Contains lyrics from Let It Go by Idina Menzel (2013)

Mistakes happen. Lynn Loud understood that. The mix-up at the adoption agency, however, was too much. Standing at the window of the nursery, his fists clenched and hot tears blurred his vision, he tried to look at the little girl in the crib next to Lincoln's, but couldn't bring himself to do it.

He and Rita came that day to sign the final paperwork for the boy and the girl, but somewhere along the line, someone screwed up and the papers weren't filed properly. In the meantime, another family started the adoption process on her, and there was nothing they could do. It was all done fair and square, after all.

Lynn sighed sadly and bowed his head. He was loathe to break the twins up; on a deep, cellular level, they needed each other. Part of him wanted to see if the other family would take Lincoln as well, but he and Rita already loved the boy like he was their own, and they could no sooner give him up than they could give up Lori or Luan. Letting the girl go was bad enough...but him too? It was unthinkable.

He rubbed his brow and fought back the tears threatening to overwhelm him. He didn't want to let her go. He wanted both of them.

Lost in his emotions, he didn't know he had company until a man spoke beside him. "Which one's yours?" he asked. Lynn glanced up at him. He was about Lynn's age, with wavy blonde hair and glasses. He was wearing a checkered shirt tucked into khaki pants and white tennis shoes.

"The boy in the third row," Lynn said, "with the white hair."

"Oh," the man said and turned. "You're the one adopting him?"

Lynn's brow furrowed quizzically. "Yes."

"My wife and I are adopting the girl," he said. "We were going to adopt both, but someone flubbed the paperwork." He chuckled nervously.

Lynn looked away from the man and focused on Lincoln. So he was the one who would have her and hold her and hopefully raise her into a beautiful young woman. Jealousy clutched Lynn's heart and he closed his eyes. In the end, as long as she went to a good, loving home, it didn't matter. He told himself that, and he knew it was right, but it hurt...it hurt more than anything else ever had, except for Rita's miscarriage before Lori. This was probably worse even than that, because he never actually laid eyes on that child...it was never more than a hope. This one...he had looked into her eyes, held her in his arms, stroked her cheek.

"What are you going to name her?" Lynn asked when he trusted himself to speak.

"We aren't sure yet," the man said, crossing his arms. "I know it's rather late in the process to still be undecided, but my wife and I can't pick. We compiled separate lists of names we liked, but none of them match." He chuckled. "What are you naming your son?"

"Lincoln," Lynn said, "and we were going to name her Linka."

"Linka?" the man asked, tasting the word the way a wine connoisseur would an unfamiliar vintage. "That's pretty."

Lynn nodded and forced himself to look at her – his Linka – because he would probably never see her again, and he never wanted to forget her face or her eyes, even if he lived to be old, stooped, and white-haired.

"Is there any significance to it?" the man asked curiously.

Lynn shook his head. "No. Me and my wife just liked it."

"It is a very nice name."

Before he and Rita left that day, they stopped by the nursery one final time and tearfully watched the twins, neither speaking. At the foot of Lincoln's crib was a blue placard with his name, date of 'discharge' and the names of his parents – Rita and Lynn Loud. Lynn's eyes flickered to Linka's crib, and he noticed a similar card, this one pink. It hadn't been there earlier. He pressed his forehead to the glass and squinted.

NAME: LINKA MARGRET RANDALL

DATE OF DISCHARGE: 07/26/06

NAME OF PARENTS: TODD AND KAREN RANDALL

Good luck, little girl, Lynn thought and touched the glass.

Do you ever feel like something's missing...something indefinable but vital, something that nags on the edge of your consciousness like dull discomfort but never really develops into full-blown pain? Linka Randall felt that way sometimes. It would hit her at random moments during the day, and for a few minutes she would feel as though a she was missing something. She would wiggle her fingers and toes (nope, all present and accounted for), look down the front of her shirt, and, if she was alone, touch herself through her skirt. Invariably, she would pronounce herself whole and healthy, but the feeling of missing something would usually persist for a while longer until it slipped away and she forgot about it.

