Damsel Distressed (18 page)

I cough and rub my hands over my arms and roll away from my shelf.

Grant's going to pick her.

Maybe it won't be today or tomorrow and maybe it won't even be
her
, but someday soon, Grant's going to realize he's a prince and he deserves far better than a messed-up, overweight stepsister. One day he's going to realize he's been wasting himself for a long, long time.

Grant's words ring in my ears over and over and over.

Exhausting.

It's exhausting being my friend.

And he's growing tired of it.

18

A
fter trudging through three forgettable class periods, I decide to take advantage of our open campus lunch and leave for some comfort food. I check my phone to see if Grant's texted, but there aren't any notifications. I almost send one to see how he's doing in his on-campus “field trip” today, but I change my mind.

Almost ten miles from school, I'm hunched over my grease-soaked bag of comfort. I drove far enough to pretty much ensure I wouldn't run into anyone from school out to lunch but close enough to get back before my next class. The crinkle of waxed paper wrappers echoes in my ears as I polish off my eight thousandth chicken nugget. I wipe my hands on a napkin and turn to a clean page in my journal.

When are we gonna get a fat princess? How about a princess with bad acne and crappy posture and the mouth of a sailor? Probably never. Every. Single. One. Is the same. Totally hot. Totally predictable.

Snow White has the attention of seven little men, not because she's the only one who can reach the top of the bookshelf, but because she's a porcelain-skinned, ruby-lipped knockout.

The Little Mermaid got a prince because she shut her trap for five whole seconds and looks fierce in a bikini.

And Cinderella? She's a girl who clearly demonstrates to the prince that she's got lots of experience on her knees and doesn't mind getting dirty.

Carmella and those chicks would run in the same clique, that's for sure. And they're the girls who get it all… Who get happiness.

Something to strive for? Something that one can attain with enough passion, faith, and positivity?

Yeah, right.

Happiness isn't a choice. And people who say it is are just lucky enough to not really need to choose it.

Real happiness? You show me a barrel full of chicken nuggets and ten different sauces, and I'll show you real happiness.

My shirt feels tighter around my middle after my indulgence, which reconnects me to myself. Suddenly the smell of stale cooking oil is all over me—in my hair and on my hands. I wrench open the door, and as I pull myself out of the car, I feel like my skin could burst open and spill my sickness all over the concrete. As I walk to the garbage can, I gag. The smell of the trash mixed with the sight of the flies all around it is too much. The grease is too much. The heat is too much. I double over and heave beside the can—a self-fulfilling prophecy.

I climb back into the car and close the door, but I know what I've left on the concrete. A puddle of revolting filth that doesn't come close to matching what I still feel writhing just under my skin.

I pull out of the parking lot as fast as the Grannymobile will take me. I'm desperate to leave just a little of my own disgust behind me.

I spend the drive back to campus in silence, which I don't realize until I turn into the back of the school parking lot and my blinker sounds more like a hundred-soldier death march than a delicate click. I drive to my spot: 93-B. Every year, juniors and seniors buy reserved spots as a fundraiser. I got my spot as part of a fine bit of negotiation. Moderately hideous car—two years of premium parking.

I slam on the brakes, and my tires squeal as my body lurches forward. There, in my parking spot, all shins and elbows, is Grant. He's seated on the concrete, his earbuds in, and his head rests on his arms, which are crossed around his knees.

In one snapping motion, he springs out of his coiled form, wide eyes and long legs, striding to the side of my car, so I can pull in and not run my best friend over while doing it.

I get out quickly so he doesn't have to watch me struggle. And also so he won't smell the deep-fried odor that's soaked in my seats.

Suddenly, he's hugging me tightly. Really tightly, next to my open car door.

“Graaahnnn.”

It feels like he's practicing some wrestling move.

“Graaahnnn, Icannndbreatheee.”

“Oh, sorry. Hey.” He pulls back, keeping his hands on my arms. He purses his lips into a frown before saying, “Gen, I'm really sorry I got on your case last night. I was tired because of the show and my physics stuff and everything. And when the competition broke for lunch and you weren't in the courtyard, I came out and saw your car was gone, and I texted but you didn't write back, and I was just worried.”

I pull my phone from my pocket. I didn't realize I had it on silent. He's wearing one of my favorite shirts today. It's black with a giant bone on the front and the words: “I find this humerus.” I can't help but smile.

“No, I was way out of line. I'm out of control. It's Carmella being snarky and Dad being gone and Evelyn being annoying and the show opening soon, and I've just been, y'know, crazy.”

“No.” He bends his neck and hunches over a little so that he's looking at me eye-to-eye. He reaches up with both hands and cups my face in his warm palms. “Don't say that. You're not that. I should have been more sensitive to how intense life is for you right now.”

My skin ignites with fire as he suddenly removes his hands and takes a small step back.

He's gonna have to stop holding my face like that, or someday when we both least expect it, I'm going to pounce on him like a lion in wait and tear his clothes right off with my teeth.

“And I should have been less cantankerous,” I say.

We step away from the car, and he shuts the door.

“Why aren't you inside? Isn't your science-y stuff in the gym all day?”

“Yeah. It sucks. They're doing the Beta Team's reviews right now, and it took over an hour to get through Alpha Team's so I knew I'd have time to come find you over lunch. I hate to admit that I was worried things got worse for you last night and something bad had happened.”

Bad.

That generic thing that people say when they don't want to say what they really feared.

He reaches down and picks up my arm to loop it through his. I look down to our feet, which have fallen into stride. I never noticed how tiny he has to make his steps when we walk together.

