Damsel Distressed (11 page)

“And how do you feel right now?”

I'll never admit that I feel better. I try to break the tension I've brought into the room like a curse.

“I feel like I wanna kick you in the junk for always making me say that stupid mantra.”

He laughs as the humor slips back into our conversation. “It isn't stupid, Imogen. And if you ask me, junk-kicking makes it sound like someone is feeling a little more empowered than they were when they walked in.” He's beaming and scooping up all the credit for the battle I waged in his office. Figures.

“Thanks. You're not in the fight with me, but you're not a bad strategist.” I give him a little grin so that he'll feel proud. I figure at least one of us should walk away from this meeting feeling accomplished. He's so eager to believe me. So eager to check off the “I fixed Imogen today” box. I watch as he smiles and writes something down in my file.

That's just the worst.

I turn from George and his notes and get off the creaky, leather couch to cross behind his chair. Alongside his carved wooden desk, I stand beside the window. I walk right up to the glass and look out into the sky. If I keep my gaze at the horizon line, I don't notice the buildings and trees and concrete things below. If I keep my gaze high, I can only see the sky. I stare into the endless blue and try to imagine what real, unfiltered joy would be like. Rushing excitement, wonder, and the knowledge tinged with fear that it could come to an end at any moment. As I drop my chin, my eyes take in the distance to the ground, and I suppose that, perhaps, joy might be a close match for falling.

11

T
he crackle of the speaker startles me as I roll down my window with only two minutes until the end of breakfast service. I'm so happy I almost start crying again.

I reach for the sunglasses in my seat. I always wear my sunglasses in the drive-thru. Daytime, nighttime, it really doesn't make a difference. I don't want the kid running the register to see my eyes.

“Yeah, I'll have a large Dr. Pepper, a Bacon, Egg & Cheese McGriddle, an Egg McMuffin, and a box of the Cinna-Melts.”

I say it quickly, out of desperation for those breakfast-only, little bites of dough covered in so much gooey cinnamon and icing that I've seriously considered trying to climb
into
the box.

I turn to look out the passenger window just as a loud, yellow Mustang cuts through the parking lot and screeches out onto Main.

It's not her, but it's just like her. Loud, self-indulgent, and desperate for attention.

I
hate
her.

The scratchy, distorted voice repeats my order back to me.

“Oh, and also, a hash brown,” I add.

Yep. That'll teach her.

I pay, keeping my face forward as much as I can, and then pull around through the parking lot to my favorite corner of the shopping center across from the side entrance next to a tiny pond. McGriddle, McMuffin, hash brown, Cinna-Melts, meds, gulp of DP, and I'm already feeling more calm than I did at any point in TG's office.

I visualize my prescription cocktail moving through my veins and pretend I feel it taking away all my crazy urges. Like the urge to drive straight to school, march into our first period class, and tell her off for being such a bitch this morning. Or maybe the urge to drive to the edge of town, find a grassy place to lie down, and never wake up again. Either one.

The greasy, salty smell of the hash brown instantly settles my nerves until my ears pick up on the growing sound of my chewing. I reach down to my phone and turn on my
Once Upon a Mattress
cast recording. It is almost painfully loud, but at least I can't hear myself chew.

I lick the salt from my fingertips as I scour the sky for birds or planes. Anything to keep my eyes off the wrappers and crumbs. That's my other rule. First, don't let the drive-thru kid see me cry, and second, never look at the aftermath.

I roll down my window and drop my trash into the can right at the curb.

When I check my phone, I am ecstatic that my session plus breakfast has effectively eaten up the first part of my day. I should get back just after third period, which is absolutely brilliant. I pull the gearshift to flip the car into reverse as my phone pings on the seat beside me. A message from Grant. I keep my foot planted on the brake.

“Hey, think you're going to make it back to school in time for lunch? I have news about my physics thing.”

I take a long, final pull on my Dr. Pepper and hear the straw rattle against the bottom of the empty cup. I toss it out the still-open window into the trash and then type my reply.

“Sure. I'm starving.”

“They were closing up the line, so I grabbed a burrito for you.” Grant pushes the little paper boat holding a plastic-wrapped fiesta toward my seat at our end of the long lunch table. I drop my bag on the floor under the tiny little circles that are supposed to correspond with actual human butt sizes. I'm convinced it's a conspiracy.

“So, tell me your news,” I prod. “It will give me a chance to eat while you talk.” I tear open the wrapper and take a big bite. I tell my brain that it is forbidden from processing the still-fresh smell of McGriddle grease lingering on my fingertips.

“Okay, well, I got confirmation about the prelims.”

He reaches down and pulls a sad stick of celery out of his plastic cup. “If I get into the top three, I'll get to automatically enter the regionals competition.”

I swallow a lump of my burrito and cover my mouth with my hand as I talk. “That's great! I'm sure you'll be in the top whatever. That's, like, not even up for debate. You'll make it. I know it.”

“Well, I'm confident because I know I'm not bad, but it's also pretty crazy because they don't announce the top spots until the Friday morning before—and Saturday morning is the contest. It's gonna be a stressful day.”

