Damsel Distressed

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PENCER
H
ILL
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ONTEMPORARY

Copyright © 2014 by Kelsey Macke

Sale of the paperback edition of this book without its cover is unauthorized.

Spencer Hill Press

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. Contact: Spencer Hill Press, PO Box 247, Contoocook, NH 03229, USA

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First Edition: October 2014.
Kelsey Macke
Damsel Distressed: a novel / by Kelsey Macke – 1st ed.
p. cm.
Summary: A teen girl struggles with obesity, self-harm, and the infuriatingly perfect stepsister in her journey to overcome the stigmas put on her life, on her friendships, and on her future.

The author acknowledges the copyrighted or trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this fiction: Band-Aid, Barbie,
The Bachelor
, Chuck Taylor, Chrysler, DiGiorno, Disney, Dr. Pepper, iPod, Girl Scouts, Goodwill, Jedi, Lincoln Logs, The Little Mermaid, McDonald's, McGriddle, McMuffin, Mustang,
MythBusters
, Nerf, Pop-Tarts, Post-it, Prozac, Risperdal, Rolex, Sharpie, Target, Vans

Cover design and title page by Jenny Zemanek
Interior artwork by Jessica Nickerson
Interior layout by Jenny Perinovic

ISBN 978-1939392176
(paperback) ISBN 978-1-939392-67-1 (e-book)

Printed in the United States of America

We often try to hide the parts of ourselves that have been broken. We work so hard to make sure other people never see the bits that make us feel weak. This book is dedicated to those precious, fractured fragments, for teaching us to grow and hope and never, ever stop fighting
.

Author's Note

This book, Damsel Distressed, is presented with Imogen Unlocked—an album of original songs performed by the band Wedding Day Rain.

If you're not into music, you can skip that piece of the puzzle.

If you are interested in the songs, they're all available, for your listening pleasure at DamselDistressed.com.

You can further enhance your experience and listen to the songs while reading the book. Each illustration contains the title of the song that fits with the scene you've just read. You can scan the hidden QR code in each illustration and listen to the songs on your mobile device, or you can navigate to the corresponding page at DamselDistressed.com.

It is my hope that you will experience Damsel Distressed and Imogen Unlocked in whatever way you like.

I'm so excited to share this story with you!

Yours,
Kelsey Macke

1

T
hey've been lying from the start. From the first time we read the words “once upon a time,” we're fed the idea that these girls—these gorgeous, demure, singing-with-the-wildlife girls—get a happy ending. And I get it. Poor thing had to do some chores around the house, fine. But the idea that she needs a magic old lady to come down and skim off the dirt so the prince will see her beauty? That's ridiculous. Maybe she should have been working on her lockpicking skills instead of serenading squirrels. She could have busted out, hitched a ride to the castle, and impressed the prince with her safe-cracking prowess.

Sorry, magic-fairy lady. She didn't need your help. The deck's already stacked in her favor. Why? Because she's the golden girl. She's the star. No one cares about the stepsisters' stories. Those girls don't get a sweet little ending. They get a lifetime of longing.

Seriously.

Hot girls get the fairy tales.

Hot girls like my stepsister.

“Okay, Imogen. Time's up.”

Therapist George is staring at his watch and straightening the cufflinks on his left sleeve. The little silver baubles are shaped like barbells. They must be new. I'm surprised, though; I never pegged him as one of
those
people. I just can't understand folks who willingly go to the gym and participate in choreographed masochism. Maybe I'd have to experience it to get it. Like, maybe if I knew what it was like to put on my jeans without doing the fat-girl, jean-buttoning rain dance, I'd understand.

I stick the end of my pen in my mouth and listen as it clicks against my front teeth and echoes inside my head.

“How did you do?” he asks.

“Fine,” I say. “But…” I smile and bat my eyelashes aggressively.

“Let me guess,” he says. “You didn't write about the topic I gave you?”

I look down at my sloppy writing. I press too hard. I always smear the ink as I go. “Well, no. But I wrote about something totally new!”

“Oh, really?” He smiles brightly as I twirl my pen between my fingers.

“Some girls are pretty. Some girls aren't. Some girls get attention from princely characters. The rest of us pine away and stuff ourselves with pie.”

Therapist George mimics me, widening his eyes and putting his chin on his hand with exaggerated interest. “So by ‘new' you mean the same Disney Princess rant you always write? I see.” He smirks and shakes his head slightly as I close the spiral notebook in my lap.

I stick out my bottom lip and clasp my chubby fingers together in prayer.

“Please don't be mad I didn't write what you asked me to.”

“Of course I'm not mad. In five years, have I ever been mad?”

He grins, bringing up only one side of his mouth, as he makes some notes in my file. I hate when he writes in my file. I think there should be a statute of file limitations, and after every three sessions, I get to keep his notes as a collector's item.

Therapist George scribbles as I answer, “No, TG. You've never been mad. You've also never been sad, jealous, insecure, or anxious in front of me either. You're clearly a robot.”

