Damsel Distressed (17 page)

“Yes. I do.” He turns on the bench and grabs my knees, forcing me to spin on my seat and face him. “I know that you're scared of change. We all are. And I know you don't know how you and Carmella are gonna share a family. But I know you're strong.”

I brush my hands through my hair—avoiding his statement with conviction.

Grant reaches up and puts his hands on the sides of my face very gently. His more-green-than-brown eyes are full of fire. “You are stronger than you give yourself credit for. She does not have the power to hurt you unless you let her. And you are doing what you need to do to stay well. Seeing George. Journaling. Whatever. Do you know how hard that is? How many people never do that?”

“I guess so. And I guess if Dad's happy to pay for extra sessions, why not go? If one session is good, three is better, right?”

“Yep. It's multiplication. Math is never wrong.”

He smiles. His hands are so soft on my cheeks. I notice the way his chest moves with each breath, and my eyelids close and open slowly as I look into his face.

My voice comes out softer than I mean for it to. “Very good point.”

Also very good face.

Grant snaps his hands back into his lap so fast it almost makes me jump. The absence of his palms on my cheeks leaves them feeling cold. He glances at his watch. “Uh, so, no tech rehearsal tonight.” He shifts his weight back and forth twice before I answer his non-question.

“Right. Do you wanna study for your science thing later? Your preliminaries for regional are tomorrow.”

He hoists his bag over his shoulder. “Yep. We're the home school so our ‘field trip' is to our own gym. How stupid is that?” He rolls his eyes, and I just almost die. He looks at me for a second, and then shifts his backpack to the other side and blurts, “Okay. I'll, uh, see you later.” He takes off toward the building, and I sit there. My stomach lurches after him, like my whole body wants to be tugged along with him when he goes. A tug like gravity.

“Bye.” I sort of toss out the word as the abrupt end to our meeting makes my head go crazy with all of the worst kinds of doubts.

Maybe he stopped holding my face because I have food in my teeth.

Or horrible school-lunch breath.

Or maybe he saw my eyes go all starry and worried that I was getting the wrong idea about his strictly platonic face-holding.

I close my eyes for a second to listen to my breathing and keep it slow. When I open them again, my eyes instinctively scan the wall one more time while I gather my bag. I notice a cluster of color near the base of the wall: tiny leaves are painted in the midst of their fall. Red, gold, and green, their concrete tree in a perpetual state of losing. The largest leaf, forever caught on the wind, is more green than brown, but definitely both.

For the first time, I smile as I leave the wall behind me.

17

"O
kay, this malaria treatment is an alkaloid and comes from a tree called Cincho—”

“Quinine!”

“Okay, sure. Ummm…” I sigh and flip through the flashcards for another question that I can reasonably expect to pronounce properly.

“Come on, Gen, pick a hard one.”

“Yeah, 'cause I know which ones are hard ones, right?” I know I sound snippy, so I tack on a halfhearted smile at the end and kick out with my fuzzy-socked foot. He's lying across the chair in my room, and his legs are so long that, from knee to ankle, they're on my bed, too.

“Oh! I know this one!” I say. My eyebrows shoot to the sky, and my face beams with pride. “The SI unit for power is named for the guy Watt! Bam! Scienced!”

“Did you just verb the word science?”

“Yes, Grant. I did.”

He grins at me and gives me a little round of applause. “Well, then maybe you should come to the competition with me.”

“Uh, no.” I giggle. The grade on my last lab flashes before my eyes.

“And why not, Super-Genius?”

I go back to flipping through flashcards. “Uh, because most of what I know about science, I learned from your dumb shirts.”

He laughs and I laugh, but it feels stretched.

The up and down is killing me.

A new mood every hour. A new version of myself to try and shove toward normalcy.

“Could you two keep it down in here?” Carmella purrs her request over my head.

I turn and see her standing in my doorway in a different pair of those dang booty shorts and a tank top. She must go shopping at that store in the mall that all the sixth grade girls are obsessed with because where else would she even get shorts that size?

