Pretty Girl Thirteen by Liz Coley Page A

apples?—but the tune stuck with her down the years.
    It sang itself through her head as she waited for Grandma to arrive, circling around to the chorus over and over. “Hush-a-bye. Don’t you cry. Go to sleep, my little baby.” Strange words. The haunting melody deepened her sad mood, but tears wouldn’t come.
    The heavy feeling lifted as a chorus of happy greeting sounds came through the floor. Grandma’s voice! Angie’s name floated up with them.
    “Coming!” She combed her fingers through her hair but avoided checking the mirror. It was still too startling.
    “Well, get down here, darlin’!” Grandma waited at the foot of the stairs, arms on her hips. “Gimme a hug, will you?”
    Angie flew into her arms, grateful that she still smelled of lavender and Ivory soap.
    After a good, long squeeze, Grandma held her back at arm’s length and measured her with her eyes. “Well, guess I’ve shrunk a couple inches since you saw me last,” she said. “A few more wrinkles, a few more white hairs. You’re just as pretty as ever.”
    “I’ll say,” a male voice added. “Pretty as ever. Got one of those hugs for your favorite Yuncle?”
    Angie raised her eyes to the speaker. A tight buzz cut on top. A square jaw below. The unfamiliar face dodged in and out of focus. She blinked. How long had it been since she’d seen Yuncle Bill? He must have been just barely eighteen when he enlisted, which meant she’d been ten. Three years ago in memory time, six years in real time. Those six years had turned him from a zitty teenager to a powerful-looking man.
    She tried to map the teenage face onto the one looking at her with intense curiosity. He came at Angie with thicker, stronger arms than she recalled and crushed her against his muscled chest.
    “Look at you, all growing up,” he said into her hair. His body was hot and radiated the spicy scent of his body wash. His arm stroked her back, and she shivered.
    The minor tune of “All the Pretty Little Horses” rang in her ears, and a tiny, high voice sang along in her head.
Hush-a-bye. Don’t you cry.
    Mom’s words drifted as from a great distance. “I’ve got lunch laid out in the kitchen.”
    “I’ll pour drinks,” Grandma said, and walked away. “Everyone hungry?”
    Angie heard the deep rumble in Yuncle Bill’s chest as he answered. “Mmm. Starving.”
    He tipped Angie’s face up to look at her. “Prettier, I’d say.” He dusted her nose with a fingertip. His other arm still pressed her against him, and one side of his mouth smiled. Something about that smile …
    Angie’s heart began to race, for no apparent reason. She pulled back from his hug, felt his resistance. It was lasting too long. “The—Everyone’s in—” she stammered, pointing to the kitchen.
    He laid a finger across her lips. “Hush,” he said. “No tattling.” He winked, like there was a private joke in that. His eyes flashed in a peculiar, almost familiar way, and his face blurred, out of focus, swirling and dark and closer to hers. Her knees buckled. Her breath stopped. Powerful arms held her tight.
    A little girl’s voice called,
Quick, Angie. Hide!
    She twisted her head, searching for the speaker, but it was too dark to see. Something was wrong with her eyes. She closed and rubbed them. A pounding filled her ears, a galloping sound. An image of a pale child with long blond hair streaming out behind painted the insides of her eyelids. The little girl bolted away from her on a huge bay horse.
    “Come back,” Angie pleaded. “Who are you?”
    The little voice drifted back over the sound of pounding hooves.
Can’t tell. No tattling.
    The front door slammed. The galloping stopped. Angie’s eyes popped open. Her breath escaped in a loud sigh. The taste of chocolate ice cream was on her tongue.
    “Well, that was a lovely visit,” Mom said.
    Angie inventoried the house at a glance. They were alone. “What? They’re gone? Already?”
    “I know. Time flies!” Mom said