Free Homecoming by Amber Benson Page A

the smattering of light-red freckles on the bridge of the girl’s sharp nose, the pimple on the girl’s chin, the chapped lips. They were tiny flaws, barely worth mentioning, but somehow they made the girl seem more human and less like an alien creature from the planet Supermodel.
    The girl stood there, hands twisting together in front of her waist, eyes skittering here and there: anywhere but Lyse’s face.
    A shy one,
Lyse thought, feeling for the girl.
    She’d been a shy kid, too. It was only in college, when she’d finally found a group of friends she trusted, that she blossomed and stopped giving a shit about what other people thought of her.
    â€œHi,” Lyse said, breaking the silence.
    The girl blushed, her golden cheeks flushing a deep pink, and then she held up her right hand, producing a slender pointer finger. Like a magician in the middle of a silent stage show, she was telling Lyse to hold on.
    Lyse nodded, and the girl took off, returning a moment later with her pad. She pulled a pencil from her back pocket and began to write, her brow furrowed in concentration. When she was done, she brandished the pad in front of her:
    I’m Lizbeth. Are you the Bear?
    Lyse was surprised by the use of her pet name, and she must’ve made a funny face because before she realized what was happening, the girl was abruptly retracting the pad, embarrassment flaming her cheeks again.
    â€œNo, don’t run away,” Lyse said, reaching for the girl’s arm to stop her from leaving—she was curious to find out how this kid knew who she was. “You’re right. I’m Bear, but no one here calls me that except my great-aunt.”
    The girl nodded, held up a finger. After a few seconds of scribbling, she flipped over the sketch pad again:
    She said you were coming home today.
    Obviously the
she
being referenced was Eleanora—who else could it be? Lyse’s thoughts froze as something about the exchange with the girl hit a bull’s-eye deep inside her unconscious mind, illuminating something she’d been too dazed to put together earlier that morning:
If she hadn’t told Eleanora she was coming home, how had her great-aunt known to pick her up at the airport?
    The thought was unsettling.
    â€œWho are you?” Lyse whispered, taking a step back.
    The girl reached for Lyse’s hand, her long fingers fluttering like frightened birds, but Lyse jerked her hand out of the girl’s reach.
    â€œDon’t touch me,” Lyse said, still backing away. “I don’t know you and you’re freaking me out.”
    The girl wrote on the sketch pad, her pencil working furiously:
    Please, don’t be upset. I don’t want to freak you out.
    â€œThis is the oddest conversation I’ve ever had,” Lyse murmured, and the girl smiled, nodding in agreement—but then she was back, writing on her pad again.
    â€œLook, it was, uh, nice to meet you, but I gotta go,” Lyse said—and she took off before the girl could finish writing out her last thought.
    It was a graceless exit, and she wasn’t proud of herself for it, but she needed a break from all the weirdness.
    As she continued down Echo Park Avenue toward the little bodega, she tried to keep her mind clear, concentrating, instead, on the loud slap of her heels as they beat against the rough sidewalk. But
not
thinking was an almost impossible task. Try as she might, she couldn’t stop the bizarre, half-formed thoughts from running through her head.
    *   *   *
    The girl stood by the hedge, waiting until Lyse finally disappeared from view. She was confused by the lukewarm reception she’d received from the one person she assumed would understand everything.
    With a silent sigh, she flipped over the last page she’d used in her pad, but not before scratching out what was written there:
    Don’t be scared of the tall lady from your dream. She visits me,