“Carmella, will you please stay out of my room?” I growl at her.

“Ella,” she snaps. “I know sometimes you have to hear things more than once for it to really sink in, but my name is Ella, okay?” She pushes her hand through her hair and then fluffs up the ends that are resting across her chest.

“Hey, hey, hey, no need to be rude, okay?” Grant's voice is so plain and steady. He's scolding her and still managing to sound like a nice guy. On one hand, I'm pleased to see him defending me, but on the other hand, he's having a really hard time turning away from her in her her effing United Federation of Booty Shorts Enthusiasts uniform.

“I didn't mean to sound snippy. It's just that I'm so tired from dance, and I really need my sleep. And I was just downstairs, and my mom says that Grant needs to go home now. It's already after ten.”

She puts her hand on her hip, and I push myself up to sitting. Something about this day and the pendulum swing has me ready for a fight.

“Excuse me?”

“I didn't use a word you don't understand, did I?”

I try not to sound panicked, even though I am. “You and your mom don't get to decide when he leaves. My dad does. And as far as he's concerned, Grant is family, so why don't you get out of my room and stay out of my business.”

I watch as Carmella's eyebrows twitch in surprise.

Beside me, I can feel Grant's surprise, too.

“Your dad makes the rules?” she asks. “How does he manage that when he's not actually here? I mean, I don't blame him. If I had to choose between presenting my opportunistic memoir to sad, old people in dusty library meeting rooms or being here with you, I know what I'd pick.” She reaches up to scratch her side, and her fingertips lift up the edge of her shirt just the tiniest amount. A sliver of her tan, flat stomach peeks out from under the white tank.

That flash of skin is a middle finger. It's a declaration of war. It's a not-so-subtle message from her to me that she is what she is and I am what I am.

I stand. Slowly.

She's taller than I am, and even with her all the way over by the door, I feel her looking down at me.

“Get. Out.” The words fall to the hardwood floors in two steady thuds. I don't raise my voice, but I've never felt so ignited. I've never felt so close to running across the room and attacking her like a sumo wrestler.

“Good night, Grant. Good luck at your competition tomorrow.” Carmella smiles at him and turns around. I think she pauses for a solid three seconds, with her shorts barely covering her butt, just to be sure that Grant has time to see her before she pulls the door closed behind her.

My shoulders rise and fall with each breath; each inhale and exhale comes quickly. My sweaty hands begin to tremble, and I feel my jaw clench and release over and over.

My eyes burn and my world turns shimmery, but I forbid the tears from forming. I absolutely forbid it.

“Are you okay?” Grant asks. His face is concerned, and his eyes are wide, too. We're not confrontational people, but the air in the room feels like we were both just in some crazy bar fight. “Here, sit down.”

I sit on the side of the bed and lie straight back, keeping my feet on the floor.

Grant mimics me and lies down beside me.

On the bed between us, I feel the heat radiating off of his hand, which is resting just millimeters from mine. For a second, I think he might take my hand, but he doesn't.

My voice is delicate in the aftermath. “I hate her. And how does she even know you're in this science thing?”

Her mentioning it makes me feel straight-up jealous.

His voice is cautious and quiet. “It came up during class today. She's just trying to bother you. I'm honestly surprised. I mean, she's being so rude to you. It's definitely not just in your head.”

I let my head flop over to look at him where he lays.

“I
know
it's not in my head. Why would you even say that?”

“I just want you to know I believe you.”

“Why
wouldn't
you believe me?” An ache settles by my temples. “Did you think I was just making this up? Did you think Crazy Gen was just jumping to conclusions again and that I'd just misread this poor sweet girl's body language or something?” I cover my eyes and turn my head away from him. “Maybe she's right. Maybe you should go.”

Grant sits up and stares down at me, even as I look the other way. “Seriously, Gen? Are you serious right now?”

I sit up to match him and shift so that my back is toward the headboard.

