Damsel Distressed (5 page)

I peel off my wet clothes and change into some dry sweats, but the chill on my damp skin makes me shiver with anger more than cold. Everything hurts. My legs and arms, my jaw, my feet. My stomach.

At least I can do something about that one. I grab a spare blanket and head to my desk drawer. Under the folders and stapler in the very back is a bag of emergency potato chips. I find that they're often every bit as effective as a Xanax.

I plop down on the overstuffed armchair in the corner of my room. It's not my bed, but it's dry. The bag of chips is half-empty by the time I flip off my lamp and continue crunching in the dark.

If I prayed, I'd pray for sleep.

Sleep is easy. Sleep means no Evelyn. No Carmella. No wet towels and unwanted salads. Sleep means not thinking about my mom or feeling the hollow cavity that's always just behind my ribs. Sleep means a break from being frustrated at my dad. I hate being mad at him.

It's quiet in my sleep.

No dreams.

My nightmares only happen when I'm awake.

So I crave sleep. Too much of it. Enough to make me sick and aching and numb. It's the one vice nobody expects me to say no to.

I take a deep breath and try to clear my mind.

The speckled colors swirling inside my eyelids distract me.

This is good
.

Watch the swirly speckled things
.

The swirling slowly becomes turning, and the turning slowly becomes dancing.

The dancing slowly becomes my mother.

Whatever she was doing, she exuded this brilliance she always kept just beneath her skin. She glowed. Everyone thought so. My poor dad was drawn to her like a moth to a flame.

He always tells me he felt her before he saw her. As he sat in the audience and waited for the show to start, the actors took the stage in the dim light. The mumbling hushed, and he felt her. His heart jumped, and his eyes, almost desperately, scoured the small off-off-off-Broadway stage for the unseen, unknown thing that he somehow knew was waiting for him. As the stage lights rose, hues of violet and blue fell over the ensemble, including my mother.

Mom and I loved recreating this moment with Dad when I was younger. After my expert rendition of “I'm a Little Teapot,” we'd perform the choreography from the rainy New York night when they met. She and I would hold our arms above our heads, and Mom would guide me so that my feet were in just the right position for a quick chassé across the living room toward his easy chair. As I got to the other side of the room, I'd jump in his lap while we watched her finish the performance on her own. Just as she did on that night in their past, she would lower her chin, her eyes blazing and shimmering as they connected with my dad's gaze. I would look at her face and then to his and grin and giggle before making kissy-face noises. She'd reach for my hand, we'd curtsey for him, and he'd say the thing he always said: “Princesses. You shine like stars.”

And
she
did. I could only ever hope to be her moon. A satellite that floated around her and was lucky to reflect the light she gave.

Their story was better than all of the other fairy tales I loved.

Except for one thing.

They didn't get a “happily ever after.”

5

M
y phone beeps on my bedside table, startling me awake. Chip crumbs go flying, like little salty snowflakes, as I sit up in my chair.

“Are you up?”

Grant's text messages are usually my first human correspondence of the day.
“GAH, I'm up! What are you, my mother?!”

I ignore the tiny pang of sadness that follows my word choice, and before I can even set my phone back on the table, he's texted again.

“Heh. More like who's your daddy?”

Just like that, his little joke sweeps away the last scraps of angst from the night before.

I grin and type back.
“Pshhh. I just barfed. Give me 10 mins.”

I step over the pile of damp clothes without another thought.

My jeans leer at me from the back of my desk chair, and I prepare myself for the showdown.

I'd rather skip straight to the inevitable muumuu phase of my life than continue to pretend that my size twenty-two ass is gonna fit in this pair of twenties ever again.

But these are the biggest pair I have.

So I thread my thumbs through the belt loops, give a giant tug, and then I jump again for good measure.

Oh, thank God. Houston, we have closure
.

I open my door slowly and poke my head out like the fat gopher who decides when spring's gonna start.

The shower is running in the bathroom across the hall, and I realize this is my one chance to escape.

I almost trip over nothing on my way to the staircase, and I take the steps as fast as I can. I am so eager to avoid Carmella I totally forget about avoiding Evelyn. I skid to a stop, but it's too late. I've been spotted by a Real Housewife of Collin County.

As I try to backpedal out of the kitchen, Evelyn is pulling a muffin tin out of the oven. She sets the pan down and pulls her hand out of the oven mitt, wiping it on her black lace apron.

It occurs to me this apron might have been part of some sexy, bad-girl baker Halloween costume or something. It looks particularly ridiculous with her

7:00 AM outfit of a super-short running skirt and a hearty helping of cleavage.

All part of a complete breakfast.

“Good morning, Imogen, darling!” Evelyn's voice is so clear and loud I'm still—months after living with her—surprised every time she speaks.

I almost pitch myself face-first into the tile trying to keep my eyes from rolling out of the top of my head. “Hey, Evelyn. I'm late. I gotta run.” I try to say it fast so she'll believe me and I can get the heck out of this kitchen. The last thing I need is to be standing here when Carmella comes down.

“Oh, but I just took these rice flour, golden raisin, and sweet potato muffins out!” I look up as Evelyn runs a finger through her golden, side-swept bangs. “Won't you take one for breakfast?”

I try not to gag. “Yeah, no. I've really gotta go.” Far, far away from you, crazy morning lady.

“Well, okay then, honey. Now Dr. Rodriguez called last week and said that since we changed your dosage, we need to keep an eye on any additional weight gain.”

Additional. I'm going to hit her.

“He's worried about the change from June to now, so he says if it goes up again during your November check-up, they're going to reevaluate your scripts.”

