Damsel Distressed (30 page)

“Gen…” Grant walks over to me, and I'm suddenly super-aware of how close we're standing, while we're in front of Antonique and Brice. I feel my cheeks bloom with fever, and he doesn't seem to notice. “Come on. Let's do it right. Once.”

They're all looking at me, and I can tell that there's nothing I can say that is going to change their minds. I look over at Antonique, who has been quiet the whole time. She raises her eyebrows and her shoulders in a shrug.

“Fine. Fine, fine, fine.”

“Do you want another group hug?” Brice asks with a maniacal grin on his face.

“No!” I laugh. “And now you all have to get out! Tomorrow is going to be a long-assed day, I can tell already, thanks to you guys. So let me get my freaking beauty sleep, okay?”

“As you wish,” Brice says with a grin.

“See you tomorrow,” Antonique says to me as Brice offers her his arm.

“Hey,” I say as I grab Grant's wrist while he walks toward the door. “I need to read you something, too.”

“Gen, you don't have to.”

“I know. Just shut up.” I pick up my notebook and flip to the part I want him to hear.

“I give Grant a hard time for always wanting to make things better. For wanting to be a fixer. But the truth is, he is the one person who never makes me feel broken. When I'm with him, no matter how many pieces are lying on the floor, I feel whole. It's not just that he acts like he doesn't see the cracks. It's like they're not there. Not to him.” I close the book and drop it on my pillow. “So what you read…that's not it. I just needed to tell you that.”

“I know, Gen.”

I look down and see that I'm gripping his “Reading is JAWESOME!” shirt at his waist, right below the book-loving shark with gnashing teeth. I keep waiting for him to speak, but eventually, the quiet drives me crazy.

“Congratulations on your scholarship. I knew you'd get it. Tomorrow is the big competition. Are you ready?”

“Yeah, I guess so,” he says. He reaches down and takes my hand from his shirt and cups it between his palms. “I'm nervous.”

“You'll do great. You're the smartest guy I know.”

“Yeah, well, we'll see.” He crinkles his nose, and his eyes squint with mischief.

“You text me. As soon as you hear anything, okay? Promise?”

“How about I promise to text you
if
I have good news at the competition?” he says as he crosses his heart.

“Okay. I'm so proud of you. You're going to be amazing.”

“Maybe.” He drops my hand, and we stand there for a second. And I just wish I could bottle the shade of his eyes.

“I'll talk to you tomorrow.” He walks out, closing the door behind him.

“Goodnight,” I say to the empty room.

It feels like I always speak too late.

29

A
fter tugging on my nightshirt and pajama pants (the ones covered in giant candy logos), I put on my bravest face and head downstairs to Dad and Evelyn's room.

“Can I come in?” I ask to the open doorway.

“Of course, honey.” Evelyn is sitting in their oversized bed, propped up by a bazillion pillows. A cooking show plays on the TV on the opposite wall, and her bedside lamp casts a warm glow around the otherwise dark room.

“Where's Dad?” I ask.

“Oh, he's in his office. He's got a big meeting with his agent in the morning. They've gotta figure out his UK rights.”

“Ahh. Right.” I look around the room and consider going in to interrupt him, but I think better of it. “Evelyn, I wanted to say thank you again for the brownies, and I'm sorry for snapping at you in my room earlier. It was a really nice thing to do. So thank you.”

“Honey, of course.” She smiles mildly. “I should probably have asked first.”

“No, it's okay. And, anyway, I guess that's not the only reason I came down here. Umm. Tomorrow night is the Rally thing at school. It's, like, a big dance or whatever.”

“I know about it. They sent fliers home. I wasn't sure if you'd be up for it.”

“Well, I'm probably
not
up for it, but I'm going anyway. Going to school functions together is sort of a tradition for Grant and me, so he really wants me to go. So…” I swallow hard, but the lump in my throat won't budge. “I said I would go, but the thing is, my friends want me to dress up, and I hadn't planned on that, and I don't—”

Evelyn reaches over and pats the bed beside her, but I don't move.

“I don't really have anything to wear.”

I stood in my closet before coming downstairs and looked through everything I have that could possibly be considered a dress. The last time I wore one, it was a size sixteen. Nothing else I have even comes close.

My stupid eyes are filling up with stupid tears and I am trying to will them back into my stupid skull, but they fall anyway.

“It's just that, I'm kinda big…” My voice wavers as my cheeks start to flush. “And I don't exactly fit into every dress off the rack in regular stores. So I don't know if it's a futile endeavor or not, but…I'm willing to try. I know that it will be hard to find something pretty in my size…but…”

My head dips into my hands as the tears fall.

I'm so embarrassed. Asking my size-two stepmom to take me on an emergency plus-sized dress run in the morning. This is horrible.

I'm startled by Evelyn's arms around me. She pulls my hands from my face and looks at me with her own tear-filled eyes and says, “Darling, don't you even think about worrying. Don't you even dare. We've got tomorrow, and we're going to figure something out.

It's a promise.”

“Thanks, Evelyn.”

She hugs me again, and I glance over at my dad's side of the bed, made up and undisturbed. I remember his side of the bed used to be Mom's side of the bed. It makes me wonder if he started sleeping on Mom's side because he missed her or because he wanted to be sure that nobody else ever slept there again except for him.