She had always been in touch with her emotions and with the world around her; her mother was a child psychologist, after all, and while most kids were still learning how to potty train and tie their shoes, Linka was learning about compassion, empathy, and the importance of understanding and positively channeling your feelings. She often wondered if being so in tune with yourself doesn't unlock hidden parts of the brain...psychic parts that have been buried deeply by millions of years of evolution. Many times she was able to judge the mood of one or both of her parents simply by walking through the door. If they were angry with one another (which happened very infrequently), the atmosphere would feel dark and heavy, like a storm was gathering. If they were particularly pleased, the atmosphere would be light and warm like an airy spring afternoon. Her occasional feelings of missing something must be rooted in reality, she figured, but just exactly what she was missing remained a mystery.

A boyfriend? No, she didn't think it was that. She was certainly interested in boys, but she was interested in visiting France. Maybe one day she would, and maybe she wouldn't. That's to say it wasn't something that weighed heavily upon her. Companionship in general? Well...yeah. As an only child she was lonely, though she had her cat Hawthorne, and he made for good company. It would be nice to have someone to talk to and do things with, someone with whom she was more deeply connected than a friend. Linka had friends, but none that she could think of as close.

That was it, she would decide; she missed not having a brother or a sister. She was never entirely satisfied with that answer, though, because she felt that there was more to it than simply wanting something that wasn't.

On a Friday morning in early October, Linka woke with the persistent feeling that she lacked something important. Lying under the covers, the fog of sleep rapidly dissipating from her head, she scrunched her lips to the side and exhaled through her nose. It was quite irritating, really. She could identify the root cause of every tear she had ever shed and every giggle she had ever uttered, but not this. She considered, not for the first time, bringing the matter up with her mother, but decided against it. For some reason, she didn't feel comfortable speaking to her about it, which added further to the mystery. She talked to her mother about everything, even her budding interest in sex. That was not an easy conversation to have, but it was one that Linka realized needed to be had. Why couldn't she articulate this of all things to her mother? She didn't know, but it puzzled her.

Sighing, she swung her legs out from under the covers and got up, the silky fabric of her nightdress rubbing against her tender nipples. She hissed through clenched teeth and silently cursed the effects puberty was having on her. The hair that was beginning to grow between her legs was unsightly, but manageable, the soreness in her breasts was not.

At her nightstand, she selected a green skirt and a button-up shirt with a golden crest over the heart. In the bathroom, she laid them carefully on the marble countertop and took off her dress, which she then neatly folded and sat in the dirty clothes hamper. She turned the water on and made sure that it was to her liking before stepping in.

Some days it amazed her how big her bathroom was. Of course it wasn't hers privately (extended family and overnight guests used it – overnight visitors were fairly rare), but 99 percent of the time she was the only one using it. The tub was big enough to fit a good ten people if you packed them tightly, and there was room for at least another fifteen to wait their turn. She liked her house, but it baffled her why the builders made the bathroom and its attendant fixtures so large. Did the previous owners throw parties in here? She smiled at the image of a bunch of affluent types crowding together in the shower with martinis in hand. I say, where is Jeeves with the hors d'oeuvres?

Linka poured a measure of body wash onto her pink loofa and lathered her arms and chest while thinking of Jeeves. Not many people know that Jeeves was a character in a series of novels and short stories by the British writer P.D. Wodehouse. Linka did, and took pride in that knowledge not because it made her better than anyone...but because the Jeeves stories were funny: He was the perennial straight man to his young master's hijinks. Bertie Wooster was the kind of man whose family had money, so all he had to worry about was having fun. He was overall a good man...never hesitating to help a friend in need, even though he was often left with egg on his face. Jeeves, in turn, was always there for him, giving him expert advice and getting him out of even the tightest jams. It was sweet.

