Damsel Distressed (29 page)

Everything is clean.

Just then, Evelyn pops out of my closet door and almost jumps out of her skin.

“Oh! Imogen, honey, you scared me.”

“Scared you? You're the one in my room. Why are you in my room?”

My face is pinched with anger and confusion, and I resist the urge to scream at her to get out. I drop my bag and take an inventory of key places. My eyes dart to the top of my bookshelf—my book is undisturbed—to my nightstand drawer—I just refilled my candy stash before leaving today—to my jewelry box—she better not have touched my mom's old stuff.

“I…I wanted to tidy some things up for you—”

“You touched my things?” My voice is calm but questioning. What was she looking for? Was she trying to find dirt on me? Was she looking for my journal? Did Carmella tell her?

I feel my pulse quicken, and I hate—absolutely hate—that my body is always so quick to react. Heartbeat, sweaty hands, lump in throat. I hate that I'm so obvious. Even to myself.

She takes a step forward and puts her hand on the side of my arm. “Hon, I wasn't trying to invade your privacy. I just figured today would be really tough on you…going back to school and everything…And, well, I read that having a clean space can help bring about a fresh start.”

She smiles at me, and her eyes are so concerned and gentle that I almost want to forget my perpetual annoyance and wrap my arms around her waist and bury myself in her warmth. Almost. But I don't.

“Oh.” I notice how my millions of hoodies are folded on my chair and how all of the little papers from all over have been stacked neatly on my desk.

She watches as I look around the room. “I hope you're not upset with me. I just didn't know how else I could help. I always clean up Carmella's room for her, especially when she's upset or when things are rough for her.”

“Things are ever rough for her? That's pretty hard to imagine. I mean, her life is obviously perfect.”

“No, Imogen. It's not. You don't think she stomps around here with a grumpy face because she's happy, do you? Think she's happy that her parents got divorced or that I remarried? You think she would have left the only school she's ever known—halfway through the fall semester—unless she had to? Unless she believed it was the only way?”

“Only way to what?” Evelyn seems to have pulled open a freshly healed wound. I'm sure that I'm invading something, that I shouldn't be hearing these words and she shouldn't be saying them, but before I can change the subject, she speaks again.

“There are mean girls other than the one you think I maliciously planted in the room next door, Imogen.” I swallow hard and bite my lip to keep from interrupting her thoughts. “I'm not blind. I know you two haven't had the smoothest transition to living under the same roof, but I think you both are missing the big picture here. Both of you have been through a lot. So much. Too much. Divorce and death and rejection and loss. It's a shame you only resist each other instead of embracing the built-in support of being a family.”

Evelyn shakes her head as if she has just realized that she's spilling her daughter's business. I can practically see her bite her tongue.

“Anyway, about your room, I'm sorry if you feel it was a violation. It's just one of those things that makes me feel like I'm contributing something.”

“No. Thanks. You didn't have to.”

“I know I didn't, but I wanted to. I'll just head downstairs, okay? Would you like me to bring you a date and walnut bar? I made them today.”

She twists her fingers together in front of her bright white tank top. Her skin is so tanned next to the shirt, it makes every freckle pop.

“No, I'm okay. I've got a lot of work to pretend I care about doing,” I say.

“They're vegan,” she says with a broad, toothy smile. Like this will be the key selling point.

I stare at her blankly.

“I was thinking I'd make some brownies later…the boxed kind. Eggs and everything…” she adds.

She needs this moment even more than I do. I can see it all over her face. “Okay.”

“Okay,” she says. She smiles proudly and pats my arm again before closing the door behind her.

I flop down on my bed and get out my journal for the first time since the afternoon that everything fell apart. I'm not sure why I don't want to write in it. I just want to try and look at my words through Carmella's eyes. I flip through the pages and try to imagine her thumbing through it. As I skim, I feel my face warm up with embarrassment. There are so many words on these pages that I meant to write but never meant to be read.

Who actually parades around in skin-tight dresses and super-short skirts? It's so obvious. Doesn't ‘Ella' know what people say about girls who dress like that?

I feel a cold knot settle in my stomach.

Maybe she does know. Maybe she knows well.

Maybe it sucks for her that people have commentary about her body, the same way some people have commentary about mine.

I turn the page and see the bit that she copied about Grant. She didn't care that the next million sentences I wrote about him were good things. Of course she didn't care.

I flip again and see Brice's name. And then Antonique's.

I pull out my phone and start texting.

Two hours later, I'm sitting on the edge of my bed, trying to remember all the things I want to say. Grant helped me catch up on homework while Evelyn made the brownies—she added extra chocolate chips when I told her my friends were coming over.

I hear the front door open and the stairs creek as they approach. I stand awkwardly to greet them at my bedroom door.

“Stop standing like that,” Grant says, reaching for a brownie for the seventeenth time. “You're being weird.”

“Thanks for the pep talk,” I grumble. “And you'd better drop that brownie.”

Brice enters with his arms crossed, and behind him, Antonique is looking small and hidden despite her height.

“Thank you for coming,” I stammer. “Please, sit somewhere.”

I gesture awkwardly around my room as they search for spots to perch. Antonique sits on the other edge of my bed, and Brice makes his way to the ottoman by the big chair and the brownies.

“I have brownies!” I say suddenly, and I grab the plate and hold it out to each of them in turn.

“I did not come here for carbs. Say what you've gotta say,” Brice says as he turns his chin away from me.

