Damsel Distressed (25 page)

“Of course he does!” Brice steps over and wraps his arms around Jonathan's waist. “But how about you let me show off for a while. I've been practicing my billiards skills.”

Jonathan's parents let us use their awesome game room, and we play what I'm sure is meant to look like pool, though we can barely manage to break. Laughter swirls around us as we sing along to the indie-pop songs that flow out of speakers in every room.

The party swells, and I truly feel victorious—I did good. The clouds that are always just a few paces behind me seem to have backed off. They seem less threatening. Less heavy.

My little circle sits in the living room, near the fire, laughing and talking about the close calls in the show tonight. A few botched lines and a few exits through the wrong door and virtually no choreography, but on the whole, they're proud of me.

And I guess, though it surprises me to say it, I'm proud of myself, too.

25

M
onday morning comes too soon, but the warmth in my heart from the joy of last night still glows. I pull into the school parking lot feeling like the world is a bit brighter and less cruel. I feel like, somehow, yesterday's boldness binge has steeled me and filled my veins with strong stuff. Grant and I spend the ride recounting our favorite moments of the night. He loved when I was singing, and I loved when I wasn't falling or dying or blacking out.

“What on Earth got into you yesterday?” he asks.

“The show or the thing with Carmella?”

“Both, I guess.” We haven't spoken about the things I said to Carmella in the lobby. I think Grant and I both wish I hadn't felt the need to defend myself like that. But I also think we both understand why I did it—what I hoped it might accomplish.

“I dunno. It was a weird day.” I clear my throat and change the subject. “So regionals for your science competition are on Saturday morning.”

“Yep,” he says. “They'll let me know if I earned the scholarship this Friday.”

“Awesome. I'm sure you did, though. I don't have a doubt in the world.”

He smiles.

“And you're sure you don't want me to try and come to watch on Saturday morning?” I ask.

“No, you should stay and get ready for the dance with Antonique and Brice. It will be fun.”

“Fun for who?” I laugh, and he shoves me sideways as we walk.

In the courtyard, he veers off so he can meet with his team before school. We make faces as we part, and he heads across the yard.

I have a few minutes, so I walk along the mural wall and head to a table where I don't usually sit. Once settled, I pull out a package of Frosted Cherry Pop-Tarts. When I start to tug the zipper of my bag closed, I notice the pattern of swirls on paper that I don't expect to see.

I pull out my journal and examine it. It's open to a page I wrote a while ago, and the spiral is folded backward so the pages are open, exposed.

I don't remember leaving my notebook in any position but closed since the first time I wrote in it, but I shrug it off, close the cover, and stick it back into my bag.

I have time to listen to a few songs and scan the mural for a bit before I have to head in for class. While I sit and soak up the morning light, I lean my head back and squint into the sky, white with clouds. I can't make out even a trace of blue.

“Hey, Imogen!”

I look over my shoulder and see two freshmen girls I recognize from my keyboarding class. The taller one says, “Good job last night!”

They don't stick around to hear me shout thanks.

That warm, filling feeling of pride comes back in full measure. It wasn't the performance of a lifetime.

I'm not a star, but I did okay. And I felt closer to my mother than I can ever remember.

With a smile, I push off the bench and head off for the double doors.

Strutting. I think I'm strutting—just a little bit—as I head down the main hall. Dozens of students are lining the walkways, milling around before the first period bell. I smile at faces I don't know, and it occurs to me that I don't usually pay much attention to things above floor level as I walk.

I turn down the hall that houses my locker.

Did she just point at me?

I'm being crazy. Of course she didn't point—wait, I know that guy just pointed at me.

Stop being paranoid
.

I continue down the hall, picking up the pace, but my rushing makes me breathe heavier, and soon, it seems like more faces find mine and more people whisper to each other behind their hands.

These aren't the whispers of people who saw the show. These aren't smiles like the girl who said hi in the courtyard. This doesn't feel the same at all.

Pink spots flood my vision, and I realize that my eyes aren't playing tricks on me. The hallway near my locker is covered with violent pink. I'm sure it's nothing to do with me, but the staring doesn't stop. In fact, it's getting worse.

My locker is completely covered with the hot pink fliers. I close my eyes in a desperate attempt to disappear.

One step at a time, nearer and nearer, the pages slowly come into focus.

There are several different versions. Some of them are photographs of me during the dance number last night. My arms are mid-jiggle, and my face looks like I'm in the middle of a bathroom emergency. Some say, “Escaped from the psych ward!” One has a picture of me holding my arms up while I sing, and big red slashes have been drawn up and down my wrists in bold marker.

I try to breathe, even as the grey starts ringing my vision.

Some of the fliers look more plain. They're just handwriting.

I step closer.

My handwriting.

Copies of pages from my journal are all over the hallway. I shiver and cover my mouth. My mind starts imagining all of the secrets I've written in those pages. Feelings and fears and hurt that I've tried to put into words.

But I quickly realize that none of the pages are about me. They're all about them. Words I've written about the kids in my classes. About cool kids and smart kids. About normal kids. About Brice and Antonique and Andrew.

About Grant.

Moments of frustration and jealousy and insecurity, spewed onto paper.

Just moments.

But now they're on the walls.

They're all I can see.

IMOGEN KEEGAN'S REAL THOUGHTS ABOUT HER FRIENDS:

Antonique really needs to think about what kind or reputation she wants. Because if she's content to be a body with no brain, then by all means, she should keep flirting with half-naked guys just because they looked at her funny.

