Damsel Distressed (28 page)

My breath catches in my chest, and I breathe it out slowly into my lap.

I look at my pillowcase. The stitching is coming apart in one corner, and I tug at the thread.

He stands up and begins to walk to the door.

“But what if the pain's the biggest thing she left behind? Sometimes it feels like it's taking up every bit of space I have,” I say.

When I lift my chin, tears stream down my face. I don't see the point in holding them back anymore.

He looks at me with tears of his own and says in his voice that's always so full of music. “Someday you'll have to let some of that pain go to make room in your heart for something even bigger.”

27

E
ven though I begged and tried to remind him that I had just spent the past four days in a depressive episode, Dad insisted that if Therapist George said returning to the school routine was healthy, then I had to give it a try.

George. That miserable traitor.

I surprise TG by telling him that I feel like I can get through the weekend without him. I make an appointment to see him on Monday.

This Friday morning, I'm fully committed to avoiding everyone I know. I enter through the door by the Math building and cling to the walls. As I turn to pass the main staircase, I see Antonique's face through the crowd. I try to turn away before we make eye contact, but it's too late. She looks at me for a moment before dropping her gaze and heading up the stairs.

Blink. Blink. The disappointment settles in my gut as I open and close my fists, and I suck in a deep breath.

I'm so stupid
.

I rush to the library and make a beeline to the table upstairs in the back. On my way in, there are no jeers.

No taunts. Life has moved on at Crestwood, and no one seems to remember the giant, sobbing girl from Monday morning. Except for the people I care about. I doubt they're gonna forget.

I don't have to wait long for Mr. Reed's class to come filing in. Students scatter all across the space. I wait for Jonathan, hoping to see a friendly face, but I don't see him anywhere. I hear bits of conversation about all kinds of things. They talk about their projects, the big Fine Arts Rally tomorrow night, and about who saw who making out in the equipment closet. Nobody is thinking about me at all until Mr. Reed takes role. There's a long quiet stretch after I answer “present.” Or at least it seems that way. Almost every face is turned toward mine. Except for Andrew's. On the other side of the library, I see him staring straight ahead and twirling his pencil.

I don't blame him for ignoring me. I'd ignore me, too.

Tucked in the back, I set my chair so I'm staring toward the window, and I can't see who might be looking or not looking at me behind my back. I try to think about where Jonathan and I were in our research before I was gone, but I don't even know where to start.

“I finished the archetypes project.” Jonathan's voice carries over my shoulder. “It's all ready to turn in. You just need to put your name on it. Reed's oblivious. He won't figure out that you missed most of the work.”

He walks up to the table, one hand deep in his pocket, and with the other, he pulls out his chair and sits down.

“Thanks,” I say. My voice sounds deflated and sad in my ears. There's a deep quality and a coating of shame that I hear dripping off of every word. “Jonathan, I know everyone is mad at me. I know Brice is mad at me. You should be mad, too. I really—”

“Stop,” he interrupts. “Brice is…frustrated. But I don't want to talk about him. I was late because I heard you were here today and I wanted to get something out of my locker for you.”

“You heard I was here?”

“Brice saw you creeping through the parking lot this morning.”

I don't blame Brice a bit for not saying anything. I wouldn't have either.

Jonathan reaches into the outer pocket of his backpack and cups something between both hands.

“What?” I ask.

He opens them, letting it fall to the table before returning his hands to his lap.

Sitting in front of me is an origami flower made of hot pink paper.

That paper.

I look closer and see the harsh black lines of permanent marker and can make out a few cruel words and bits of my own handwriting.

“I pulled down all of the fliers after you left. I shredded them all by hand. Except one. This one.”

Confusion settles between my eyebrows, but based on context clues, I'm relatively confident this is meant to be a comforting gesture, so I settle on an awkward, “Thank you. For…destroying them.”

“If paper-shredding were a superpower, I could definitely be a hero.” He reaches up and places both of his hands flat on the tabletop.

I can't stop myself from looking. I try to force myself to stare at his face, but after a few seconds, he says, “Do you know why I spent an hour shredding them? Or why I spent my time folding this flower?”

I shake my head.

“You've noticed my hand, haven't you?”

“Yeah. I mean, no.” I nod slightly. “I've wondered.”

“Imagine this.” He holds up his hand between us, showing me his palm. “Imagine waking up one day and being overcome with the crippling fear that your hand is dying. You know it doesn't make sense. You know that hands don't just fall off and die, but you're sure—with every fiber of your being—that your hand is actually gonna fall off. The more you move your hand, the closer you are to losing it.”

I feel my eyelids open wide and I try to keep my face neutral, but I know that there's something I don't understand.

“Imogen, I know what it feels like to have anxiety take control of your life. My OCD came on like a light switch, and it's the most frustrating, painful, confusing thing that's ever happened to me.”

I watch his Adam's apple bob as he swallows, but I can tell he's not finished, so I keep my mouth shut.

“For almost a year, I tried to keep my hand totally still. I'd sit on it or even wrap it with a bandage so it wouldn't move. I thought if I hid my hand, I'd hide my problem. But then the disuse atrophy got really bad. Eventually, I got help. I got medicated. I started using my hands in certain environments.”

“Like being a stagehand,” I say.

I've never thought for a moment that I was the only person with problems, but that didn't help me feel less alone. Days of forcing myself to breathe and count while cowering in the bathroom in junior high school made me feel alone, even if I knew it wasn't true.

