Damsel Distressed (33 page)

I stare up and slowly slide my hand down the wall.

“That's amazing, Gen! I can't believe you found it!”

I lower my heels and spin around to find Grant distinctly in my dance space. He's stepped forward to read over my shoulder, and when I turn, our chests are close together and my back is against the mural wall.

Close.

So close.

I'm grateful for the moonlight because it's making his eyes glow, but I hope it doesn't illuminate the fire that has spread up my chest again.

He stands there, looking down into my eyes, and I keep expecting him to step back. We're just standing there and breathing, and the moon watches from above us on one side and my mom watches from above us on the other. The sound of the dance on the other side of the curtain is muffled, and all I can hear is the sound of my heart beating.

His chin drops just the slightest amount, and he smirks at me and says in his softest voice, “You found it.”

“I did.”

I really did.

The space between us is filled with so many things I've always wanted to say. And when we're standing here and he still hasn't stepped back, my whole heart wrings out like a rag because it makes me feel like maybe, someday, he could make his heart big enough to hold me—all of me, too.

“There's my masterpiece!” Brice shouts at the top of his lungs. The spell breaks.

Grant steps back and down the stairs, and I feel that familiar tug as he leaves. That gravity tugs at me, and it might be the moonlight or the wall or the dress, but I swear I feel him reaching for me, too.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the Crestwood High School Fine Arts Collective, please gather your friends and make your way to the dance floor! Your Fine Arts Council members have some awards and honors!”

My friends huddle together and stand around our tables near the rest of the theatre kids. I can see little clusters of friends all smiling and standing together just like us. The DJ turns down the music as the fine arts teachers take center stage.

“Good evening, students! I am Mr. Paulson, director of orchestra at Crestwood High and the department chair for fine arts. I'd like to take a moment to welcome all of you to our annual Fine Arts Rally!”

The open air in the courtyard fills with the sound of applause and shouts from hundreds of students.

We all watch and clap and sip on our sodas while the various departments honor some of their best and brightest. After the orchestra and band and choir awards, Mrs. Gild steps toward the microphone, and I watch her scan the crowd as she speaks.

“I have a special award tonight for a special person who stepped into an incredible situation and really saved the day for our department. This young lady has demonstrated bravery and talent on both sides of the curtain, and I am so thankful to her—as are the rest of the cast and crew of
Once Upon a Mattress
. We've decided to honor Miss Imogen Keegan with a special Rising Star Award tonight. Imogen?”

The crowd bursts into applause, and Brice pops up and whispers in my ear. “Sorry I ruined your moonlit moment, but I couldn't let you miss this.” He makes a kissy face at me as I turn around and glance at my friends. They're all clapping, as are the rest of the kids in the courtyard.

Grant gestures for me to go up to the stage. “Go on!” he says, clapping.

I walk slowly as Mrs. Gild continues to clap and coax me toward the stage.

There are smiles everywhere, and the music is on so I don't have to walk in silence. The entire thing feels like slow motion, and I'm pushing through the crowds of people until I feel the toe of my left shoe catch on something and I trip forward.

Thanks to my sneakers, I don't fall. I just sorta hop onto the other foot and wave my arms to steady myself, but the applause never falters. I look over my shoulder and check the ground for whatever I tripped on. I see the platform heel first, but it only takes a second to follow it up to Carmella's sour face.

I honestly forgot she would be here.

Completely. The crowd is still clapping for me as I start walking again. I just have to keep walking. Everyone is waiting for me.

And honestly, I don't care about her standing there, sticking her foot out. I don't care that she's a bitter, sad girl who needs more attention.

I climb the stairs and take a big hug from Mrs. Gild, and she hands me a certificate. I look out across the smiling faces and see Carmella standing where she tripped me with her arms crossed. On the other side of the crowd are my friends. They're smiling and clapping, except for Grant, who's asking me with his eyes if I'm okay. I nod at him and mutter thank you to Mrs. Gild and the crowd and then take my place with the others on the side of the stage.

“And now, I'm excited to announce the evening's top honors. I want to thank all of you who came up to vote. The time has come to announce the Rally King and Queen! These students are being recognized for their dedication to their craft and for going above and beyond the call of duty. I'll start with the King of the evening.” He shifts the crown from one hand to the other and pulls a notecard out of his pocket. “The visual arts teacher, Ms. Kipler, is proud to present the young artist behind the new sculpture in the front office, ‘The Crestwood Tree,' Carson Miller as your Rally King!”

Everyone is clapping and cheering for him, and he seems happy as Mr. Paulson sets the simple crown on his head.

“And now, for the young woman of the evening, our Rally Queen! She helped completely restructure and choreograph the dance team's upcoming winter recital, your Rally Queen: Ella Cinder!”

Of course.

Honestly, who else would possibly be the Queen? I almost laugh out loud.

The dance team and their section start to applaud uproariously.

Across the courtyard, I see her. Her smile is so bright and perfect. She's hugging and air-kissing and waving like Miss America. She climbs the stage stairs and nearly introduces the front row to her lady bits before taking her place by Mr. Paulson.

I glance back to my friends, who are looking concerned and standing with their hands to their sides. Their faces are etched with worry.

The whooping continues as Mr. Paulson places the crown upon her head.

I'm watching as her head turns slightly to face me on the stage beside her, and our eyes meet in front of hundreds of cheering people. Her eyes squint almost imperceptibly, and her smile turns just cold and smug enough for me to notice.