When Linka was done, she cut the spray and toweled off, the air creeping in through the edge of the curtain cold against her flushed flesh. Her nipples became erect, and she drew a sharp intake of breath. Ouch. She balled her fist and held it up as if to punch Mother Nature in the face. When will these damn things get it over with and grow? Not soon enough, she figured as she stepped out and crossed to the sink, the stone tiles cold against her feet. At the countertop, she looked herself over in the mirror, her eyes instantly going to her snowy white hair. She would never say it out loud, because her mother believed in speaking only positively, and so did she, but she was embarrassed by her hair, especially by the little horselick that just wouldn't stay down no matter what she did to it. She wasn't too crazy about her freckles either, or the way her front teeth were naturally chipped...or at least that's what she thought of them as.

She'd asked her parents where the white hair came from, as her father had blonde hair and her mother had red hair (blonde and red don't make white). Apparently it was a trait that skipped generations. Her great-great grandfather had naturally white hair. Poor man. She could only imagine the teasing he must have endured. It was bad enough for her in the year 2017...what it must have been like for a man in the 1930s! Instead of taunting him, the other kids most likely beat him with sticks and rocks for being different...a simpler time, you know.

Her eyes crept down to her blossoming breasts; while she was well aware that they were a 'work in progress' (as he mother would say), she wasn't happy with the way they looked. She tentatively prodded one with her finger and frowned. One day soon, they would come in and the soreness would stop and she would most likely be content with them, but for right now they were small, ugly pinkish nubs that hurt.

Nothing could be done, however. She got dressed and gave her reflection a quick once over, nodding when she found herself decent. In her room, pulled on a pair of woolen knee-high socks and her shoes, then sat in front of the mirror and brushed her long, colorless hair until it was silky; she was not what one might call a 'girly-girl' but she liked her hair to be soft, and had discovered that fifty-three strokes achieved maximum softness. She counted each one, her lips moving silently in the mirror over her vanity. Missing something...she was missing something.

No, you aren't, she told herself firmly. You have everything you need.

Except a sibling. That would be nice.

Well...yes, that would be nice.

Very nice, actually.

Fifty, fifty-one...and fifty-two.

She sat her brush down and picked an orange hair clip out of a small wicker basket. She tilted her head and snapped it on. Not bad, she thought cautiously. She really shouldn't be so hard on herself. She was certain at least several boys liked her, and while that should in no way determine how a girl felt about and viewed herself, it was nice to know. She actually kind of liked one of them back. A sly grin crept across her face, and she glanced away from the mirror. Kyle Mountcastle. Dreamy blue eyes, delicate cheekbones, kissable lips...

Blushing, Linka got up and took a deep breath. No more thoughts like that. Where was her blazer? She put her hands on her hips and looked around, spotting it on the coatrack by the door, where it was every morning, along with all her red ties. She could understand why private schools require boys to wear ties, but why girls? Ties weren't exactly something that average woman wore, even if she was a high powered executive. She should really ask someone, because it didn't make sense to her. She took one and put it on regardless, absently looping and knotting it. She slipped into her blazer and grabbed her backpack from its spot by her bed. She started out the door, then did a 180 and went back to her bed with a flustered sigh. Kneeling, she took her violin case out from under her bed; every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, she had practice after school. It wasn't her favorite thing in the world, but she was good, and, though it could be a pain sometimes, it was very cathartic; it's hard to be in a bad mood when you're focusing on making beautiful music and not breaking a string.

In the kitchen, her father was sitting at the table with the morning paper open before him, a steaming mug of coffee in easy reach. He was a slight man with soft features, blue eyes, and wavy blonde hair that was juuust beginning to gray. He wore tiny glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. Her mother was at the stove, her back to Linka. She was thin with curly red hair that fell past her shoulders.

Linka dropped her backpack on the floor next to her chair and leaned her violin case against the table. Her father looked up and smiled warmly. "Morning, honey," he said.

"Morning, Daddy," she said, and pecked his stubbly cheek. "Bleh. You need a shave."

"I was thinking I'd grow a beard," he said, glancing back at the paper. "We can become pirates and live a life of adventure."

