Lost Girls

by Merrie Destefano

  He shrugged, and we both pretended as if what had just happened was no big deal.

  Chapter Five

  I scrolled through my phone, staring down at my new obsession—a collection of ballet videos, performances by the greatest ballerinas in the world. My breath caught in my chest and I imagined my back arched, my head held high as I leaped across a stage, all lights focused on me. I could hear the whisper of ballet slippers scuffing the floor, then the music rose and everything was drowned out, everything except the applause.

  Something about it both frightened and excited me.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” Dad asked.

  We both sat in the Starbucks across the street from my old dance studio. I lifted my gaze to stare at him, hoping he didn’t notice that my hands trembled in my lap.

  “Yes.” But my mouth was dry and that single word sounded more like no. I glanced across the street, at the bank of windows that revealed girls and boys in unitards, all of them stretching, all with serious expressions on their faces. I recognized most of them, but would they be glad to see me? Sometime in the past six months, I’d dropped out of class, right when we were in the middle of practicing The Nutcracker Suite and I’d gotten the role of the Sugar Plum Fairy.

  I was surprised that my teacher, Ms. Petrova, was willing to take me back. But then, money opened a lot of doors. I had a feeling that my parents’ generous offer to replace the studio’s worn flooring was what finally convinced her.

  “We can come back next week, if you don’t want to start class now,” Dad said. His eyes met mine, eyes so dark you could barely see the pupils, just like mine.

  Someone walked past our table then, some guy a few years older than me, wearing a woodsy cologne with faint notes of cedar and pine. For a second, I was back in the mountains, fighting some unknown assailant who had no face. I struggled against tears, my chin quivering.

  “Rachel?”

  I shook my head. I wasn’t going to give in to the fear. Instead, an unexpected determination began to grow in my chest. More than anything, I wanted to fly across the dance floor right now, to push myself as hard and as fast as I could. I wanted the freedom and release that I only knew how to find in one place.

  “I do want to go back to ballet,” I said, my words thick with emotion, my hands still and calm. “Tonight.”

  He gave me a thin smile and a nod. “I know, sweetheart. I was just waiting for you to figure that out. Let’s go.”

  We left the coffee shop together, but I walked through the door to the dance studio alone, not sure how my classmates would react, and realizing that I didn’t care.

  All I wanted was to erase the fragrance of the forest that seemed to permeate my clothes and my hair. I wanted to feel myself flying through the air, my muscles responding to every step of the dance, and my blood pumping fast through my veins.

  I wanted—no, I needed—to feel free.

  Chapter Six

  My dreams changed that night. Up until this point, every time I fell asleep I had the same nightmare, over and over. I woke up in that gully and couldn’t remember who I was or where I lived.

  It was horrible.

  Tonight was different. As soon as I closed my eyes I was in the woods, somewhere in the San Gabriel Mountains. And I was trying to find my way home—

  .

  A cabin stood on a ridge behind me, silhouetted by the sky and a countless army of ponderosa pines. I knew the walls, floors, and ceilings of that lodge were made of cedar, but I couldn’t remember what was inside. All I knew was I had to get away.

  I had to run.

  Birdsong filled the woods, robins and sparrows and mockingbirds, and a worn footpath led away from the cabin. In my left hand I carried a bottle of water, as I ran down a steep incline that opened up onto a clearing. From here I could see ridge after ridge of the San Gabriel mountain range, folding and refolding, slopes that led both up and down, all covered with trees, so many you could only see the tops, crests of green that bowed and swooped with every whisper of wind. There was no road in sight, no switchback highway to aim for, but hopefully I would find one later.

  Feet sliding, I left the path, jogging as fast as I could, my tennis shoes skating over gravel and tripping over tree roots; down and ever down I went. Sunlight couldn’t cut through the branches that laced overhead as I took the fork to the right, through pine-scented darkness, sweat staining my shirt and dampening my brow. A peak appeared up ahead, a rocky outcropping that jutted out over a spruce-filled vale, an expanse of sun and green.