Reading her face, I can hear her in my mind: “I am everything you'll never be.”

It takes only a second for me to decide that she's probably right. And I'm gonna prove it.

I raise my hands to my mouth and take a deep breath. Into the funnel I've fashioned, I let out a celebratory “Wooooo!” before starting to clap.

I raise my chin and settle into my applause, breathing in the incredible feeling of cheering for someone, even her. Especially her.

Across the courtyard, my friends are looking at me with confused faces. They were perfectly prepared to stand in silent solidarity with Imogen Scorned.

But I'm not scorned. Not anymore.

Grant is the first to clap with me, followed by Antonique, Jonathan, and finally—reluctantly—Brice.

Carmella stares dumbly, and then her expression shifts from a scowl to a smirk to a smile for the crowd.

The music clangs back to life as the feverish dancing reclaims most of the students.

My body chemistry feels electrically charged, and I realize that I've never felt so good in all my life. Not on stage, not when I put on this dress, not standing next to Grant and the smell of his hair, not ever. I know that my endorphins are pumping and that the rush will fade, but for now, I'm here. Right here.

As the Rally swings back into action, Grant is the first person to claim my attention in the swirl of faces by our table. “Gen! That was awesome!”

He pulls me into a giant hug that warms me to my core and sets fire burning in the pit of my stomach.

I look up at the mural, at the block of text nestled in the white cloud ringed by rainbows. From here, it looks like a simple patterned square in a bubble. It seems strange that I didn't find it before. Now, it's all I can see.

The music is loud, and Grant grabs my hand and pulls me out on the dance floor. It doesn't even cross my mind to resist.

I am one hundred percent certain that I haven't burned this many calories in probably ever. As I twirl, I find myself pulling up the black lace and flirting with the pink underneath. My friends and I dance until our faces are red and talk over the music until our voices are hoarse.

I notice Carmella and the King are over to the side of the stage so that the photographer can get a picture.

I excuse myself for a moment and walk over to the photo station.

“Excuse me. Sorry to interrupt.” I grin.

Carmella steps away from Carson, places her hands on her hips, and rolls her eyes.

I walk over to her and step into Carson's place. With her heels on, I look like a five–year-old, but even that strikes me as hilarious in this moment.

I wave to the photographer and wrap my arm around Carmella's waist. I talk fast before she has the chance to punch me. “Could you go ahead and snap a quick pic of me and my sister? My mom mentioned she really wanted one.”

Flash.

I can't wait to see the picture of Carmella's gaping mouth and angry eyebrows next to me, giving a thumbs-up and a giant wink.

“Later, sis,” I say as I walk away, leaving her speechless, her crown sitting crooked on her head.

34

G
rant and I are quiet on the way home.

I'm not quite sure why, but it feels like the words we're not saying are bouncing around in the car with us, creating a cacophonous roar that no one can hear but me. Maybe he's just tired or maybe I'm just too distracted by the smell of his jacket over my shoulders. Whatever the case, we're fine. We're always fine—we're just not actually talking.

“Gen?”

“Yeah?” I ask, surprised that he broke the silence just as I was thinking about doing the same.

“Could we…I mean, could you pull into the cul-desac and park for a minute? I got you a little something. A present.”

“A present? Who's gonna turn that down?” I glance over and see him smile as he looks out the window.

I pull into our neighborhood, take the curves slowly, and pull all the way around past the last few houses into the darkened, circular bulb of concrete at the end of Grant's street.

“Okay,” I turn to look at him, and he reaches under the passenger seat. “When did you hide that under there?”

“Oh, days ago.” He smiles so hard that his eyes almost close. “I wrapped it myself. Only used one piece of tape!”

I laugh. “Well, you are a master of efficiency.”

He hands me a flat sort of rectangle with a lump on one edge. I tear off the paper and see a notebook with a beautiful, swirly cover. And a lock.

“A lock?” I ask with a smirk.

“Yeah, well, you know. Creepers gonna creep.”

“I love it. Thank you.”

“Sure. It's not a big deal. I was just hoping you planned to keep journaling. You know, I thought it really made you happy, and I was just scared that her shenanigans might have turned you off from it or whatever.”

“No, I get it. And I love it,” I say. “Thank you.”

Silence falls on us like a heavy snow. Bit by bit, we're covered with the soundlessness. The words we're not saying are back, floating around us and filling our lungs.

“So.”

“So.”

We laugh at the sound of our pitiful attempt, and I notice he's tangling his fingers up in his lap. He's so twisted together that I can't even make out which fingers are from which hand.

Without thinking, I reach over and stop him. “Why are you fidgeting?”

He separates his hands, and I look down and see that I'm only holding one. And he's holding mine.

We've held hands dozens of times. But tonight, with the moon pouring in through the windshield and with the sound of the breeze creeping through the slightly open windows, it feels different.

He inhales and then breathes out through pursed lips. His breath makes a loud rushing sound that reminds me of trying to learn how to whistle when I was little.

“Okay. You can't interrupt me or I'll never get this out.” He gulps down air again. “Do you remember last winter? When you were…when you weren't doing so hot?”

I turn from him and look out the window. “You mean when I was in such a state that they almost admitted me? Yeah. I think that's vaguely familiar.” I smirk and lower my chin.

“Well, you may not remember, but this one day, you were really out of it. And you weren't really yourself or thinking clearly.”

“I remember that day,” I say. I look back down at our hands. “I remember everything about that day.”

“You do?”

“I do.”