My fifteen-cent ballpoint tastes like poison, which it probably is. George sets his six-hundred-dollar pen on the small dark table sitting to the side of his tufted leather chair. The sound of it against the wood is deep and low, as if it is a gavel he only lays down when he's made up his mind to say something heavy. I stick the pointy end of my pen through the messy, box-dyed, black bun on the top of my head and look to my right at his big wall of windows.

Therapist George follows my gaze and, as if on cue, asks, “Do you mind if I let in the light?”

A test.

When I was twelve years old, I went through weeks of testing before my psychiatrist, Dr. Rodriguez, diagnosed me with clinical depression. I spent hours and hours answering stupid questions and drawing my feelings in his overly juvenile office.
“Yes, I feel sad all the time.” “Yes, I understand that my mom died and she isn't coming back.” “Yes, sometimes my chest hurts so bad that my hands shake and I can't make myself breathe.”
Testing me was this big, complicated thing.

But Therapist George can tell how I'm feeling by simply opening his blinds.

It makes me feel obvious. Readable. I wish it were easier to throw him off.

“No problem. Let in all the light you want,” I say as I cross my ankles below me.

He hesitates. I can see by the way his mouth opens slightly he doesn't believe me, but he reaches for the thin nylon cord anyway. He tugs it, sending the blinds racing to the top of the window. I force myself not to jerk at the sudden flood of light and vanish into a puff of smoke like a non-sparkly vampire. The windows in his office are tall—floor to ceiling.

I know there's glass, but in the back of my mind, it feels like an invitation. Like an outstretched hand. The blue of the sky is all I can see from my place on his sofa, and it tricks my brain into thinking it's a ledge.

Last December, the blinds were never open.

Last December, a ledge would have been far too tempting.

As TG turns to look back at me, he is silhouetted by sunlight. His shoulders are broad, and his tall form looks stronger and more handsome when the details of his features are in shadow. I imagine that's true for lots of people. We all look better when we're not really seen.

“So how about you tell me why you didn't want to write about Carmella coming to live with you?” He crosses back to his chair and sits down with his notes in his lap.

At the sound of my stepsister's name, my ears get hot and my chest tightens. “George, can't I have one more day without her in my head? Today is Happy-No-Carmella-Saturday!” I make an exaggerated smiley face. “Tomorrow is Sad-Carmella-Moves-In-Sunday.” I pull the corners of my mouth down and pretend to wipe away tears. “You know the second she unpacks tomorrow, I'm going to be living with a person who decided to hate me on the very first day we met. I'm already dreading having her in my day-to-day life. Can't I at least leave her out of my sessions?”

He uncrosses his legs and leans forward in his chair. “But why is she coming now? Why not over the summer?”

“I don't know. Her dad and Evelyn had some custody spat or something. You know I could earn a gold medal in ignoring her mother completely, so I really don't care. If I had a vote, I'd never have seen her again.”

I tangle my arms together over my chest and try to reclaim the calm from a few moments ago.

“Maybe it's time you told me about Christmas,” he starts and pauses so his eyebrows cinch together. “I know you've said you don't want to talk about the first time you met Carmella, but I'm worried about how her moving in might affect you.”

Christmas. It's hard to be festive when your dad gets engaged and insta-married to a real-life Barbie and your resulting breakdown almost earns you a two-week vacation to the Mayberry Behavioral Center. Thanks, Santa! It's just what I always wanted.

I get up from the couch and tug the waistband of my jeans up over my muffin top. I take a deep breath as TG leans back in his chair and crosses his legs again.

“You want to know about Christmas? Fine. Let me tell you a little story.”

George settles in, and a grin tugs at his tanned cheeks.

I wave my arm in a high arc in front of him as I say, “Once upon a time, there was a girl. We'll call her… Imogen.”

He smiles indulgently. A tiny sigh escapes his lips, but I ignore it. I know it's not the heartfelt confession he wanted, but he's gonna have to take what he can get.

“One cold December morning, Imogen's dad woke her to say he was getting married. Her dad was surprised when she went completely freaking mental at the thought, probably because her mother had died six Decembers before.” I lean toward him and whisper loudly, “That's where the audience is supposed to gasp.”

“Did you want your dad to stay single forever?”

The word “single” bounces between my ears.

My voice lifts higher as I pace around the couch. “When Dad met Evelyn, he tried to tell me about her, and I told him I didn't want to hear it. So he didn't
tell
me about their dates. He didn't
tell
me they fell in love. He just woke me up one morning and told me he was
marrying
her.”

My stomach drops, and my brain sloshes around in my skull. I walk to the edge of the sofa and faint back on it with a dramatic sigh, holding the back of my hand against my forehead. I turn my face toward George, and with a snap of my tongue, I say, “Oh, George, isn't this just the saddest story you've ever heard? But wait, I'm getting to the good part.”

The sarcasm falls over me like a shield.

George's smirk is gone, and he bites his bottom lip and holds it between his teeth as I lug myself up and continue my mockery. Guilt rises up in my chest, but I push it down. Guilt is much easier to push away than the truth.

“A few weeks later, Replacement Mom is all unpacked, and Dad tells Imogen that instead of going to see a musical on the night of the 27th, like they had every year since Mom died, they were going out for a fancy, new-family dinner. And the best part was—surprise, Imogen! You have a stepsister, too!”