  Hands gripping rock and crawling up like a crab, I headed toward the summit, knowing I would be exposed. I tried to keep to the shadows, my body flat against the rock as I inched forward until, at last, I could peer over. My breath came out in a loud gasp when I saw what lay to the left, to the right, and straight ahead. It was all yet another vast expanse of green vales folding into green peaks, all of them extending toward the horizon. I was heading away from civilization, not back toward it. If I continued in this direction it would lead to starvation and exposure and death from thirst.

  I was going to have to double back, skirt around the cabin and go a different way.

  I was going to have to head back toward something even more dangerous than the vast wilderness that stretched as far as I could see…

  ...

  I woke, covered with sweat, a thin whine coming from my throat, not sure where I was. A long moment passed before I realized that I’d been sleepwalking—a possible drug withdrawal symptom, just like that doctor had predicted. I must have crawled into my closet and now that damned afghan was tangled around me. It took a while to wrestle my way free, to throw the blanket to the floor and push the closet door open. For several minutes, I crouched beside my bed, gulping mouthfuls of air, trying to steady my hands, wondering if I’d had a drug-induced nightmare or an actual memory.

  Could that be how I had escaped? Why could I only remember part of it? A cool breeze toyed with the curtains and I uneasily walked across the room toward the window, until my fingertips rested on the sill and my lungs filled and emptied at least three times.

  Something wasn’t right on the street below.

  It was more than the fact that the Robinsons had ripped out their white picket fence, replacing it with cinder block, or the fact that the bulb in the streetlight was burned out, casting unwelcome shadows on our front lawn.

  There was a buzz in the air, a hum that vibrated against my skin, saying something’s wrong, something’s wrong, something’s horribly wrong.

  Then I saw it. A gray Toyota rumbling at the curb, halfway down the block. Lights turned off, a faceless, shapeless person inside, just sitting there, staring up at my window.

  A chill shivered over me and I stepped back, hiding behind the curtains. I could still see out, but I hoped that whoever was down in that car couldn’t see me. Was it my kidnapper, should I go wake up Dad, should I call the police? I froze, forgetting about simple things like breathing or self-preservation or calling for help.

  In that instant, while I stood frozen, the car flared to life, headlights blinding me before the Toyota sped off, taking away any chance I had of seeing the person’s face.

  He was there and then he was gone.

  Just like I’d been.

  Chapter Seven

  I hadn’t planned my grand entrance back into high school very well. All I had to wear were black Gothic shirts, ripped black jeans, heavy black boots, and dark, brooding makeup. I’d been rooting unsuccessfully through my closet for half an hour, hoping to find some of my old clothes, digging my way through a pile of dirty shirts and ripped fishnet stockings.

  A week had passed since I’d had that nightmare and spotted that car parked on the street. Mom had been more worried about the nightmare. Dad was more concerned about the car. Neither one of them wanted me to go back to school. The only place I’d been allowed to go was ballet class, and even that had been chaperoned by either Mom or Dad. There’d been long di
scussions about whether I should be allowed to live like a normal teenager or whether I should stay home and work with a tutor until I started to remember my class work.

  Mom did most of the talking, while Dad looked like he was never going to let me leave the house again. Like that monster in my closet was now living in the shrubs outside the front door and was counting the minutes until I was dumb enough to walk past.

  Surprisingly, it had been my therapist who convinced them to let me go.

  Two points for Dr. Rivera.

  Even this morning, Mom was talking to my therapist on the phone downstairs, trying to change the doctor’s mind. She was saying things like mmm-hmm and yes, but, and I know. Mom was used to dealing with doctors, since she was a nurse, so this was how she was helping me. I mainly hoped she didn’t schedule me another appointment. Having my memory, or my lack of a memory, examined more than once a week was more than I could handle. Dr. Rivera would stare at me, her lips smiling but her eyes cold, her manicured fingers steepled in front of her on the desk while she listened, whether I talked or not. Sometimes I just sat there, wordlessly studying her office, the tastefully decorated tables and bookcases, all filled with vases and paperweights, none of which contained sharp, pointy edges.

