Free Pretty Girl Thirteen by Liz Coley Page B

Dissociated identities. Splintered consciousness.
    If it weren’t happening to her personally and screwing up her life, Angie would have found it fascinating. However, under the circumstances, the idea that her body was saying and doing things she couldn’t control—things she didn’t even know about—terrified her. Humiliating herself with Greg was the worst so far. She still didn’t know what exactly had happened, and she wasn’t about to ask. It was worse than humiliating. Whatever she’d done was so off-base, he told her to leave. Ugh. It made her blush all over again to think about it.
    She’d dodged Greg and Liv for two days now, hiding deep in the ninth-grade pack for camouflage. And that wasn’t too hard. They stuck to her like Velcro from the beginning to the end of the day. Which was getting incredibly tiresome. When would her novelty wear off?
    “Angela?” The doctor broke into her thoughts. “Are you still with me? Or am I in the presence of another?”
    “Oh, sorry. Yeah. It’s just me.” She offered a halfhearted smile. “No one more exciting.”
    The doctor gave her an encouraging pat on the arm. “You were going to tell me of the weird things that led you to believe you may be experiencing DID.”
    Angie rolled her eyes. “Yeah. Example One: Someone dusted my room and folded my clothes while I was asleep.”
    “Your mother?” the doctor suggested.
    “Nope. I asked her.”
    “Hmm.”
    “Example Two: Someone keeps moving my rocking chair. Not me. Not Mom.”
    “And that’s disturbing because …”
    “She sits in it and rocks for hours. There are new lines and footprints in the carpet every morning.” Angie raised three fingers and continued. “Example Three: I went to bed early the other night because I was exhausted, probably from all the stupid rocking, and when I woke up in the morning, someone had done my math homework.”
    “How … industrious,” Dr. Grant commented.
    “Her handwriting sucked, and she got half the questions wrong. Not helpful.”
    “Ahh.” The doctor tugged the sleeves of her cardigan and smoothed them. “Perhaps the alter believed he or she was being helpful. After all, your mind created them as protectors. The instinct to protect is still in there”—she pointed to Angie’s temple—“though we believe you are out of physical danger.”
    “Hold up a second. He?” Angie blinked hard. “I thought you said she was a Girl Scout. You think there’s a guy in my head?”
    The faintest hint of a smile lifted Dr. Grant’s lips. “It’s okay, Angie. We don’t know one way or the other yet. But generally speaking, alternate personalities can take on either sex and any age,” she explained. “Whatever is appropriate to their role. Suppose you needed a big, tough guy to stand up to heavy beatings?” She flexed her arm muscles to demonstrate. In the blue fuzzy sweater, the effect was lost. “It would be possible even for a small girl like you to have a big, tough guy alter.”
    “In-ter-est-ing,” Angie said. “He’d feel kind of lame in my clothes, though.”
    That earned her an honest laugh. “Sometimes people discover alternate wardrobes in their belongings, representing the tastes of their alters.”
    A lightbulb went off. “So that explains it!”
    “Yes?”
    Angie blushed. “When I changed for gym yesterday, I nearly died. I was wearing ho underwear. I don’t own that kind of thing.”
    The doctor’s eyebrows twitched only slightly as she asked, “How do you define ‘ho underwear’?”
    “It was all black and lacy and slutty,” she whispered. “Like a thong. I sure didn’t buy it, and I know Mom didn’t buy it for me.”
    “So, you worry that these alters are choosing clothes for you and taking on some of your chores and homework, perhaps rocking in the night when you would rather be in bed. Would it help if you understood their motivations?”
    “It would help if they would cut it out. How do I make it stop?”
    Dr. Grant