Damsel Distressed (12 page)

“Heya, mister,” I say as I set down my bag and pull my hair back into a ponytail.

Everyone in the classroom is shedding their personas as students at Crestwood High and stepping into their roles as vital members of the Tech Crew.

The sound of power tools whirring to life makes me feel at home.

Brice pulls off his gorgeous sweater to reveal a plain five-dollar T-shirt underneath.

“Awwww,” I say, letting my face droop with disappointment.

“What?” Brice asks as he folds it into a perfect square.

“I liked your sweater. Now you just look like another kid in a T-shirt.”

He chuckles and puts his hand on his hip. “Yeah, but have you seen the boots?” He looks down to his feet, and I notice he's got these pretty incredible combat boots that are all folded over and chunky. He steps away from me and then turns on a dime to pose and give me the full picture.

“You're totally right. Those boots make even your T-shirt look like a million bucks.”

He throws up his hands with exasperation and says, “You doubted me?” He grins as two freshman girls walk toward him in perfect unison and stand beside him without saying a word.

“Uh, Brice, you have some people,” Grant says, as he approaches with arms full of props.

Brice turns and looks at the girl on the left. Her delicate eyes are dark slivers, and her jet black hair hangs in a perfect pixie cut. “Fish-kick 1: You're going to go to the dressing room and start checking the principal character costume list. Make sure they're all hung in the right section.” He snaps his head toward the second girl who has wide-set green eyes and long, blonde hair. “Fish-kick 2: You're going to start writing out a list of costumes that might have a tight fit around the waist if we try and fit a mic pack in there. Got it?”

The girls nod at him fiercely, and then he raises his hand and sends them on their way.

“Brice,” I say with a stern look on my face. “Why are you torturing your freshman?”

“I'm not! When they came up to me on the first day, they were so freaked out they just sorta started acting like I was a drill sergeant. So I rolled with it. I mean, consider the boots.” He gestures again and then raises his hands to me in question. “What was I supposed to do?”

“You're right. You clearly had no choice.”

Brice steps to my side and links his arm through mine. We take a few steps through the classroom toward the doorway by the backstage corridor.

“I'm going to start with the boys' microphones right after school and then move onto the girls'. Will that give you plenty of time to check the dresses with Thing 2 back there?” I ask.

“Sure. Fabulous.” He pulls his arm from mine and starts scanning the room. “Crap. I've gotta move some giant hanging racks. Thornton!” he calls across to Grant who's been trying to double-check all of the spotlights out in the hallway. “Can you help me move some racks?”

“Sure, bro,” Grant says as he comes back in the room and wipes his already sweaty brow.

“Thanks, Mister Stage Manager, sir,” Brice says with an uncertain salute. “I'd have Jonathan help me, but he and his toolbox snuck out earlier when he thought I wasn't looking so you'll have to do.” He clicks his heels together and shouts, “Sir!”

My head and Grant's snap back at the sound before we start giggling.

“Gee, thanks. And, um, at ease, soldier,” Grant says as he glances first at Brice's boots, then to his limp salute, then back to me, and back to Brice again. “It'd be my pleasure. Gen, I'll see you in a bit. Let me know if you need help with anything until Antonique gets here.”

“Sure, thanks,” I say as Grant starts to walk out into the hall toward the racks without Brice.

“Ahem.” Brice gestures to Grant's arm and clears his throat.

Grant laughs and then crosses back to Brice and bows. “Oh, my mistake, soldier.” Grant bends his elbow and offers it to Brice before looking over his shoulder and rolling his sparkling eyes.

In the sound booth, I sort through my giant case of wireless mic packs. I love the way they all look the same. Little ducks in a row, the little plastic boxes that make sound fill a room all the way to the corners.

I've already replaced nineteen out of twenty sets of batteries before the little door to my sound booth snaps open.

“Honey, I'm home.” Antonique blasts through the door in a flurry of motion. Her skinny braids lift away from her shoulders and fan out as she turns around to set her bag under the desk. Her strong, dark brown shoulders are bare as she pulls off her cardigan, revealing a narrow torso in a tank top. “I'm ready to help. What's happening?”

“Well, I've just replaced all the batteries.” I gesture to the box full of microphones and then turn to face the big glass window looking out into the house. The stage is set and the finished castle is one of the best-looking set pieces Crestwood has ever had. “In a few minutes, once everyone gets signed into rehearsal, we've got to start doing pack fittings and showing the cast how to wear and tape them.” I lift up the little rolls of mic tape and spin one around on my finger.

She flops down onto her folding chair with a defeated look on her face. “That sounds complicated.”

“It will be a piece of cake. I'll walk you through it.”

She turns her face from the glass and smiles at me. Her teeth are so perfect. I pull my own lips closed and run my tongue along the uneven row across the bottom.

Antonique sees my facial expression change. I can tell because her smile fades just as mine does. She clears her throat before changing the subject. “So is Ella Cinder really your stepsister?”

Like a roundhouse kick to the gut, the wind is knocked out of me.

I wonder for a second if I'll ever get used to the way it feels when Carmella is forced into my mind unexpectedly. Maybe it will get better over time. Somehow I doubt it.

Antonique is still looking at me expectantly.

“Uh, kinda. I mean, yes,” I answer. “Why?”

“Oh.” Her expression changes. Her eyes dart back and forth.

“Seems like you didn't expect that to be true,” I say.

“Right, well…” She reaches up and tucks her braids behind her ears again. “It's just that some girls in my lunch were talking about her. They were saying she joined the dance team and immediately tried to re-choreograph their entire routine. And one girl said she laughed when the captains were doing their dance solos. They said she wasn't very nice.” She looks down and mutters to her hands, “Sorry. No offense.”

