still wears a lot of black. It looks good on him. The last time I saw him we gave each other a hug, a long hug, and I didn’t want it to end.

  But it did.

  Maybe good things are like bad things. They all come to an end sometime.

  Epilogue

  “You missed a spot.”

  “Crap. Somebody spilled paint on the carpet.”

  “Can you get me a paper towel? Hurry!”

  We were painting my room, the last item on my Personal Transformation list. The dark burgundy walls were fading, one coat at a time, brightening to a pale turquoise. The shade of a summer sky or the ocean. Or a lake filled with tears.

  I didn’t want to forget what had happened. I wanted to rise above it. If that was really possible.

  Sammy had splotches of primer on her chin, Molly’s hair was speckled with turquoise, and Zoe’s hair wasn’t lavender anymore—it was almost the same shade as my new walls.

  “We need to crack open that window. I’m dying of fumes here,” Molly said. Then she stood there for a long moment, sucking in fresh air, staring down at my front yard as if something amazing was going on down below. “What the heck?”

  But I didn’t pay attention to her. I was testing out my new closet door, the one Dad had installed last night.

  “Check it out, Moll,” I said, opening and closing the door over and over. No creaks, no scary sounds, and definitely no monsters lurking inside. She grinned back at me.

  “It’s finally time for a sleepover, girl,” she said.

  Downstairs, Dad and Mom were making lunch. It smelled like lasagna and I was starved. It had taken me a while, but I’d gotten to the point where I didn’t worry about my weight. Food tasted better and, the funny thing was, I didn’t end up gaining much. Just a few pounds. Maybe the fact that I was working harder than ever in my ballet classes was paying off.

  Zoe joined Molly and Stephanie at the window, all of them goofing off, staring outside.

  “Is that who I think it is?” Zoe asked.

  “Yup,” Stephanie answered.

  “Hey, we’re never gonna finish if we don’t keep working,” I told them. Molly glanced over her shoulder at me, a big grin on her face.

  Just then, Kyle knocked on my door, Game Boy in one hand. Sixteen years old now, his boy hormones kicked in when he ran a gaze across the room at all of my friends dressed in shorts and tank tops, all of them drenched in sweat and speckled in paint. I guess it was a turn-on, because he forgot why he was here.

  “Is lunch ready?” I asked.

  “No, uh—” He blushed, full-on red face, stuttering when Zoe flashed him a shy grin. “It’s, um, you better come outside. There’s something you need to see.”

  “Back in a sec,” I said as I set my brush down.

  “Take your time, girlfriend,” Stephanie said with a wink.

  I jogged down the stairs, wiping my hands on a paper towel I grabbed along the way, heading toward the front door that stood open.

  “Tell him to come inside for lunch,” Dad said from the kitchen.

  “Tell who?” I asked with a frown, but I didn’t slow down. I needed to get back upstairs and oversee those girls who were about ready to mutiny. There’d already been rumblings about quitting early to go see the new Liam Hemsworth movie. Paper towel scrunched up in my palm, I lifted my gaze, then slid to a stop.

  The tree in our front yard, that one Dad planted last year, that one where Dylan and I had our first kiss—at least, the first one I really remembered, all the way from start to finish—was covered with paper notes, all swinging in the breeze, all tied with pink ribbons. I stumbled toward it, my feet catching on clumps of grass and decorative stones, my mouth hanging open.

  “What’s going on?” I asked, swinging back around to look at the open door where Mom and Dad stood, watching me. Up in my room, all the girls crowded around the window, trying to look down.

  I took a couple more tentative steps toward the tree, realizing for the first time that this was one of those Japanese flowering cherry trees, just like the ones at school. I pulled down one of the notes and opened it, then I read it.

  My eyes stung, tears threatening to fall.

  It was a poem about me, about how I looked when I danced, how graceful I was, how beautiful I was.

  It was dated two years ago.

  I blinked as I moved from one note to the next, as I opened one poem after another. As I learned that Dylan had been smitten with me since we were both in seventh grade, long before the day I dropped my pen and he picked it up.

  There was a poem about our first kiss. Another one about our first date. There was one about our first fight.

  And another one about that day in the hospital when we broke up. I could barely read it, because my vision was blurred by tears. I couldn’t see much, didn’t hear him when he walked up behind me. Didn’t realize he was standing right beside me until he spoke, taking my hand in his.

  “Hey, girl,” he said.

  “Hey.”

  What do you say to the boy you fell in love with between middle school and the near-murder of one of your closest friends?

  “I thought you weren’t ‘good for me.’” That’s what came out of my mouth. I think it surprised both of us.

  “I made some mistakes, but I can try to be better,” he said awkwardly. His magic way with words faltered, but the expression in his eyes melted my heart. “Besides I…I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.”

  A breeze blew through that tree and the notes spun around me. I wondered how many of these poems were new, like the one about that day in the hospital, how many of these had he written since we broke up.

  “Maybe we can start over,” he said. “Wanna go for a ride?”

  I glanced back at the house, at all the girls who were yelling go, and my dad and my mom who were nodding, and my little brother who was grinning like he had a clue what true love really was.

  It was this.

  It was second chances. And forgiving. Over and over.

  “Yes.” That’s what I said, but inside, I was saying, yes, always, yes, definitely, yes, and why did you wait so long and, by the way, yes, so let’s go, okay.

  And a few minutes later we were on his bike, my arms wrapped around his waist, my head nestled in his shoulder, the smell of
his shampoo like sunshine. We were flying, faster and faster, wings spread wide. Together. We were together and he was here and he had been in love with me, even before I knew it.

  Like ravens and swans, different but the same, wings spread wide, feathers catching the sunlight and the wind, we flew up one mountain road and down another.

  He was back and we were together again.

  And this was a day that I would remember for the rest of my life.

  Acknowledgments

  If you’ve already read this book, then you know that much of the story in Lost Girls is about friendship and family. The fact of the matter is, we all need someone to lean on when the going gets rough.

  The list of people who have influenced/helped/cheered me on while writing this book is nearly as long as the book itself. I am always thankful for my talented agent, Natalie Lakosil, for her insight and input that truly shaped Lost Girls. She gave me expert advice when I had about a third of the book written. Someday I’ll tell the tale about what I had planned to write versus what the story became.

  All the hearts and flowers go to the Maester of Stories, my Entangled editor, Heather Howland. She’s the one who transformed The Book That Was into The Book That Is. She found magical ways to deepen the story and enrich the characters, and she even helped make Dylan hotter than he already was. (Yay!)

  Some books have a very unique journey. This happens to be one of them. When I wrote Lost Girls, I was going through one of those Dark Nights of the Soul that writers often go through, and I seriously considered quitting writing. A dear friend and fellow writer, Rachel Marks (you have to check out her Dark Cycle series!), continually encouraged me and prodded me to finish this story. We had many long conversations and emails and face-to-face chats where she was adamant.