Andrew doesn' t have much in the way of brains, but apparently he uses the few neurons he does have to flirt with freshmen and laugh at people.

I start to pull pages off my locker, and as I remove the layers, I feel the eyes. All around me, they're connecting dots and realizing that I'm the girl who must have written it all down.

In a panic, I spin around to face dozens of my peers. Some walking and laughing, others standing still, unashamedly gawking. A few look ready to rip my head off.

And then, I see them.

Brice, Jonathan, and Antonique are at the end of the hallway.

They all have a pink page in their hands.

I watch as Brice holds up the paper. He stares at me, holding the page, and I'm frozen. My heart is beating so fast it's causing my ribs to ache. Jonathan reaches up and puts his hand on Brice's shoulder, whispers something, but Brice shrugs him off and wads the paper up into a ball. He drops it on the floor, spins on a dime, and walks away without looking back. I look to the wall and see the words I know he's reading.

Brice and Jonathan make me sick.

I gasp. A sob catches in my chest, and my eyes cloud with tears.

The bell rings, and the students all begin moving toward their first classes. Kids shove into me and bump me against the wall, and then, without a warning, the bodies clear and I see Grant.

He's reading the pink sheet in his hand.

I'm frozen, staring at him. Willing him to drop it, unread. Slowly, as if he knows I'm standing there, he lifts his gaze.

His eyes lock onto mine. We don't blink. I'm about to run to him when he closes his eyes slowly.

And then, he turns from me, and walks away.

My silent tears are gaining speed, collecting and falling like bombs. The only sound I hear is my ragged breathing and my heart pounding like a jackhammer.

I look over to the locker and put my hand on one of the pink pages.

Grant would be a better friend if he'd stop trying to fix everything all the time. He thinks he's so perfect. He's always swooping in, saving his best friend, the perpetual damsel in distress, but it just makes it obvious that he's got an out-of-control savior complex.

I rip it off the wall as my vision gets spotty and I start breathing too fast and too hard.

I sense that my feet are moving. They're not actually glued to the floor. My lumbering quickens, and soon, I am jogging down the hallway. My sagging body jars with each footfall, and my lungs begin to burn. Slamming through the double doors, I move as quickly as I can, cutting through the parking lot to my car. I throw my bag in the back, shove in behind the wheel, and pull the seatbelt across my shoulder. It digs into my protruding belly, and I slam my fists against the steering wheel. A guttural shriek of frustration and sadness escapes my throat, and I bury my face in my hands.

When I stop screaming, I turn my key.

The thread I'd been holding onto—that made me feel normal—has been ripped away. I've lost my grip, and I'm falling.

In my next coherent moment, I'm racing up the stairs of my empty house. My sobs have shredded my throat. My breathing is so erratic I'm feeling lightheaded. I storm into Carmella's bedroom and see a few boxes still in the corners on the floor. I approach her desk where her computer is on, but sleeping. I tap a key, but it's password-protected, so I turn around and stomp to her night stand. There's nothing of interest.

Stupid. This is stupid. She'll surely have covered her tracks, but at the same time, there is no one who could have done this but her. No one. I head for her door and stop short. Beside her mouse is her all-in one printer. The scanner lid is still up. I reach for the paper tray and close my eyes.

In one fast tug, I rip out the drawer.

Three sheets of hot pink paper still sit on a thick stack of plain white sheets. I toss the tray on the floor as a sob breaks out of my lungs.

I leave her room and turn into mine, slamming the door shut.

I don't want to think. I don't want to see anyone, ever again.

Even though Evelyn isn't home, I drag the ottoman from my big chair over to the door to barricade myself in. My tears dot the fabric.

I reach into my bag for my phone, and my hand brushes against my notebook. I think that, somehow, I thought it would have vanished into thin air, but it hasn't. It's in my bag. It was in my bag today. It was in my bag last night, while I was still at the cast party, when she was desperate for a weapon. She found one.

I pull it out and flip through it in a blur. I stop as I see a single green Post-it stuck to one of the pages—the one page in the entire book that contains a harsh word against Grant. That one page.

Her handwriting is heavy and sharp.

“DONE.”

I sob and toss the book to my bedside table and pull out my phone.

No calls yet.

But they're coming.

For a second, I want to call my dad. I want to call him and tell him what Carmella has done.

But then I think of all the things I said last night after the show, and I hear my dad's disappointed voice in my head and realize I'm trapped.

Instinctively, I tap Grant's name and then disconnect. I can't talk to him either.

Right above Grant's number is the emergency number for Therapist George.

It only rings twice.

“It's Imogen.” My voice is ragged and filled with only air.

“Are you okay?” George's voice sounds different on the phone. Deeper maybe. I can't hear any of the light in his office. I can't picture the cufflinks that make him seem real.

“I…” I can't think of what I want to say.

I can't tell.

I can't tell George or anyone what happened.

What she did will come back to me. I'll get in trouble somehow. They are my words. It will all be my fault.

“Imogen, talk to me. What's going on?”

“My mother was wrong.” The words are spoken before I have time to think them through.

“About what, Imogen? How was your mother wrong?” I hate the urgency in his voice and the way he keeps saying my name. I hate the way he's restating my questions.

“About life. About everything.”

“Okay, I'm listening.”

My thoughts are scattered and rushing through my brain in all directions. “She had a childish point of view. Like, she used to call me her ‘Happily Ever After.' Like I was the cherry on top of her sundae. She actually bought into the bullshit idea of happiness and had the privileged point of view that everyone could have it.”