Pretty Girl Thirteen by Liz Coley Page B

with a large smile. “And since Grandma helped me with the supper dishes while you were out with Bill, you and I can put our feet up for the rest of the evening.”
    “Dinner?” Angie glanced at the windows. It was completely dark outside.
    “Come on. Let’s order up a movie. It’s just us girls tonight.” Mom linked an arm through Angie’s and drew her to the family room. “Did you find some cortisone to put on that rash? It looks like it’s going down.”
    Angie’s right arm was covered with fading pink spots, all but one, which was bright red and painful, like a fresh burn. Appearing and disappearing spots? What next?
    “Do you think it was the shrimp?” Mom asked. “You were never allergic before.”
    “No idea, Mom,” Angie said a little impatiently. There was no doubt she’d eaten. Her stomach was full and churning. But what? She couldn’t remember. “What happened to Dad?”
    “He’s doing paperwork in the den. Didn’t you hear him complaining about the big presentation? Seems he has more work than ever these days.”
    “Sorry. Guess I spaced out,” Angie said. Oh God. Spaced out for eight hours? How was that possible?
    Mom handed Angie the remote. “You choose.”
    Gripping the remote to hide the tremor in her hand, Angie scanned the meaningless titles. Most of them were R-rated, and she was too young for those. Anyway, she didn’t want to watch something too violent or sexy with her own mother.
    “Want a blanket?” Mom said. “You’ve got goosebumps.” She reached into the blanket bin for a pair of couch blankets and settled closer to Angie. “So did you and Bill have a good catching-up chat on your walk?”
    They walked? When? Angie spread the green chenille blanket over her lap, stalling for an answer. As she tucked her feet up, she noticed the hems of her jeans were covered in cobwebs. Her knees were dusty brown.
    Mom rattled on. “You two were always so close. He was your favorite babysitter, and he wouldn’t even let us pay him.”
    Thinking back, Angie couldn’t remember him coming over a lot. Well, maybe she did. She remembered him arriving and leaving, just no idea of in-between. Maybe he let her stay up and watch inappropriate TV.
    Her pulse was still rapid, her breath strained, her stomach sour, her arms red, her legs achy. What was wrong with her?
    “Such a sweet boy,” Mom added. “I know you missed him like crazy when he was deployed. You cried for a week straight.”
    Funny. She didn’t remember missing him at all.

PROPOSITION
    “I CONTAIN MULTITUDES, ” M S. STRANG ANNOUNCED TO THE freshman lit class.
    Angie’s heart leaped in response.
    The teacher continued, “Does anyone know what Walt Whitman meant by this? It’s part of the closing stanzas of his ‘Song of Myself,’ which you all should have finished reading last night. Anyone?”
    Angie had. She’d loved it—the language, the images, even the parts she didn’t understand at all but let them roll around in her mind. She felt her hand rising on its own and pulled it down abruptly. “Figuratively,” she whispered to herself. “It’s just a metaphor.”
    “I’m sorry, Angela. Could you speak up, please?” Ms. Strang must have the hearing of a bat.
    Angie’s fan club stared, waiting for her answer. What would the Gone Girl say?
    She collected her thoughts. Her own thoughts. “I think Whitman means that he contains all the ancestors who lived before him—like a huge human family tree that all comes to a point in him. And also, he contains all the world today, all of creation, because he’s part of it and connected to it and stuff.” Fifty large eyes swung back to the teacher to see if that was correct.
    Angie added, “It’s NOT like a multiple personality. It’s a metaphor.” Why’d she blurt that out?
    But I
do
contain multitudes, she thought. Literally. Whitman would probably think her version was pretty cool too. Maybe she’d write her own “Song of Myself” once she got to know