As he says the word “stressful,” he tilts his head down and rips open his package of cookies. He holds the open pack out to me, offering one. I hold up my hand and shake my head.

“I don't want you to be stressed,” I say.

“Forget it. I don't want you worrying about me. I'm fine.”

He makes it look so easy to stare stress in the eye and just brush it off like a crumb.

He pops a cookie in his mouth, and then he reaches over and puts his hand on top of mine. My eyes sweep across the cafeteria. When I look back, and I realize how loud the big, echoey, room really is. When I look back down at his hand, it makes me want to pull away. I'd hate for anyone to see it and misunderstand. I would hate for someone to think he liked me and make fun of him for it.

I pull my hand and pretend I need to adjust my sleeve.

He reaches back over and grabs my hand, pulling it back into the middle, giving it a big squeeze and looking me straight in the eye. He crosses his eyes at me and then makes himself laugh, enough that his hidden dimple appears on his cheek.

Oh, this boy
.

I shake my head and try to bring the conversation back to something that doesn't make my mouth get dry and my face get hot.

“Just tell me if you get stressed, okay? I'll teach you the best breathing techniques I know.”

Grant reaches up with one hand and rubs his palm all over his hair, crushing and tugging at his pokey strands, and somehow, when he takes his hand away, he looks even better than he did before he attacked his hairdo. As he fusses with it, I can smell his hair product and I can't help it. My eyes flutter closed for just a second as I try to pull myself together.

My God, this boy
.

“Okay, you be my expert,” he says as he props up his head.

“I won't let you down.” I hold up my fingers like a Girl Scout. Or like what I think a Girl Scout salute looks like. I really have no idea.

“Thanks, Gen.”

“Don't mention it.”

We look down at the table at the same second and realize that our free hands are still intertwined. We're both just looking at our hands as kids all around us stand up and grab their bags and scream to each other across the open space.

The bell rings, and our hands snap apart.

“Gen, I've gotta go, but I'll see you in Tech.” He reaches to take the pile of garbage from my hands and dumps it all in the trashcan as he strides out of the cafeteria.

12

M
y belly was so full after back-to-back meals that I floated through the next few hours in a gastrointestinal-shock-induced coma. My math teacher woke me up three minutes after the last bell, my face soggy from drool and a giant streak on my cheek from the seam of my hoodie sleeve. Faced with the choices of A) jogging to tech theatre and arriving winded or B) being a couple of minutes late, I opted for tardiness.

So as I open the door to the theatre room, Gild is already in full-on drill sergeant mode.

“…We have much preparation and work to do, so please get started on either the platform assembly in the scene shop or painting the sides of the two main set pieces. The sides only…” She is waving her arms, and people are starting to scatter around the room, looking for ways to stay busy and out of her line of fire. She's still hollering as I try and make my way to Grant and the rest of my group. “…And if you think you don't have anything to do, let me know and I'll find work for you.”

She turns, and the room fills with chatter before I can duck out of sight.

“Miss Keegan, you're late.” She puts a hand on her hip and tries to make her face look stern, but as I cross toward her, she gives me the tiniest of grins. “Everything all right?”

“I'm fine, Mrs. Gild. I'm sorry I'm late. There was a line at the bathroom.”

“There's a line on your face, too, Scar.” Grant approaches from our table at the back, and with a giant smile, he reaches up and runs his thumb gently along the red stripe on my face.

This is the third time today he's touched me, and all I can think about is how much I hope he finds a reason for a fourth. He laughs and sets off toward the scene shop singing “Hakuna Matata.”

“Hey!” I chuckle before turning back to Gild. “I'm sorry. It won't happen again.”

She reaches up and puts her hands on either side of my shoulders and gives me a warm smile. Gild is tough on us, but we're like family. The feeling of her hands on my arms makes me feel at home.

“Good,” she says. And then she sets off. “You can go get started. All of the mic packs need new batteries and labels, and round up all of the mic tape you can find because as soon as class is over, I need you on stage ready to start showing the cast how to wear them. Got it?”

She says all of this while she's writing on her clipboard, sorting papers into piles, and pointing at objects for the prop crew to take out to their tables.

“Yes, ma'am.” I give her a thumbs up, and she heads out the side door to the hallway by the wings.

“Missed you in first period today,” Jonathan says as he strides over to me, one hand tucked away and the other holding an old, blue, rusted toolbox by the peeling handle.

“Sorry. I had to go see TG—errr. George. He's—” I shake my head and feel myself blink five times in a row. “I had an appointment.”

He waits for a moment, pulling his mouth to one side for just a second before repositioning his grip on the toolbox with his visible hand. “We've all got stuff,” he says plainly before gesturing to me with the box and stepping backward toward the door. “Here comes my beloved. I better go before I get roped into another rousing round of ‘Kristin Chenoweth is More Fierce Than…'” He laughs to himself. “He's cute, but he's
loud
.” Jonathan's playful smile lingers even after he turns around.

I grin as he sneaks out the door, and I spin just in time to see Brice drop his bag and apply a fresh coat of lip balm.

“Hey, dollface.” Brice approaches and runs a hand through his golden hair. He's wearing a lavender sweater that looks like it probably cost about as much as my Grannymobile.