Despite the long flight and heavy backpack, Lacie Spenser stood next to the ticket counter bolt upright, searching the crowd, her turquoise eyes suspicious. One hand drummed the counter, fingers fluttering to the beat, while the other adjusted a wide velvet headband over and over, reining in a puff of toast-colored curls. Bright spots of pink bloomed on her porcelain complexion, pale and clear as rock crystal, when the vast concourse seemed to close in on her.
Lacie looked up into the Arrivals and Departures monitor, evaluating her image in the glass. The girl she saw reflected there was shorter and chubbier than any self-respecting 11-year old should be, ashy-faced, with dark violet circles under her eyes, a feeble half-smile, and kinky, uncontrollable brown hair. Her boots were scuffed; her jeans frayed; her cast-off riding jacket too big.
Lacie thought she caught a whiff of something familiar as she looked away to watch a frantic old woman sprint down the moving sidewalk juggling a dozen tiny bottles. At the other end, friends and family were meeting a very pretty girl about Lacie’s age. "And people think I’m paranoid,” Lacie said, returning to her reflection in the monitor. “I know I haven’t seen her for years, but still! You’d think your own grandmother would try to be on time.”
If seriously annoyed weren’t the right words for what Lacie was feeling, then not surprised wasn’t even close.