Mom chuckled. "Don't forget poor hygiene."

"That too," Dad said.

"Adventure sounds fun," Linka said as she settled into her chair. "I still want to see Paris."

"I don't think many pirates were brave enough to venture that far north," Dad said. "The French navy was once a force to be reckoned with."

Linka shrugged. "So was the Spanish Armada, but look what happened to them."

Dad laughed. "You have a point there, sweetie."

Mom scraped an egg onto a plate and added a piece of wheat toast smeared with avocado. She sat it before Linka and kissed her forehead. "How did you sleep, dear?"

"Good," Linka said.

"No more strange dreams?"

"Mom!" Linka blushed.

Dad pretended not to hear, bless him.

"I'm just making sure," Mom said with a smile. "It's perfectly natural."

Linka bowed her head. She loved her mother to death...even if she did routinely embarrass her. You'd expect more from a child psychologist. Parents, though, are parents, no matter what they do or how many degrees they hold. "You better hurry up and drink your coffee," Mom said to Dad, "you're going to be late."

"Eh," Dad said, scanning the paper. "One of the benefits of having one's own practice is setting one's own hours."

"And annoying one's customers until one's customers find a new surgeon."

Dad shrugged. "You have a point." He closed the paper and looked at Linka. "Sometimes I feel as though you and your mother enjoy battering me with good points."

Linka shrugged. "Maybe try coming up with some good points of your own?"

Dad laughed. "I try my best." He rolled the paper into a tube and swatted Linka gently on the top of her head. She laughed and pushed it away. "Not the hair! I just did it!"

"I'm sorry, honey," he said as he got up. He lifted the mug to his lips and took a quick drink before setting it back down. "I'll be more careful in the future." As he passed behind her, he flicked her horselick.

"Daddy!"

"The future is now," he said and hurried out of the kitchen.

Shaking her head, Linka picked up her fork and cleaved off a piece of egg. Mom poured herself a cup of coffee, sat across from her, and watched her with loving green eyes. "Has anyone asked you to the dance yet?"

For a minute Linka drew a blank. Dance? Then it came to her. Ridgewood Academy's annual Autumn Ball (because what else would a fancy school call a dance?) was on October 21 – nearly three weeks away. "No," she said. A part of her wanted someone to ask her (Kyle Mountcastle preferably), but another part didn't. Though it might not be readily evident (okay, maybe it kind of was), she was shy, and the thought of dancing with a boy was, while appealing, scary...very, very scary. Not entirely in a bad way, though.

"It's a matter of time," Mom said, then took a sip from her mug. "Boys often wait until the last minute."

"I guess," Linka said, forking a piece of egg and raising it to her lips.

"If you like we can go dress shopping this weekend," Mom said.

"I'm not even sure I want to go," Linka said.

Mom frowned. "Why not?"

Linka shrugged.

"Linka?" Mom asked in what Linka thought of as her 'tell me' tone.

Linka sighed then looked into her mother's eyes. Full discloser coming your way, mother. "I am intimidated."

"Why?"

"Because I am an eleven-year-old girl who is becoming interested in boys, and feel as though I am out of my league."

For a moment Mom simply looked at her, then began to laugh, which mildly perturbed Linka. "I'm sorry, honey," she said, waving a hand. "You're a beautiful, intelligent, and considerate young lady – the thought of you being out of your league just strikes me as funny."

Linka smiled. "Thank you. I mean I feel out of league when it comes to the concept of dating as a whole."

"You should go," Mom said. "I can see you now, in a pink dress with a corsage and a little curl in your hair...oh, you'd be the most beautiful girl there."

Linka blushed. "I doubt that."

"I don't," Mom said.

Linka took a bite of her toast, making sure not to get any of the spread on her face or shirt. "Just think it over," Mom said, "if you don't want to go, you don't have to, but I think you'd have a good time."