But here in front of me sits Jonathan. His hand is open, unflinching between us. It looks normal and he looks normal, but Jonathan knows what it feels like to not have control of feelings—to not have control of fear.

“I had no idea,” I say, my face as full of compassion as I can ask it to be.

“I didn't tell you. Which, come to think of it, was probably pretty crappy of me. I knew you were going through some crazy shit, and I probably should have told you, in specific words, that you weren't going through it alone.”

“I don't blame you. Really. I get it.”

“I know you do,” he says, shifting his focus back to the pink paper flower.

The venom of her words and mine screams to me from the folds. I turn from them to face him again. “You didn't have to tear those down for me. Especially not after what I said about you and Brice—even though what I wrote…that's not what I think.” I backpedal and reach for simple gratitude. “I just…Thank you.”

“I didn't just tear them down for you.” He smiles. “One of the most effective parts of
my
treatment has been learning origami. Using my hand in controlled, repetitive movements is good for me. Plus I like taking something that's flat and dull and making it more alive. It's my way of making something cool out of something that sucks so totally bad.”

Jonathan reaches over and spins the flower where it sits.

“I just really needed to find a way to use the worst thing in my life to make my life better.”

The flower is this beautiful symbol of his strength, but it looks an awful lot like a memento of one of the worst moments of my life. I'm glad it made him feel better, and I know it's supposed to make me feel better, but it only makes me sad.

I force a smile and take the flower from the table, putting it into the pocket of my hoodie.

“Thanks for telling me,” I say softly.

He looks down at the table and places his tortured hand on mine.

“It sucks. But you can make pain beautiful…if you try.”

I swallow hard and push the shimmer out of my eyes as Jonathan squeezes my hand once before shoving his own back in his pocket.

At lunch, Grant and I walk outside out of habit, but I don't want to eat in front of the mural today. I decide not to argue, but as he takes his regular spot on the bench, I don't sit beside him. I walk around and sit across from him, with my back to the mural.

“I'm not going to Gild's class last period,” I declare.

“Gen, come on.”

“No, I can't. I can't face the others. Not after what I wrote about them. Maybe you're over it, but clearly, Brice isn't. Antonique probably isn't. They have every right to be mad at me, but I can't handle
seeing
them be mad right now.”

He awkwardly gnaws at his carrot stick, and I can tell that I'm right. They are mad. And he's not arguing hard enough to convince me otherwise.

“I went by this morning and told Gild that, since I missed so much class this week, I had work to make up. She wrote me a pass to the library for later. She said you guys aren't doing anything anyway since all anyone wants to do is talk about what they're wearing to the stupid dance tomorrow.”

Grant looks up and over my head. I see his eyes do a long vertical pass on the mural.

When he puts his eyes back on me, he looks tired and sad. His eyes don't sparkle, and even his hair seems flatter.

“Gen, please don't tell me you're not coming to the dance with me now? The Rally is a big deal—it's always been a big night for us. We make that night special and fun, and I'm sorry, but I don't want to miss being there with you.”

“How could you ask me to go? How could I be at a dance with all of those people who know what I did?”

“Gen, you didn't
do
anything.”

He reaches across the table and puts his palm out flat and open. I stare at it and consider everything it means if I take it. It means I have to take a step forward. It means I can't keep dwelling on these past few days. It means my right to wallow in self-pity runs out.

I lift my hand and place my palm on top of his.

“How can I go and wear some stupid outfit and not be the butt of another joke?” I ask him.

His sad eyes have already changed in the seconds since I took his hand. They seem lighter already—more hopeful.

“Y'know, we don't have to go and wear costumes and be weirdos. It's a formal dance. We could always dress like normal people.”

The bell rings, interrupting us, and I realize there's not much left to say that can be squeezed into two minutes.

“I'll meet you at the car after school, okay?” I say.

“Okay,” he says. He shakes his head slightly as he walks off.

Something in his body language, the way his chin is tucked under as he bites his bottom lip catches me off-guard and I realize he was waiting for me to say something. “Grant!”

He turns around to face me and opens his arms in question.

“The scholarship thing! Did you hear about it? Did you make the top three?”

He smiles and nods at me.

“Why didn't you tell me?” I ask while kids start pouring through the courtyard to get to their next class.

“You didn't ask,” he shouts into cupped hands. He doesn't look mad or even disappointed. He just says it. Like it's just this fact of life that he's accepted as easily as the sky being blue. He's accepted that I'll be consumed by my own drama and forget his.

My best friend is satisfied to be an afterthought. And the idea of that makes me sick to my stomach.

How can I love Grant so much more than I ever manage to show him?

No wonder he keeps that door blocked off. Why would he want to be in love with someone who loves their drama more?

A whisper slips past my lips and is lost in the sound of the kids passing by. “I love you more.”

“What?” he hollers through the flood of students. He jumps up to see me, and I laugh.

“I—congratulations!” I scream over the crowd.

“Thanks!” he shouts. He lets the corner of his mouth tip up, and he heads to class.

28

I
drag my backpack against the steps as I head up to my room after school. The sound of four days of homework echoes through the hallway.

I push open my door, and for a second, I think I've entered the wrong room. I see my bed, my walls, my bookcase, my posters, but it's barely recognizable.