“How's the competition? Feeling good about making the top three?”

“Well, it's hard to say, but I came in sixth for round one. Lake View's team is killing it. I'm not sure if I'll be able to pull it off.”

“Ugh, I'm such a jerk. You're out here checking on me and worrying about me, even when your own big thing is crashing and burning.”

“Hey, sixth place isn't exactly crushing defeat!” He grins. “It's really okay.” He winks as we reach the edge of the parking lot. I stop and turn him to face me.

“No. I get caught up in my own stuff, but that's not fair.”

“Oh, please. Will it make you feel better if I say I forgive you?” We step up on to the curb, and I shift my bag to the other shoulder. My favorite smirk creeps onto his lips and his secret dimple comes out, and dammit if my heart doesn't bounce.

“Yes.” I grin. “Forgive me?”

“Gen…” He pauses coyly. “I will never forgive you.”

“Hey!” I say as I lunge for him. The scent of his hair stuff fills my whole head and makes me dizzy.

“Never!” He reaches out and taps the tip of my nose. Just then the bell rings. “Oh, crap! I've gotta go!” And he's off running—actually running—back toward the school.

“Have fun at your not-really-a-field-trip!” I scream at him.

He takes it up a notch and is now running backward, never losing stride. “I mean it's at school! What the crap?!”

19

"O
kay, guys, I have a few announcements! Listen up!” Grant is shouting, trying to get the attention of the cast and crew before rehearsal. The actors, however, are still too enthralled with the sounds of their own voices to shut their yaps.

“
Hey!
That means you.” He gestures to a clump of chorus members who instantly melt into their seats. “Thank you.” His authoritative scowl drifts back into a glowing smile.

“Mrs. Gild will be out to talk with you in a minute. She's working out the blocking on scene four right now, but as it doesn't concern most of you, I'm going to get these announcements out of the way. So the coming week of rehearsals is really important. None of you should be absent or ineligible or sick or covered in head lice or infected with leprosy or anything that would keep you off the stage for the entirety of Tech Week.”

I look around and watch as everyone stares up at him and hangs on his every word. I make a mental note to tell him again how proud I am of his making stage manager this year.

“We'll have rehearsals every night, through Thursday, and then, as you know, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday is our show! Yes, you will all be required to strike the stage after Sunday night's closing. Yes, everyone will stay to help clean the dressing rooms, green rooms, and anything else Gild asks us. We have just three shows, then we're out. If any of you have questions, feel free to track me down, though it will probably be difficult if I'm wearing my stage blacks backstage because, as you know, when the lights go down, every techie wearing all black becomes invisible.”

I let out a chuckle, but I'm the only one.

As the crickets chirp, everyone in front of me turns around to see who the sad soul is who thought Grant's lame punchline was actually funny.

But his enthusiasm won't be deterred. “Okay, then. Go forth! Check your props! This is your last day without costumes! We're getting started in ten minutes!”

The rest of us offer the traditional echo back to him. “Thank you, ten!”

Minutes later, Antonique and I are sitting at the soundboard while the cast prepares for Gild's first declaration of the day. I automatically recite Winnifred's words right along with Charity, who is running lines on stage. Antonique smirks at my delivery, and I have to admit it feels kinda nice to have an audience.

“Are you getting excited? I can't believe next week is Tech Week,” Antonique says as I'm fiddling with the gain on mic two, which has been giving me fits since yesterday.

“I know. Hell Week is more accurate. It is so intense,” I say. “And opening night is a rush. The pressure can be so heavy you feel like it might squash you.”

“Oh, I can imagine,” she says. “I already feel like I'm going to barf, and it's still days away.”

Her face looks like she might actually throw up.

“That's not weird, but remember, throwing up in the sound booth is strictly prohibited.”

She laughs. “Good to know. Hey, I thought we had closed rehearsals?”

I follow Antonique's gaze and see Carmella traipsing down the house-left aisle of the auditorium. She's wearing her drill team practice uniform, and her ponytail could literally not be higher.

On stage, the cast is working through some bumps in Act II, which have been giving them trouble for days. I know Carmella may think she's the golden girl, but she does not want to be the person who interrupts Mrs. Gild's rehearsal. Doesn't matter who the Princess thinks she is—Gild's gonna rip her to shreds.

Carmella takes a seat on the aisle about five rows from the front and watches her apparent boyfriend, Andrew, flit around the stage.

I reach up and depress the button on my headset that connects to the other techies and, most importantly, to Grant.

“Grant, you have your ears on?”

I hear a faint click before a slightly digitized version of Grant's voice starts crinkling in my ear.

“‘Course, Gen, what's up? Everything okay?”

“Kinda. I don't want to raise the alarm and trigger Gild's werewolf transformation, but Carmella just walked in and sat, like, five rows from the front.”

“Seriously? Gild didn't notice her? Where is she?”

“I guess not. She's up against the stage trying to start Act II. She's got other things going on.”

“I'm on it.”

My headphones go dead, and I look over to Antonique who's sitting beside me in front of the mixing board, peering through the thin pane of glass that separates us from the rest of the auditorium. Her eyes are just as big as mine.

Seconds later, Grant emerges from the stage right edge of the proscenium arch and hugs the wall as he descends the small staircase.

Miraculously, Mrs. Gild is still barking orders at the cast. The general busyness of the moment masks Grant heading toward where little Miss Perfect is sitting.

“Oh my gosh, what is he gonna say to her?” Antonique asks.