"I'll give it some thought," Linka said; the more she turned the idea over in her head, the more she kind of liked it. Sure, it was scary, but, then again, weren't most things in life? If you stuck to what wasn't scary, you'd be in the shallow end of the pool eating chicken nuggets for the rest of your life.

Dad came back into the kitchen and bumped into Linka's chair, which almost made her drop her toast in her lap. She spun in her seat, assuming that he did it on purpose, but smiled when she saw him with his head thrown back and fingers fumbling at his tie. "Sorry, honey," he said absently, then fixed Mom with something approaching a pout. "A little help?"

Mom laughed and got up. "Leave to you to wear a tie every day for fifteen years and never learn how to actually tie it."

"Even I can tie my own tie," Linka said.

"This conversation doesn't extend to little girls who can't drive." He winked and Linka stuck her tongue out.

Mom looped his tie and knotted it. "I don't understand why you don't wear clip-ons."

Dad snorted and pecked her lips. "Would you go to a doctor who wore a clip-on tie?"

She laughed and kissed him back. "No, but I also wouldn't go to one who has his wife do it for him."

"Touche," he said, and kissed her one more time. "Have a lovely day, if you need me I'll be injecting collagen into lips that don't need it and lifting faces that do." He rubbed Linka's head.

"Daddy!"

"Oh," he smiled sheepishly, "right. The hair." He leaned forward and kissed her on the top of her head.

While Mom saw him out the door, Linka hurriedly finished her breakfast and washed it down with a glass of orange juice. "Are you almost ready?" Mom called.

"Almost!"

She took her plate and glass to the sink, rinsed them, then grabbed her backpack and violin case. Mom was waiting by the door, her arms crossed over her white pea coat. "It's cold today," she said.

"I doubt it's that cold, Mom," Linka said. Her mother had lived her whole life in Michigan, but for some strange reason had never been able to tolerate the cold. Outside, a chilly wind blew through the trees and sent yellow and red leaves fluttering to the ground. It wasn't bad, though; not as bad as it would be in two months.

Mom came outside, closed the door, and locked it. "Sometimes I think you were born in an igloo."

"It's not that bad, Mom."

"I think it is."

Together they crossed the front lawn to the driveway where Mom's 40th birthday present, a silver 2017 GMC Crossover, waited silently. Linka slid into the passenger seat while Mom got behind the wheel and started the engine, her trembling hand going to the dash panel and worrying the heater. "It was nice just a week ago," she said. "Just one week."

"It's nice now too."

Mom chuckled as she backed into the street. "I'm going to start calling you Elsa."

"I don't mind that," Linka said, "I like that movie." She watched the house as they pulled out of the driveway: A two-story Tudor with a steeply pitched roof, a brick façade below, decorative half-timbering above, and tall, narrow casement windows. Closely maintained ivy grew along one wall. Linka felt warm and fuzzy every time she saw her house from afar; for some reason it had always reminded her of a safe, cozy Hobbit hole.

Mom turned down the radio, which was kept either on the classical station or NPR, and started to sing:

"The snow glows white on the mountain tonight

Not a footprint to be seen.

A kingdom of isolation,

and it looks like I'm the Queen."

Linka blushed and looked out the window. "Mom..."

"The wind is howling like this swirling storm inside

Couldn't keep it in;

Heaven knows I've tried."

Linka watched the fashionable homes and shops of Grosse Pointe flash by, a tiny grin on her face. He mother could be such a dork sometimes.

"Come on, Linka," she said, "you love this song."

When she was a little girl, Linka was obsessed with Frozen. She had the movie, the CD, Frozen sheets and pillow cases and comforters; she even went as Elsa for Halloween for two years in a row. She and her mother would sing Let it Go at the top of their lungs at random times, sometimes even in public. That was before the onset of puberty ushered in angsty self-consciousness, though.

Just ignore her and she'll stop.

"Don't let them in,

don't let them see

Be the good girl you always have to be

Conceal, don't feel."

Linka did love this song, but she did not love her voice.

