The One That Got Away by Leigh Himes

respective couches and came running toward me on their long legs. They jumped up on me and barked, knocking me backward until I felt the heel of one of my beautiful shoes weaken and snap off.The massive dogs barked and snarled as if I were an intruder, as if they knew I was an imposter, and I wondered if it was true about dogs: They could sense visitors from another world. As they continued their attack, I cowered and sank to the floor in fear.
    Alex yelled—“John Henry! Malcolm! Rex!”—and rushed over, then pulled the dogs away with hard tugs at their collars. Then I was up and in his arms as he carried me and my broken shoe across the room like a bride. From over his shoulder, I saw everyone I’d just met gawking, their mouths open and motionless. Even Mirabelle stared, her mask of gentility replaced with one of confusion. And perhaps a flicker of irritation.
    Only when we reached the front door did Alex stop, pausing to look into my eyes and ask if I was okay, his brow wrinkled in concern, then cursing Aubyn for not putting those “damn dogs of hers” outside. He looked so worried about me—and angry at her—that if I hadn’t already been in his arms, I would have swooned.
    It wasn’t until after he’d helped me into the back of the Suburban, after he’d closed the door and rapped on the roof, signaling Oscar to go, and after we’d pulled out of the circular drive and onto the winding road that would lead us back to the expressway that it occurred to me why Aubyn’s dogs had attacked me.
    Those hadn’t been stale crackers in that fancy silver dish. They were dog biscuits.

CHAPTER THREE
    T he next morning, I opened my eyes expecting to see my red-numbered alarm clock, a basket of unfolded laundry, and Jimmy’s pajamas strewn across the floor but was met by the bright white order of the van Holt household. I sat up with a jolt.
    Beside me were an empty pillow and rumpled bedsheets, Alex already up and on the campaign trail. I wasn’t sorry to be alone, though, needing time to process another day in this strange world, this pretty fishbowl I couldn’t swim out of. I took a few deep breaths in an attempt to calm the rising panic and the sudden desire to run out of the apartment screaming. My mother always told me there’s a solution to every problem if you just looked hard enough. It was time for me to do some looking.
    I got out of the bed and stretched, then froze as I heard a child’s voice: “
Maman,
” it said. “Van
se lève.
”
    I spun around and saw Gloria, her curls dark against a light pink nightgown.
    “What did you say?” I asked. My own silk nightgown swished around my shins as I walked toward her for my morning hug.
    “Van
se lève,
” she repeated. “
Allez le chercher.
”
    “You speak French!”
    “
Mais oui, Maman.
”
    “That’s so cool. Unbelievable, actually.”
    “Does that mean you want me to speak English?”
    “Sure.”
    “Good. ’Cause I want Froot Loops for breakfast and I don’t know how to say that
en français
.”
    I laughed, then pulled her close. Her hair didn’t have the touches of auburn I remembered, and her upper lip was more smoothed out, not pointed like Jimmy’s Cupid’s bow. She smelled different, too, less syrupy and more astringent, like she had bathed in lemon water. But it was still Gloria. Funny, smart, passionate, sometimes pain-in-the-ass Gloria.
    I stood up, looked around, and then asked her: “Where’s your brother?”
    “In his crib.”
    I checked the time—seven thirty—and thought it seemed late for my early bird Sam. Who knew how long he’d been up, his room so far from mine? I squatted and put my hands behind me for Gloria to jump on.
    “C’mon,” I said. “Don’t you want a ride?”
    “Huh?”
    “Don’t you want a piggyback ride?”
    “A what?” she said, confused.
    I reached back and pulled her tiny body toward me, then grabbed her hands and laid them over my shoulders. She timidly wrapped her legs around my