Lost Girls(4)

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.