Her mother knew this. "It's just us here, sweetie," she grinned. "I know you want too."

"That's peer pressure, mother," Linka said.

"No it's not," Mom said, pulling to a stop at a red light. "I'm your mother, not your peer. It's parental pressure."

"That's even worse!"

Mom looked at her and cocked an eyebrow. Linka sighed and threw her head back. "Fine," she said and took a deep breath. She began to sing in a high, clear voice:

"Don't let them know

Well now they know."

Mom smiled, and together they sang the chorus:

Let it go, let it go

Can't hold it back anymore

Let it go, let it go

Turn away and slam the door

I don't care

what they're going to say

Let the storm rage on."

Mom stopped, and Linka sang the final verse on her own:

"The cold never bothered me anyway."

Mom laughed and Linka's blush deepened. "That's my girl! You have such a pretty voice. You shouldn't be ashamed of it."

Linka shrugged. She didn't like her voice, but other people seemed to, and she did kind of like singing. When she was little, she and her parents would go Christmas caroling with some of her parents' friends, and people always made a big deal about how "angelic" her voice was, which made her a little uncomfortable.

Presently they were pulling along the wrought iron fence surrounding Ridgewood Academy, a tall, spacious gothic style building with wide windows, stone columns, and spires rising against the morning sky. Girls in skirts and boys in suits crowded the wide gardens before the school, some standing in big groups and others sitting under shady trees by themselves. Ridgewood was one of the more exclusive schools in the Detroit area, second only to Milton, where the rich kids went. Her parents considered sending her there, but she didn't want to go; from what she had heard, the kids there were super snobby.

They came to a stop in front of the main gate. "Have a good day, honey," Mom said, leaning over and kissing Linka's cheek. "I love you."

"I love you too," Linka said. Grabbing her violin case, she got out and crossed the street, scanning the crowds and finding Kristy Evans standing by the fountain with Kayla Wilson. Kristy saw her, smiled, and waved. A tall girl with black hair and bright blue eyes, Kristy was the closest thing Linka had to a best friend: Her father was a judge who had work done by Dad. The two girls had been friends since the fourth grade. Kayla, short and rotund with red hair and green eyes, had recently moved to Grosse Pointe from Boulder; her father was the CEO of a company that sold real estate or bought real estate or something like that...Linka didn't really care what her friends' parents did unlike some kids at Ridgewood.

Linka walked over, threading her way through a group of boys teasing each other. "Hey, Link," Kristy said.

"Hey," Linka said, then nodded at Kayla. They didn't know each other very well, so Linka felt kind of awkward around her. She seemed nice, though.

"You'll never guess what just happened," Kristy said excitedly and took Linka's hands.

"Uh...your trust fund doubled in value?"

Kristy giggled. "No, silly, Jake Rollins asked me to the dance."

Jake Rollins was one of Kyle Mountcastle's friends. Kristy had been totally crushing on him for months now. He was kind of cute, but he had creepy eyes, and when he smiled, it looked...off, like he was forcing it.

"That's great," Linka said, genuinely happy for her friend. She squeezed her hands as Kristy bounced excitedly up and down.

"I know, right? I'm over the moon." She leaned in and smiled. "I hear Kyle's going to ask you out."

Linka blushed and glanced away to hide the smile forming at the corners of her mouth. "I doubt that," she said.

"Speaking of," Kayla said.

Linka's heart seized. She looked up, and there he was, strolling casually along, one thumb hooked under the strap of his backpack. His hair was pale red and his eyes were muddled blue; he was beautiful.

He nodded as he passed, then looked directly at her. "Hey, Linka."

Linka's face burned furiously and suddenly, she forgot how to speak. "H-Hi. Kyle," she said.

"See you in history," he said, and when he turned away, Linka's knees nearly gave out. Kristy grabbed her hands again and made an enthusiastic squee. "I told you! He's totally going to ask you to the dance."

Linka did not hear this; she was lost in a warm, pinkish haze of happiness from which she would not come down for a long, long time.