“Uh, right.” I set down the plate, and Grant grabs two brownies and starts chowing on one. I give him the stink-eye, he shrugs, and then I refocus.

“So. First. I'm so sorry for the things I wrote…about you and other people…in my journal. I only wrote those things because of how I was feeling. I mean, I know it sounds stupid, but I wrote things when I was feeling insecure, and instead of lashing out at you in person, about things that weren't really even about you, I vented on the page.”

The three of them are just staring at me, watching and waiting. They're not interrupting. They're letting me get this out. And I have more to say.

“I know that we haven't known each other for very long. Antonique, you've only been in my life for a few weeks, and Brice, we only became friends late last school year, and so maybe you don't really know all the parts of the puzzle. But, the truth is, I get a lot of poison out onto these pages—and it helps. But I want you to know that these single, out-of-context fragments of thoughts were plucked from pages and pages that aren't what you think.”

I take a breath and open my eyes. I guess I'd been holding them closed.

“Grant, will you hand me my notebook?”

He reaches across the bed and hands it over to me. I flip through the pages and find what I'm looking for. I start to read.

I read words from out of the very core of my heart. And saying them aloud, hearing them for the first time, startles me. I can't keep my eyes from welling up as I speak.

“Brice and Jonathan make me sick. Watching Brice love Jonathan, and watching Jonathan love Brice back—in the same way—makes me so jealous it almost breaks me in two. I watch them sometimes when they're being all cute and snuggly, and I wish I could feel that. They're so lucky. Loving someone is easy. Finding a path through this mess of life that will allow them to love you back is hard.”

I glance to Grant. He's looking in his lap and playing with the strap of his watch. I don't have time to stare, but I want to believe that his cheeks are flushed.

I turn the pages.

“Antonique isn't just gorgeous. It's not hard to see why she gets attention, but it isn't just because she's pretty. She's kind and open, and I feel like I have a girlfriend for the first time in my life. That means something. She will never know how precious her friendship has been to me.”

I clear my throat and can't make myself look up from the notebook, so I just close it and stare at the floor.

“I know that it must have hurt to read that stuff, and I understand if you don't want to talk to me anymore. But I needed you to know that the stuff Carmella put up on those walls isn't really how I feel. When I saw my own words staring back at me, I lost it. I was embarrassed, sure. Those pictures were gross, and I couldn't believe my private thoughts were on display, but more than that, I was scared. The idea that my pain and anger could separate me from the truest friends I've ever known was horrifying.”

I lift my eyes and try to give them space to respond.

Antonique has been looking straight at me, and as she scoots closer to where I'm seated at my desk, she says, “I was really worried that what you wrote was all you thought about me, and I was worried that the person I felt closest to at Crestwood wasn't really my friend at all. That's why I didn't talk to you about it before now. It's why I didn't call.”

“No,” I say. “It wasn't on you to call. I just hope you can forgive me.”

She gives me a nod, and her braids swing back and forth.

I hold my breath and wait.

Brice hasn't said anything, and I fear that when he speaks, he won't be so forgiving. I try to accept the silence. I try to keep my mouth shut and let him take his time. But more words just tumble out.

“Whatever you want to say, whatever you need to vent, just say it.” I steel myself against the worst.

He stretches his neck back and forth while tilting his head toward one shoulder and then the other before he takes a deep breath and says, “I was really mad at you. But not even because of what you wrote. I mean, to be honest, I've expected a lot worse to be said about me since Jonathan and I got together, but whatever. I was mad because you let this rude girl reduce you to nothing.”

His face is stern, and his voice is powerful. He holds nothing back.

“And when I looked down the hallway and watched you collapse from the inside out, I just got so frustrated. I wanted you to march down that hall to me and tell me how stupid she was, but there you were, melting. And I just couldn't stand it. So I walked away.”

“I get it,” I say. “I'm so sorry.”

Brice leans forward and uses two fingers to gesture from his eyes to mine before growling, “Gah!” He grits his teeth and starts to pull away, but then he reaches over and grabs the sides of my arms. “Listen to me. We worry 'cause we care, but somebody has got to tell you this: You deserve to be treated better.”

“I don't know how to make her stop, Brice. I would, but—”

“No,” he interrupts, pointing his finger straight at me. “I mean, yes. People should treat each other with kindness, but I'm not talking about them. You can't fix them. I'm talking about
you
. You deserve better treatment from yourself. I'm sorry if that sounds harsh, but you do.”

My eyes glisten, but I blink away the tears and turn back to the three of them.

I don't know what else to say.

I look at each of them, and then I just sorta lift my shoulders and open my hands.

Brice holds out his arms to pull me up. He wraps me in a giant hug, and Antonique comes up beside him and squishes me, too. Grant closes up the circle, and I feel him rest his chin on my head.

“Aaaaaaaand break!” I say, giggling, as we all separate.

“Now for more important matters,” Brice begins. “What is this garbage Grant tells me about you wearing a lab coat to the Rally tomorrow night? Because, no. This is a dance. This is Homecoming for Art Kids, and I'm sorry, but I forbid it.”

“Oh, come on—” I smile at them, but everyone seems to be in agreement.

Brice continues. “Ah, no. You and Antonique and myself are going to meet here tomorrow around lunchtime, and we're going to get you dolled up. That's all there is to it.”

“Brice, you can't be serious. I'm not up for playing
Cosmo
. You already had your chance to give Lady Chubbs-o-Lot a makeover during the musical.”