Antonique and I clamber back into the house with bags on our arms and French fries in our bellies at five minutes past four on Saturday afternoon. Brice and Evelyn have been scheming all day on something for me to wear, and Antonique was charged with keeping me out of the house. We're barely through the door before I hear Brice squawking to me from my bedroom.

“I'm scared. Should I be scared?” I ask her.

“Probably,” she says.

“Come sit,” Brice demands. “It's hair and makeup time.”

He immediately begins working on Antonique's makeup while I check my phone for the billionth time in the past few hours. After Grant's initial
“Going in”
text this morning, I haven't heard a word.

I'm super-bummed because, even though have tons of faith in him, maybe things aren't going well. I wish I could be there cheering for his nerdy domination.

“Why is your face glued to your phone?” Brice asks from the floor where he's sweeping Antonique's braids up and pinning them into position.

“I'm just waiting to hear from Grant about his big science competition this morning.” I scoot nearer them, and Brice shoves some bottles and tubes of beauty products across the carpet toward me.

“Oh, yeah, I forgot about that. I'm sure he's doing awesome,” he says. “Here, put on this moisturizer for me and then this primer.”

The light is still coming in, but it will deepen soon. The days aren't lasting as long as they used to, and we'll be finishing our makeup by the crappy overhead lighting for sure.

“Imogen, your dress is going to be so amazing. Grant is going to just collapse,” Brice says as he applies something to Antonique's eyes.

“Oh, I'm sure he'll remain conscious. No need to worry.”

“I'm serious! It's so you.”

“Well, I wouldn't know, would I? Can I please see it now?”

“Patience, my pretty.”

Before long, Brice has finished his second masterpiece of the evening. My longish hair has been loosely curled and pulled back off my face. He's swept it to one side and adorned it with this great, embellished hair clip that looks like the traditional comedy/tragedy masks, but they're covered in shiny, black crystals. My eye makeup is dark and smoky, but still bright. Way less depressing than my normal look. I've got sheer, glossy, pink lips and a pop of color on my round cheeks.

From the neck up, I look pretty stinking cute.

And it feels nice to think so. It does.

The time has come for me to put on my dress.

We enter the spacious dressing area inside the giant master bathroom. The skylight in the ceiling shoots the last bit of sunshine over the tile floor.

“Hi, darling. I'm so excited I might die!” Evelyn is standing like a creeper in her closet next to a long garment bag hanging on the top of the door. “I want you to cover your eyes with this.” She holds out a black silk scarf.

These crazy bats have hidden my dress to make it a surprise.

But whatever. I'm in theatre. I'm a sucker for dramatic flair.

I resign myself to the experience while Evelyn begins to maneuver, and I feel her fiddling with my clothes. I almost reach out and push her away as this woman starts to unzip and tug and pull silky things all around me.

“Whoa, what are you doing?” I try not to jump away from her—I know I'll fall down and crack my head on the bathtub since I can't see anything.

“I'm just helping you get this on. Now stop fussing.”

She pulls my tunic off over my head. Here I am, standing physically exposed with a girl I've known for just a few weeks, a boy who's been my friend for less than six months, and a grown woman that I've made a real effort to ignore for most of the past year. But I don't feel uncovered.

And despite my fears, I'm getting excited.

I want to love this dress.

I feel the heavy weight of it come over my head, and I start to piece together what I know. I feel the roughness of lace. I feel the heft of layers. And I also feel a familiar weight on my shoulders.

Oh, man, what if they stick me in something stupid? I don't want to look stupid in front of hundreds of kids who all look beautiful.

I start waving my hands around at my side. “Can I please see? I'm so nervous.”

“Why are you nervous? Don't you trust me?” Brice's voice cuts through the echo-y bathroom, and he and Antonique sound like they're sitting on the edge of the tub beside me.

“Oh my God, Imogen. You look incredible,” Antonique says.

I hope this dress is barf-colored because I am so worried I'm about to be sick all over this thing. I put my hands on my stomach and try to press away the ache.

I feel the bumps of a corset-shaped piece around my torso, and I feel a familiar hug of fabric around my hips.

Oh, no.

Oh, please tell me Brice doesn't want me to wear the costume that was immortalized on posters calling me a nutjob.

Hands on my waist turn me around to face where I know my friends are sitting.

“One more thing,” Brice says. He bends my arms and pulls them through tight sleeves—or I guess they're long gloves that come up above my elbows. I wiggle my fingers through the open end.

Oh God, if the sleeves make my arms look like bratwursts, I'm going to melt into a puddle of shame and die.

Brice gasps. He's already gushing, and I haven't seen it yet. Evelyn finishes fastening up the back and pulling the laces, and I'm almost ready to pop when she says, “Imogen, dear, you look exquisite. Take a look.”

I reach up and pull off my blindfold and find myself standing beside her full-length mirror.

At first I think I'm going to panic.

I
am
wearing my costume from the show.

Sort of.

I see that the body is the same; the top is a corset, and the laces have drawn me in around the middle. There is still black piping all along the seams, but there are these incredible fingerless gloves made of stretchy black lace, and my giant wobbly arms are tucked inside them. Wrapped around the skirt of the dress are layers of black lace strung on a ribbon and tied around the back. The edges aren't hemmed, and I can still see some of the pink coming through, but the effect is amazing. It's like this hot-pink princess dress with a little bit of edge. It's awesome. I feel pretty. Oh. So. Pretty.