  Apparently, sharp edges were frowned upon by psychiatrists.

  She was convinced a major meltdown was coming.

  My therapist—I still couldn’t get used to those words—had told us all that something was going to trigger my memory. It could be something as small and inconsequential as a song, or it could be something big, but unfortunately she didn’t give us any examples of what a big trigger could be. I’d imagined them, though.

  A car crash. A major illness. A death.

  As if losing my memory or being kidnapped wasn’t bad enough, now there was a looming Big Trigger out there with my name on it, waiting for just the right moment to leap out at me.

  Life had definitely taken a sudden turn for the creepy.

  I kept digging through my closet, trying to find a decent outfit to wear, until piles of shoes and rumpled clothes were strewn all around me. That was when I discovered something tucked behind my laundry basket—a purple box decorated with hearts and glitter. I vaguely remembered this. It was something I’d made for an art project back in seventh grade. I was about to toss it aside when I realized how heavy it was.

  With trepidation I pulled off the lid. I didn’t have much time left. I had to leave within five minutes, and even then, I still might be late for school.

  The box opened and everything inside was lovely—silk flower barrettes, a handful of elastic kandi bracelets with brightly colored pony beads, a pair of silver ballet slippers, several neon glow sticks, a sequined bikini top, a couple of lacy white tank tops, and a zippered makeup case filled with foundation, blush, lipsticks, and eye shadows. I didn’t have time to go through it all, so I grabbed the top of the box, ready to put the stuff away and go through it later.

  The lid flipped upside down, revealing a note taped on the inside.

  I peeled it off, recognizing my own handwriting.

  The new, strange Gothic Me had left herself a note.

  Peace. Love. Unity. Respect. And party like there’s no tomorrow.

  Two ticket stubs were taped to the note with the words “PREMIERE” and “BY INVITATION ONLY” and “PHASE TWO” written in a vintage-looking typeface and surrounded by elaborate scrollwork.

  Phase Two?

  I sat back on my heels, my thoughts spinning. The kandi bracelets and bikini top and glow sticks looked like rave gear, although I’d never been to one. Still, I knew about PLUR, the motto most ravers claimed to live by. They downed tabs of Ecstasy like other teens downed shots of espresso. They met in secret underground clubs and danced all night long. The thought of dancing crowds brought a chill to my skin. I loved to dance, and not just ballet.

  Was Phase Two some kind of street dance competition? Is that what I’d been doing for the past year? As exciting as it sounded, I had a feeling I’d been involved in something much darker and more dangerous.

  I realized there was something written on the back, dark letters bleeding through as I held the paper up to the light. I turned it over and discovered a list of names, all girls I’d never heard of before.

  Janie Deluca.

  Alexis Cartwright.

  Nicole Hernandez.

  Shelby Lee.

  Lacy Allen.

  None of these names sounded familiar, but my eyes kept flicking to one over and over. Nicole Hernandez. I didn’t remember who she was—still, her first name sounded an alarm in my brain.

  Nicole. Nicole.

  That was the name of one of the missing girls Agent Bennet had talked to me about.

  Who were these girls, and why were their names hidden where no one but me would find them?

  How did I know them?

  I felt like I was sitting in a snowbank, all of me starting to go numb. I couldn’t move for a long time, my thoughts slow and sluggish. My mind kept searching for some connection but I couldn’t find one. All I could do was stare at that list of names.

  What if I never found the answers, what if I never remembered the past year? Would I spend the rest of my life stumbling over things like this—puzzles I couldn’t solve?

  Mom called out my name from the bottom of the stairs. Her voice startled me and forced me back to reality. No matter what secrets I discovered in my closet, I didn’t want to stay home anymore.

  Right now, I wanted out of here—even more than before.