I look through the glass at the chorus huddled in the center of the stage, mumbling the song “An Opening for a Princess.” I can just barely make out the sound of them singing through the soundproofed walls. I look down and see the mute button is still glowing red.

“Seriously, none taken, Antonique. She is horrible. They're not wrong.”

“It's just that I was telling my table she couldn't be your sister. ‘Cause you're so nice, I guess I thought if you did have a sister, she'd be more like you.”

More like me.

I try to picture Carmella and I if we'd grown up together. Would we have more in common? Would I be more stuck up and pretentious? Would she be more insecure and emotional?

I can't see it. I can only see her, and I can only see me. And I can't find a single way that we'd bring out anything but the worst in each other.

“Did you not grow up together?” Antonique reaches up to the box of mic packs and pulls one out, flipping it end over end in her palm.

Blink. Blink. Blink.

“Uh, no. We definitely didn't. Yesterday was her first day at Crestwood, actually. My dad and her mom got married last year.”

The sentence repeats over and over in my head.

My dad and her mom got married last year.

My dad got married last year.

My dad got married.

I start to rock in my giant chair, the springs helping me bounce back and forth.

“Oh, that's cool,” she says. “Where's your mom?” She continues to stack the mics into neater piles.

Oh. My head feels like it's being twisted around and is about to pop right off my body. The light from the stage and the sound, even muffled, is instantly too much. My head bursts into migraine-level pain. I'm burning up. I push back from the desk and put my arms on my knees so that my head can hang down nearer to my legs. My hoodie has become an oven.

“Imogen?” Antonique squeaks out my name and stands up from her folding chair. “Imogen, are you okay? What's wrong?”

I try to breathe, but I can't make my lungs fill up. It's so hot. It's like I'm stuck in a sauna and the door has locked behind me.

I can feel my face turn green and clammy, and it occurs to me that if I don't crawl out of this chair, I might crack my head on the desk and die. This would not be ideal.

All I keep thinking is that I can't breathe. I'm trying, but I just can't breathe.

I pull myself off the chair and sit on the floor in the tiny little, foam-padded closet. I lean against the sound proofing material, which is soft against the back of my head. I begin to count. I'm not listening to her, but I can see Antonique moving and gesturing and I think she's reaching for her phone.

“I'm okay,” I say to her. “I'm sorry, I'm okay.”

Blink. Blink.

My blurry vision clears, and my lungs finally open up to the oxygen they need.

Antonique plops down beside me, sitting up on her knees. “Are you sure you're okay? What happened? You went all white, and I'm freaking out.” She holds out her hand in front of my face. “Look, I'm shaking.”

I smile at her. “Me, too.”

I hold out my unsteady hand, and she grins, sitting back on her heels and letting her shoulders drop a bit lower.

I close my eyes for a moment and then jerk suddenly as I feel her hand on my forehead. My eyes shoot open, and she pulls her hand back like she's been burned.

“Startled me,” I lie. I didn't expect her touch. I'm glad I didn't instinctively reach out and pop her in the jaw.

“You're burning up, seriously.” She reaches toward my chest, and I try to resist her, but my head keeps sagging from one side to the other. I sit up so that together, we can unzip my hoodie and try to get me cool.

“I like your shirt,” she says gently as she pulls off both sleeves.

I drop my head and look down at my
Starlight Express
T-shirt.

My breathing slows down to normal, and without my hood, my temperature drops from lava to human levels. I look at this sweet girl who's just helped me through a full-blown panic attack. She looks sick and worried and confused, and I feel horrible.

I can't just go totally crazy and take her help and not tell her why.

“She died,” I say. Softer than I mean to. “My mom.”

Heat presses against me on all sides. I close my eyes and mumble into my lap while I force my shoulders to move up and down with my breaths.

“She was on her way home from the cast party of a stupid community theatre show and there was a semi-truck… He just didn't see her. I was ten.”

The sweat that has beaded on my nose and upper lip starts to dry.

My lungs fill fully, and my skin cools almost instantly. I sit in quiet for a moment, Antonique beside me, her eyes wide.

“I'm usually okay, but sometimes, something can just hit me and take me by surprise.”

Antonique's braids have fallen in front of her ears again but she doesn't seem to care. She lets them hang as she stares at me with sad eyes.

“I'm so sorry,” she says. “I didn't mean to…I didn't know. I'm so sorry.”

“No, Antonique, really. I have had panic attacks and…other problems for years. You didn't know, and I didn't know. It just happened.”

She gives me a tiny smile, but she still looks shaken.

“Hey, at least if I had to go crazy, I did it in a padded room, right?” I joke, trying to make her laugh. Trying to make her remember that I'm not just the mortifying display she just saw. I don't want to be crazy in her eyes. Especially not after two days.

I reach across the space between us to pull myself back up and freeze like an animal being hunted.

I feel her eyes and my eyes travel down my exposed arm together.

They're faded for the most part, but when there's focus on my skin for more than a moment, they're definitely visible. The faint lines are whiter than the rest of my notably pale body. I consider pulling my arm back, but then I see her eyes flash away and I know there's no point. There's no little joke I can say. There's no way to make this not what it is.

She smiles gently.

“It must have really hurt.” She swallows. I look at her as she looks at me, and she doesn't break eye contact. “Losing her, I mean.
That
must have really hurt.”

I open my mouth to speak, but there is nothing I can say. I close my mouth again and give her a tiny nod.