Lost Girls(9)

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.”