Damsel Distressed (2 page)

I feel myself making silly fake faces as I stride around the room, but my palms have started sweating.

I check the clock on the wall, willing the hands to click over to eleven.

“Imogen, I didn't mean to push you if you're really not ready to tell me about it. We have a few minutes left. Sit. Let's revisit this some other time.”

“No, George. Let's get this over with.”

I sit on the left side of the leather couch as I have off and on for the past five years. I sink deeply into it as it makes a leathery creak under my weight.

“The night before our dinner, as you know, I graduated from scratching my thighs with unfolded paperclips when I found a brand-new straight razor in the garage—still in the package.”

George nods his head. “That was the night you cut your arm for the first time. I remember.”

“But I didn't ever tell you Carmella was there.”

His eyes open wide before he can tell his brain to maintain his even and unflinching face. “She was there when you cut yourself?”

“No. Right after.” I look down at my ragged fingertips and collect my thoughts. “Evelyn brought Carmella from the airport, and Dad came upstairs to tell me they'd arrived. He walked in just as I'd made the last cut.”

I force myself to resist the automatic reaction of reaching for my left forearm. In my head, I can see each line.

Six scars. One for every year without her.

My sobbing echoed in my ears. I remember that. I remember trying to explain I'd barely marked the skin. I was inches from my wrist. It was the back of my arm—completely different. Right? Why couldn't my dad understand? It wasn't the worst thing. I remember worrying more about him lifting my weight than about the fact that I'd hurt myself. He clearly had that emergency situation adrenaline thing going on because he carried me downstairs through the living room.

“It was chaos,” I continue. “Evelyn was screaming into the phone receiver, and I was begging for Dad to put me down. And on the couch is this gorgeous girl, my age, and she's crying because clearly this situation must have scared the crap out of her. But then our eyes met and we looked at each other for what seemed like forever, and then she sniffled, dried her eyes, set her jaw, and stomped out of the room. I haven't seen her since. She wasn't worried about me. She didn't care. I was about to get carted off to the hospital, and all she could do was scowl.”

I close my eyes for a second, and I'm instantly back in that living room. I remember how grey the winter sky was. I remember the exact green of Carmella's shirt, the sound of her scoff, and her boots clanking across the floor.

My shoulders press back against the couch. I sniffle and suck air deep into my lungs and wipe under my eyes. I look around for my pen, but it must have fallen between the cushions or something, so I settle for biting at my fingernails instead.

“Well, there it is. The end. You're right George, story time
is
the best!” I force the corners of my mouth up into a sly smile, but he doesn't return it.

“Imogen, I can only imagine how humiliated you felt. I am so sorry it happened that way.” He shakes his head slowly as he talks, his nose scrunches up, and his voice softens. “But this isn't last December. It's been ten months since then, and you made so much progress this summer. Why worry if you don't even know how she feels? She might have forgotten all about it.”

I'm sure he wants me to sit up proud and tall because I didn't hurt myself this summer, but his pointing it out just makes me feel pathetic.

“Right. And pretending I don't exist for the ten months since Christmas is ‘cause Carmella's just waiting to surprise me with her friendliness in person.”

“If you're really concerned, maybe we should have a group meeting. We could have you, Carmella, and your parents—or just Evelyn, if your father is out of town.”

If
Dad is out of town? Right. I'm not even sure he remembers which house is ours at this point.

“It could be good to hash this out, face to face. Find out if there's even a problem in the first place.” George checks his watch at the exact moment the clock strikes eleven. I've decided that looking at his watch is just something he does to remind his clients they can't stay all day because he always knows when the time is up. His internal clock is like a freaking Rolex or something.

I try to picture Evelyn, Carmella, and me—all of us together—sitting on this single leather couch. In my head, I somehow tip the couch up like a seesaw.

“It's not happening, George. I'm sorry.” I drop my notebook into my bag and stand up to look in the sofa for my pen.

“You just let me know if you change your mind.”

“Ugh. Where is my freaking pen?!”

He turns me by the shoulders and gestures to the top of my head.

“Oh! Right,” I say as I reach up and pull my pen out of my bun and drop it into my bag. “Thanks. I gotta go get Grant. We're celebrating my last day of freedom—and also his birthday. It's a doubly joyous occasion.”

“Have fun,” he says as he heads around to the backside of his desk. “And, Imogen, don't worry until you have to, okay? The end of your story hasn't been written yet. You've got lots and lots of chapters left.”

He puffs his chest out just slightly, and I imagine this TG quotable is going straight into my file as soon as I close the door. He should really get into the fortune cookie business.

I raise my arm and flip my hand down at the wrist. “Oh, George,” I say. “Don't be so dramatic.”

2

T
he sun streams in through my car's open windows. I love the feeling of a good day that's also gorgeous outside. I've run through Grant's birthday plans about fifty times, but I want it to be perfect.

As I drive down the highway, I can't help but see little memories of all the amazing times we've had at every mile marker.

That's the McDonald's where we scared the little kids by jumping out of the ball pit. There's that gas station where we sat on the curb and tried to smoke a cigarette without throwing up. And the grocery store down that road always has the best selection of cookies in the bakery. We can't settle in for an all-day
Mythbusters
marathon without our favorite cookies.

And if I were to take that exit there and take the first left and then the second right, I'd be at the cemetery where my mom is buried. And where little Grant stood by little me and held my hand while my dad cried into the ground.