  I shot a quick glance around my room, settled on an outfit and a pair of shoes, ran my fingers through my hair, and slid lip gloss on my lips.

  Then I jogged down the stairs, as ready as I’d ever be to face the crowds at Lincoln High.

  ...

  Kyle and Mom stood in the garage, waiting for me. He texted someone and chuckled. I glanced at his screen and saw Halo 4 and play online during 4th period and gotta go.

  “You sure you don’t want me to drive you?” Mom asked, her voice an octave higher than normal.

  “We practiced, remember?” I said. “Just like Dr. Rivera suggested. All week long I drove Kyle to school and you rode with us. I even picked him up yesterday. By myself.”

  “But your doctor warned us that almost anything could trigger your memory—”

  “I’ll be there, Mom,” Kyle interrupted. “If she snaps, I’ll—I’ll—I don’t know. I’ll chase her until I catch her. You know I can run faster than she can. Or I’ll call the cops. Look.” Kyle held up his phone. “I got them on speed dial. Just in case.”

  Mom gave us a shaky grin. “Did you give your sister that paper yet?”

  “Paper? What paper?” He gave us both his best thickheaded look, eyes half-closed. “Oh, yeah, this paper.” He rummaged through his backpack, unzipping one pocket after another before finally locating a folded sheet of paper, with two columns of computer text. “Here,” he said as he handed it to me.

  “What is this?”

  He pointed at the column on the left. “Those are your classes.” Then he pointed to the right-hand column. “Those are mine. And that number at the bottom is my cell. I’ll, uh, keep it turned on all day, in case you need to call me or something. Even though Mr. Reed will have a mutant cow if he finds out.” He directed the last sentence at Mom, who shook her head. “Oh, and this is your locker number and combination. It’s on the second floor. I think.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “Do I need a note or something?” I asked Mom. “For being out several weeks and for being late today?” I wanted to add, and for not knowing anything about Algebra II or chemistry or any of my other classes.

  “I had a long talk with the principal and the counselor last week. All your teachers know that you might not be participating in class discussions for a while,” she said. “And the counselor, you know her? Mrs. Jenkins? She said you can come in her office anytime, if you want to talk or just kind of catch your breath.”


  I held my bottom lip between my teeth, knowing that—no matter what happened—there was no way I was hanging out in the school counselor’s office today.

  Kyle and I headed through the garage toward a gorgeous, lime-green Bug that I still couldn’t believe belonged to me. We both slid into my car, the drive to Lincoln High surreal, like I was cruising through a movie set instead of living a day in my real life. Houses slipped past, one street bled into another, me on autopilot, not even thinking about which way to turn or how long to wait at each light. I automatically knew when the lights would turn green and that if I turned left a block before the school, I’d miss the clogged traffic from a line of school buses and parents dropping off students.

  Then we pulled into the student parking lot and Kyle swung his door open and all the noise from outside poured in, packs of students running and laughing and yelling, boys flirting with girls and girls teasing each other, a whole social hierarchy that I didn’t fit into anymore.

  I got out of the car, backpack on my shoulder, and walked toward the building, forgetting to lock my doors or say good-bye to Kyle.

  “Go ahead, pretend you don’t know me. Like usual,” he said, following behind me. “Remember, I’m watching you.”

  He jogged past me, turning around briefly to wave and stick out his tongue, before disappearing inside the school building.

  A long hallway and cool darkness waited inside. All the voices of the other students narrowed down to a whisper as I tried to listen for what was up ahead, but I couldn’t hear anything. There were no clues as to whether I would fit in or whether I would recognize anyone.

  Up ahead of me stood a pair of doors that led into the unknown.

  Chapter Eight

  I felt like one of those fish that glow in the dark, noticeably different from everyone else. People whispered when I walked past. She’s that girl who went missing last month and she doesn’t remember anything that happened in the past year, she doesn’t even remember her name. I wanted to correct that last comment. Of course I remember my name, I wanted to say. I just don’t know who the heck you are.