“You know what, Grant? I'm exhausted. I've been kicking and screaming and fighting this fall for days, and I'm tired of it.” I lean back, accidentally smacking my already aching head on the wall. I take in the pain and push it out to every nerve in my body. With my eyes closed, I let the words pour out of me like water. “Five minutes ago, she wasn't here. It was you and me, and it was perfect and good and right. And she poked her freaking face in here in those effing shorts and she's wishing you luck and now I have a headache and you're finally convinced I'm not just being dramatic and I feel alone even though you're here. And that's the actual worst thing. And everyone thinks I'm not trying, but I am. It's just that I'm exhausted. And nobody understands that.”

“Actually, Gen, I do. And you know what? I'm exhausted, too.” He starts quietly, but quickly picks up steam. “These swings don't just impact you, you know?”

He stands up and grabs for his things. He paces around the room and throws his stuff into his bag while he talks. “And sometimes, when you really get down, you stop fighting. Sometimes, you let it win—even for a day. And yes, sometimes—even for a day—it does feel like I'm fighting harder than you are, but I have never dropped the ball for you. Not for years. You are
not
the only one who's tired.”

The tears I forced away are back with a vengeance. Filling my eyes and falling when I blink. I place my palms down on my knees and press hard. Grant pauses at the door. He hates fighting so much. “Just… nothing. I've got nothing. I've got my competition in the morning. I won't need a ride.”

He clomps downstairs, and I hear the front door slam.

I stare at the ceiling, forcing my mind to wander, but the more I try, the more depressed I feel.

“Depressed.”

I say it out loud.

Just a whisper-quiet declaration into the stillness of my room.

Nothing changes.

Sometimes I feel like my stomach will never stop aching. Other times, I feel like my head is being stabbed all over by the acuity of my sadness and that my eyes will never stop burning from excessive tear production.

Right now, I feel like every inch of my skin is covered with a single, giant bruise. My flesh throbs, and even breathing causes pain.

My mother's face flashes at me from behind my lids every time they close. Each blink reminds me of her laugh and her smile.

I will myself not to blink, to avoid her.

Exhausting.

It is absolutely and unfathomably exhausting to swing back and forth between despair and thingsare-okay-look-at-how-awesome-and-normal-I-am.

The swing is the worst part.

Every time I feel a little bit okay, a tiny little pinprick of light flickers inside me and I wonder if it will stay.

But inevitably, the breath of my sadness blows it out. Every time.

I roll over, toward my bookcase. Up on the top shelf, the hand-painted, ceramic picture frame holding the photo of me and my mom catches my eye. She wrote my name across the top in her beautiful swirling script. In the photo, she's holding me on her lap on the morning of my first day of kindergarten. I'm wearing a T-shirt with a giant, smiling sun on it, and I'm looking at her with the most joyful admiration.

I can still feel the gentle tug of my hairbrush as she guided it through my baby-fine hair at bedtime each night. We sat in this room and sang show tunes and played dress up. She would prop me up against my pillow and read from my big book of fairy tales in a hundred different voices.

When she'd reach the end of a story, even though I knew it was coming, I'd always stop her and ask, “Mommy, what happens now?” It was one of our favorite games.

“Well, they have a happy beginning!”

I would wriggle with fits of giggles, arguing, “No! The princess has a happy
ending
!”

She'd kiss my forehead and smooth my hair before turning out my light. Silhouetted in the doorway, she'd say, “You're right, Princess Immy. She'll have a happy ending, just like you.”

If only that grinning Imogen had known she was looking at a liar. I walk over to the shelf and reach to turn the framed photo face down, stifling her smile that cuts me like a blade.

Click.

My eyes move toward the storybook tucked in the corner on the same shelf.

My fingertips tingle as I stare at the spine.

I imagine the chill of metal cool against my skin. The push until, in one instant, the pressure is gone and the pain slips in and out through the whisper-thin opening.

Behind my headboard, on the other side of the wall, Carmella's music flips on. I hear her adjust the bass to make it louder. The cup of old water on my nightstand ripples as the wall rattles my room.

So much for her needing to go to sleep.