I catch my reflection in the rearview mirror. I can see the signs of a few good months in the absence of dark circles under my light grey eyes. I don't like wearing makeup—other than gobs of black eyeliner. So even during bad times, when the bags under my eyes look like bruises, I never cover them up. I wear them like a warning. They're declaring the State of Imogen before I even open my mouth.

Beside me, my phone rings in the seat, and I put it on speakerphone. “Hey, I'm almost there,” I say as I roll up my window with my incredibly advanced hand crank.

“Happy-No-Carmella-Saturday!” Grant shouts into the receiver.

“Wait. You can't say that—I have to say happy birthday first!”

“Too late, I win.” He laughs.

“Fine. Are you ready for your day of fun? I was thinking we'd start with a movie and then a late lunch/ early dinner, whatever—my treat of course—and then I was thinking we could catch the musical at Edgehill?”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Brice has been trying to schedule a time for us to hang out with him and Jonathan. I could ask them to come?” I hear my voice go all nervous as I speak.

“Jonathan's cool. I don't know why you're so weird about him.”

“I'm not weird about him. He just never talks to me. When Brice told me the Jonathan who's always folding paper and ignoring people in English class was
his
Jonathan, I did not believe him.”

“It's not a crime to be quiet,” Grant says. I can hear the smirk in his voice.

“Well, thank God.” My heart flutters in my chest.

I hear his electric toothbrush buzz to life and it's probably the most precious thing ever when he mumbles, “Whassashows?”

I smile so hard I'm afraid he'll hear my blushing cheeks right through the phone. “I was thinking we could go see whatever old horror movie is playing at the dollar theatre, and then tonight, the Edgehill show is
Dirty Rotten Scoundrels
. It's supposed to be really funny.”

He spits.

How is that cute?

“Sounds perfect,” he says. “When will you be here?”

“I should pull up in five minutes.”

“Perfect, see you soon.”

I press the button to end the call, and just as I do, my phone rings again. I answer it and tap the speakerphone button without even looking at the screen. “What did you forget, weirdo?”

“Immy?”

My dad's voice squeaks out of my tiny phone speaker.

I wish he hadn't called and I'm so glad he did all at once.

“Hey, Dad. I guess you landed?”

“I did. Evelyn told me you wouldn't be there for Carmella's arrival tomorrow. Something about theatre?”

I roll my eyes at the sound of Evelyn's name and grind my teeth at the sound of Carmella's. I'm instantly defensive.

“Yeah, Dad. It's required for all techies to be there on Sunday workday. And it's been on the calendar since school started six weeks ago.”

The phone goes quiet for a few seconds, and I wonder if I've dropped his call.

“Be nice to her, okay, kiddo?”

Right, because I'm a horrible bully and she's going to just skip around being precious. I reach into my purse and pull out a fun-size candy bar and pop it in my mouth.

“I've gotta go, Dad.”

“And, Immy, promise you'll call if something happens, okay?”

I pull up to a stoplight and wait for him to say something. I don't want to acknowledge that he thinks I'm going to fall apart at the first sign of anything.

He clears his throat. “Up or down, you call me. Promise.”

I pause as long as I can. “I promise, Dad. I've gotta go. Be safe.”

“You, too, baby girl.”

Before he has the chance to clarify what “safe” means for an overweight, clinically depressed seventeen-year-old girl with an anxiety disorder, I reach down and hang up the call.

I pull up to Grant's house, and he's waiting for me on the curb. He springs to life before I come to a complete stop.

I scream “Happy Birthday!” at the top of my lungs as he throws himself into the car, leans over, and tries to smother my squeals.

“You crazy girl! My neighbors are going to think I'm kidnapping you.”

I laugh. “If they haven't ratted us out to the police after a dozen years of our shenanigans, they probably won't start now. Now stop distracting me. I got you a present.”

I lift up my elbow and open the armrest compartment, and his face shifts from silliness to sincerity almost instantly.

“What? Why? It's not the anniversary of the first time I made you sit and watch eighteen hours of
Mythbusters
with me, is it? 'Cause if it were, I would have been obligated to bring flowers—which I didn't, and you'd surely never forgive me.” He puts his hand over his heart, and even though we're both being silly, the gesture makes my throat close tightly.

“Ha. You'd never forget a day that important.” I give him a thumbs up and a big exaggerated nod of my head. “Anyway, not sure if you remember my screaming a few seconds ago, but…” I drop my voice to a loud whisper. “It's your birthday.”

He grins. “If you say so.”

I hand him the small bit of black-on-black embroidered fabric, and he turns it over in his fingers.

“It's a patch,” I say. “Sorry, I didn't wrap it.”

“It looks like a Superman thingy! Kinda. Sorta. I mean there's an ‘M,' too, which is problematic 'cause Superman is one word, but I forgive you!”

“Oh, shut up, I know that Superman is one word.” I laugh with him as he puts it against his forehead and then on his palm and then in the middle of his chest. “It's for Stage Manager, but I was also thinking about how it could be for Science Man, or Silly Muggle or—”

“Or Stud Muffin!” he says with the patch held against his cheek. “Or Sexy Mastermind.” He waggles his eyebrows at me, and I laugh as I waggle mine back.

“I thought you could iron it onto your stage blacks,”

I say.

Some girls like a guy in uniform, but I am a sucker for a techie in his blacks.

“This is awesome, Gen. I love it. So much.” He reaches over and puts his hand on my shoulder. In the moment without laughing and joking, the weight of his hand there presses in on me and keeps me from lifting right out of my seat. Like gravity. “Thank you,” he says.

I swallow away the warmth of his hand, tucking it deep inside to remember whenever I need it.