Oh, man, this woman is the worst. How dare she stand there all skinny and talk to me about being fat? Insensitive witch.

“Have you taken your meds this morning? By my notes, you should have five Prozacs left, but I think your Risperdal needs to be refilled today. I'll pick it up for you after yoga.”

I hate that she's tracking my meds, and I hate that her calculations are correct.

“Um, yeah. I took my meds,” I lie. God, she wears me out.

“Well, have a great day at school, honey! And it'd mean so much to me if you'd keep an eye out for Carmella. It's her first day at a new school, so I'm worried she'll get lost looking for her locker.” She smiles like she didn't just say the most ludicrous sentence ever spoken. “Oh, and call your dad later if you can. He misses you.”

Does he? I choke back the question.

“Um, okay. Yeah, I'm gonna leave now, Evelyn. See you later.”

The sound of her voice saying “dad” brings a sting of bile up in the back of my throat.

If he misses me, it's his fault.

He sold his book. He got married, and then over the past couple of months, he got gone.

So I really don't want to hear about him missing me. And I especially don't want to hear it from her.

Outside, Carmella's little yellow Mustang is parked in the driveway. Cars like that are for girls who never leave without makeup perfectly applied and who wear pants that say things like “Pink” or “Aerie” across their negligible asses.

I look to the curb and take in the profile view of my old boat of a Chrysler—the Grannymobile. Dad offered to buy me something newer when I got my license, but I was so worried I'd smash it into a telephone pole I gladly accepted my giant steel tank instead. It's not pretty, but I like it.

I buckle up, but before I can count to ten, I'm through the curve and pulling up to the fourth house on the left, the one directly behind mine—where Grant lives. His blinds snap back together when I pull up, and in a few short moments, he is bounding down the walkway, arms full of untold miscellany, toward my idling car. His voice sounds muffled through the closed car window.

“Come on, Gen! Open up! This crap is heavy!”

I press the button that lifts the latch. He throws open the back door and tosses a mountain of gears and pulleys and things I can't begin to understand onto the seat. Then he dives into the front with unnecessary enthusiasm and immediately connects his ancient iPod to my amazing cassette-

deck adapter and starts clicking around on its screen.

“Was there a problem at the factory, Mr. Wonka?” I ask as I gesture to the hardware store in my backseat.

“Oh my God, Gen, machines are so dumb,” he says as he finally picks a song and sits still. He exhales loudly and then closes his eyes for a second, collecting his thoughts. “Hey,” Grant says as he turns to face me. He's frenzy-free for the first moment since he stepped out of his house.

“Hi,” I smile.

Today he's wearing a T-shirt that has lots of little boxes from the periodic table, each one with the letters “Fe” inside, and below them the word “IRONY.” He is so proud of his shirt collection. For a while, I was convinced he saved his funniest shirts for my worst days. Like he could always tell exactly which pun would be most likely to make me roll my eyes until I smiled again.

He thinks it's the shirts, but I think it's the way he rubs his hand through his hair when he's thinking too fast. Nothing makes me smile faster than that.

“I guess you have a meeting about the science thing today?” I ask.

“Yep.” His grin falters. “Did I tell you the regional physics competition is the morning of the rally? Ugh, and the meeting starts in ten minutes. I totally forgot it was today.”

I pull away and begin our twelve-minute commute to school.

“The morning of the Rally? Really? Are you going to get to go to both?”

“Well,” he starts as he fumbles with his iPod, “if I get to compete, then we should be through in plenty of time to get to the Rally. So you're not getting out of it, okay?” He finally settles on the best song for our ride. Something so cool, I've never heard of it.

The Fine Arts Rally is this giant school dance at Crestwood every year. All of the kids from orchestra, band, choir, art III and IV, dance, and theatre have this huge event in the courtyard the last weekend in October. Everyone usually takes the opportunity to wear formal dresses and clip-on bowties since the school-wide dances—like Prom and Homecoming—are too cram-packed with millions of kids to be any fun. Grant and I have gone once dressed as Target employees and another time in orange prison jumpsuits. Unsurprisingly, only our theatre friends thought it was funny.

“I'm not trying to get out of it! I like going with you. I just don't dance, and I hate people. So it's obviously the perfect place for me.”

We laugh as we wait for a red light to change.

“So you said ‘if' you get to compete. Why wouldn't you? You guys have been working on those machines since school started, and you're obviously the greatest nerdlete the school has ever known. Or do you prefer the term ‘athlete-geek'?”

He turns and lifts his head so he can look down his nose at me. “The preferred term is ‘Neurologically and Cognitively Equipped Gladiator of the Mind,' thank you.” I reach up and rub at my arm through the sleeve of my hoodie, and Grant instinctively reaches over and adjusts the vent that's blowing on me. “And it will be fine, but it'd be great to win a scholarship for the regionals when we compete at the prelims.”

“Well, I'm positive you'll win.”

I slow down as we enter the last school zone on our way. Watching other cars pass into the blinking-light section always makes me imagine that we've all just pulled through an invisible cloud made of something sticky that keeps us from maintaining speed.

“Well, I should hope so,” Grant says. “I'm the science-iest guy in the world. Have you seen the shirt I'm wearing? It says ‘IRONY'—”

“I get it,” I say with a laugh.

“‘Cause it's covered with iron!”

“I get it, you weirdo!”

“See what I did there? The symbol for iron and then the word irony! Get it?”

We pull into the parking lot as the pretend T-shirt argument continues to escalate. We walk past classmates, putting on a full display of shouting for our own amusement.

“But it says IRONY! Maybe you don't understand it…the shirt—”