Damsel Distressed (9 page)

Oh, my heart.

“Case closed. No lasers in her eyes or talons or animal sacrifices or anything. Honestly, Gen, she didn't really seem to care.”

“You told her I was your best girl?”

His best girl. Not an ugly stepsister.

He nods. “How could you doubt me? Do I need to remind you that I just asked to see your boob?”

I reach over and punch him just above the knee. “Thanks. For, you know, not falling for her siren song.”

“You shouldn't have had to ask.”

“But, I did, Grant. I did have to. I know it's hard for you to get it because you're not a girl, but there's something about the way she treats me that I can't figure out. Like with the towel thing. That's not just nothing. That was mean. Like, really, really mean.”

“I can't figure out what would have made her do that. And you're right, that wasn't cool.” He uses his most assuring tone, but I'm not soothed.

“I would have been so sad if you'd decided to go to the dance with her, but I think more than that I would have been scared.”

“Of what? What do you have to be scared of?”

“I don't know how to say it, but it's, like, I'm afraid that somehow having her here, in the house I grew up in, asking my best friend on a date, being all of these things that everyone sees as wonderful…I'm worried I'll just fade away. Like she'll scoop up all the good things that might have been mine if I'd been her.”

“Gen…” He smirks my favorite special-occasion smirk, the one that reveals the secret dimple on his left cheek. “You are not her, and you would never have been her.”

“I know that. But, without all of this…” I make a vague gesture to my belly and my legs and my scarred-up arm and my head. “Without all of the messed-up parts, maybe I could have been.”

There is a giant pendulum. And every person who lives with it looming above them knows how it feels when the weight is suspended in mid-air, waiting for the next opportunity to drop and change everything again in the blink of an eye.

The bird finally sings outside my window, drawing my attention. Her song is too sad. I see the sky has blackened, leaving only the faintest traces of indigo around the edges of the world. The weight drops.

The pendulum swings.

As it moves through my insides, it sweeps heavily through every small pile of joy that I'd gathered and saved up tonight. Every joke, every moment. Every smell of his hair. Every quip that left me feeling smart. Every smile that made me feel like something beautiful might have shined from behind my eyes. Every joy is knocked down.

And I know in my gut that Carmella is the one that let it loose.

If I were stronger, maybe others wouldn't have that control, but I'm not.

And she is.

“I'm super-exhausted,” I tell him numbly.

I know he can see the old, familiar sadness that has reclaimed its usual spot behind my eyes.

His whole face is different as he reads mine.

He knows this face, this tone of voice.

He gets up from my bed, walks to the bedroom door, and swings it open wide. In two short strides, he's back at my bedside, taking the tray and pizza scraps and moving them to the floor. He pulls off his shoes and flops himself into my overstuffed chair, props his feet on the ottoman, and lays my red fleece throw over his legs.

Over the years, when things were bad, Grant would sleep in my chair to keep me company. More than once, he came to the floor by my nightstand and held my hand as I cried in my sleep soon after Mom was gone. As the medicine got stronger and therapy went better, eventually I stopped dreaming at all. The last time he parked in that chair was last Christmas. And the time before that, I can't even recall.

“Well, it's been a while, but you know the drill, Gen. I'm not going anywhere.”

I look at him again before pulling my legs under the covers and rolling over onto my side. I'm still wearing jeans, and I don't care enough to change. Frankly, I don't feel like doing much at all. As the creeping pang of sadness that I fight off with sticks and snacks and a spiral notebook claws at the back of my brain, I look up to the top shelf of my bookcase and feel a tickle whisper across the top of my left arm. I reach over and rub it away.

The sound of the TV stops completely, but the colors from the muted screen still dance across my wall. I let my lids close. I hear Grant reach up and flip off the lights before muttering his regular words of assurance. My lips almost move along with his as he whispers to the darkness—both the room's and mine.

“I'll stay, Gen. I'll stay.”

9

C
langing and laughter waft up from the kitchen. It's 6:13 AM. What is
wrong
with these people? I throw back the covers and notice Grant's Vans on the floor. He's still here. I'm glad.

I shower, throw on my clothes, and head downstairs only to find the whole happy crew chatting over their organic, freshly squeezed, non-pasteurized orange juice. The sight of Evelyn, Carmella, and Grant all in one room, smiling and being pleasant makes me feel like an
actual
grumpy, old troll.

“Hey, sunshine!” Grant is positively shouting at this ungodly hour.

“Good morning, darling!” Evelyn coos. “We're frying up some veggie bacon and I made some millet waffles for you!”

I've never been hungover, but I think it's probably a lot like this. Tired and groggy. Hungry, but not in the mood to eat. Plus everyone's too cheery, and I kinda want to punch them all in the face.

“It's fake bacon! It's facon! And it's actually pretty good. Here!” Grant is already in front of me with a handful of something that smells vaguely like bacon and dirt. He reaches up and puts his hand under my chin, causing me to open up as he feeds me this faux-meat with an impossibly peppy grin. “What do you think?”

“Oh, um. It's good, I guess.”

Evelyn chimes, “I picked up that Risperdal prescription, so you're all stocked, sweetie! Want some juice?”

Brilliant. Let's talk about my crazy pills in front of every-damn-body. I look to Grant, but he is stuffing himself with food straight out of the pan. I spin around slowly to look at Carmella. Maybe she didn't even hear.

“Morning, sis. Good thing you got that refill, huh?” Carmella, perched on a stool at the breakfast bar, manages these words with a smile, though it doesn't reach her eyes. As Grant and Evelyn chatter over the stove with their back to the rest of the kitchen, Carmella reaches up and puts her finger beside her ear and makes little circles. When Evelyn picks up the pan and spins around to set it in the sink in the kitchen island, Carmella picks up a curl and continues as if she'd just been twirling her hair.

Crazy. Me.

“Carmella, sweetie, what were you about to ask me a minute ago?”

My stepsister's voice goes cold. “Mom, you said you'd call me Ella.”

Evelyn turns with an apologetic look in her eye and puts her hand near her forehead. “Oh, I'm sorry, hon. I'll get the hang of it eventually.” Evelyn smiles at her little girl with dreamy eyes.

“I was gonna ask if I can have some money? I'm going shopping after dance practice. I need to buy some new bras.”

“Ella!” Evelyn sounds scandalized, and she glances to Grant and back to her daughter. Like at the sound of the word “bra,” Grant might just jump on top of her kid right then and there. Evelyn nods to Carmella and then traipses from the room to fetch her precious daughter's latest whim. Grant turns to watch Evelyn leave with a sad sort of look on his face. How nice it must be to ask for cash and have it delivered in sixty seconds flat.

“Grant, are you ready? I'd like to go.” I try not to fidget in front of Carmella, but she's just sitting there and staring at me. It pisses me off that she doesn't even have to do anything to intimidate me into total insecurity and silence.

“Sure, let me go grab my shoes.”

As he flies up the stairs, I'm left in the kitchen. Alone. With her.

“So, Imogen, good thing Mom refilled your antipsychotics. If this is you pulled together, I'd hate to see what a hot mess you are when you're unmedicated.”

I know, logically, that I have no reason to be ashamed of my therapy, but that knowledge makes absolutely no difference.

She stares at me for a second, relishing my discomfort. It looks like she's planning what to say, how to make sure it's really going to hurt. I brace myself.

“I hear you miss a lot of classes to see your shrink. Crestwood lets you miss all the school you want just because you're crazy? That doesn't seem fair.” She bounces her crossed leg and points her finger while she talks. She has me in the palm of her hand. “Seems weird to me, but I don't make the rules for special ed kids. You are, right? Special ed? You know, I had no idea you could be special ed just for being a basketcase, but that's what my mom said.”

Bam. The force of her words slices through the kitchen, and I stagger back as if I've been hit. “I…I…” I drop my gaze to the floor and press my open palms to the sides of my jeans, hoping to push the sweat back into my pores.

She smiles as she watches me squirm.

“I noticed your buddy Grant spent the night. Seems pretty bold, but I guess it's never too early for society to start making certain concessions for people like you. Better to keep you happy than risk making you snap.”

Her “p” pops out of her lips, and she just stares at me. Is she waiting for a response?

“You know, it's really none of your business.” The words are out before I can measure their weight.

She stands up slowly and crosses the room. I back up against the counter until I feel the cold stone pushing against me.

“Let me be sure you understand how this works.
Some
people have power and some people don't.” Her fake smile is gone, and her eyes are dark. The muscles in her face are tight, and she's towering over me in her heels. She looks like a monster. “When people who don't have power pretend that they do, they lose. Sometimes they lose what they have. Sometimes they lose what they want. But they lose.”

My heart is pounding so hard I feel like I might pass out. I can't decide if I should scream or sit down or push her away or what.

Her eyes are locked on mine, and the echo of her threat is still ringing in my ears when she pops the smile back on her lips and her eyes soften.

“Gen! Let's go!” Grant calls from the front door, and without another word, I pick up my bag and almost run out of the kitchen. I smash into Evelyn as she rounds the corner with her wallet in hand.

“Oh!” Evelyn stumbles back a step and bumps her head on the side of the wall.

“Evelyn, I'm sorry.”

“Imogen, please be careful! You're not a little thing anymore, you could hurt someone!”

I am about three seconds from going back upstairs and crawling into bed.

“Gen!” Grant calls to me a second time.

“Yeah! Gimme five minutes!” I yell toward the door.

When I turn back to Evelyn, she's handing Carmella her money and sending her on her way. “Bye, sis,” Carmella says as she strides out of the kitchen.

As soon as Carmella walks out of the room, I burst into tears. I can't stop it. I can't even pretend I've got something in my eye. I am straight-up crying.

“Imogen, honey, what's the matter? Did you hurt yourself when we bumped?”

“When we ‘bumped,' seriously?” I walk to the little bakers rack standing by the sliding glass door and pull out a tissue. “We didn't bump, Evelyn. I'm a freaking rhinoceros.” I sniffle and wipe at my eyes while I gesture all around myself. “I can't breathe.”

“Here, honey, sit down.” She pulls me over to the chair at the kitchen table, and I try to keep breathing. My lips are swollen and tingling, and my vision is clouded with bright spots. “Imogen, honey, I hope you know that when I said you weren't little, I meant you're a grown up. You're not a baby. I didn't mean anything… else, okay?” She looks at me awkwardly and pats my knee like a robot. “Can I get you any medicine?”

I like to keep my medicine separate from the people around me. I don't like to think of others knowing what I take, when I take it, and why. But even though she's awkwardly patting my knee, she's doing this shooshing sound, and it's making my pulse slow to normal.

“Yes,” I say. “Could I have a half of the little pink one, please?”

“Of course, honey.” She springs to the medicine cabinet and comes back with half of a pill and a glass of cold water.

“Thank you, Evelyn. I really appreciate it. This was not a good morning. And it was not a good night last night either. I really don't know if I can go to school today.” Just saying the word “school” starts my heart beating faster again as I blow my nose and wipe away the last of my tears.

“Honey, I don't think you should stay home. But it might be a good idea for you to call George and see if he can fit you in this morning. What do you say?”