Damsel Distressed (22 page)

I shift my weight from one foot to the other. “Are you kidding? I starred in a musical on six hours' notice because the lead got arrested for drunkenness and indecency just last week. This will be a piece of cake.”

He laughs.

“And I know all about cake,” I say, hoping that, if I make the fat joke first, he won't do the same.

“Oh. Right. Okay,” he says awkwardly.

“So…”

“Yeah.”

I look down at the index card, already bent beyond recognition from being rubbed and folded by my hot, sweaty hands.

Andrew reaches up and rumples his hair. There's nothing at all special about the smell. “You're doing good, by the way.” He bobs his head along with his own comment. “I think it's pretty kickass that you're brave enough to do this. I mean, I'm really good, but I've been practicing for weeks. If I had to do it on a few hours' notice, I probably wouldn't. You're tough.”

“Tough. Yep,” I stammer. “Tough, toughie, tough.” Please, brain. Stop. I don't know exactly why I'm being so weird. Maybe because he's so good-looking or popular or because he's dating my arch-nemesis. I bring my hand to my face and rub my eyes instead of hitting myself in the head.

“No, really, you're a tough cookie.” He reaches up gently and awkwardly punches my shoulder. He's almost being weirder than me.

“Well, it's true,” I say. “I've never met a cookie I didn't conquer.” I pat my belly and instantly regret it.

He chuckles, just a little, but I'm pretty sure it's because he thinks I'm funny. “No, I mean it,” he says. “You surprised me. You're gonna do great. Maybe not as great as me, but…” He flashes a smile that I never imagined I'd be on the receiving end of.

“Well, I hope so. I don't wanna let everyone down.”

He reaches up and puts his hand on my shoulder, in the same place where he punched it before.

“You won't,” he says.

I think I believe him.

It's four hours to curtain.

Brice has me in his web as he's snipping and sewing pieces of costumes together and apart and together again. He's recruited several girls from the ensemble that are willing to help him get the job done, and I find myself in the dressing room with a rack full of clothes. He is making shooing noises and pushing the girls out, assigning them tasks as he shoves. He then reaches in his bag of tricks for some pins.

He's talking so fast and I'm staring at my cue card, and I totally miss that he's asked me a question.

“Hellooooooo, Imogen, punkin, are you ready?” He's holding up the hot pink garment with black trim along the corset edges, and he's waiting for me to duck my head inside so he can slip it over my body.

Fear rises in my chest, and I feel my skin dampen. What if after all this conjecture and after agreeing to do this awesome thing, I'm not even able to fit into her costumes? What if they have nothing in the whole costume closet that fits and therefore nothing I can take the stage in at all?

He pushes me behind some heavy clothing racks filled with costumes and turns his back. For a second, I'm not sure why he's put me in my own little corner, but then I realize, it's because he wants me to get dressed—and first…undressed. He reaches down and then slings a plastic bag over his shoulder.

In it, I find a pair of extra-large nude leggings, a pair of big, black, booty shorts, and a nude-colored camisole with a long, slimming torso that comes down almost over my hips.

I take a deep breath and rip off my jeans and hoodie and wrestle myself into what amounts to a big nude body suit.

“Okay,” I say. He turns to face me, but he doesn't really look at me as he holds the dress up high.

In another out-of-body motion, I step under the heavy folds and the dress comes down around me. He spins me toward the back corner of the room, tugs on a zipper, and pins the fabric where he'll need to make adjustments.

I feel him tugging again, and a cold knot forms in my stomach.

My chin falls to my chest and I feel my eyes start to well up. “Brice, it's not gonna fit, is it?”

He steps in front of me and lifts my chin to look at him. “Honey, I'm going to try to not take that as an insult.”

With his hands on my waist, he turns me around and marches me toward the mirrors. My mouth falls open. I'm miraculously contained by the soft layers around me. The dress is on. It is zipped. It is tied and pinned. And I look like a freaking princess. I'm Princess Winnifred.

Granted, a two-hundred pound Winnifred, but a princess nonetheless.

It's two hours to curtain.

I've been onstage and offstage. I've walked through every set piece and held every prop. Brice has decided that his team can handle makeup for the rest of the cast and that he's going to help me. This is good because I wouldn't have the first idea where to start.

Thick heavy makeup is smeared all over my face. Soft bristled brushes deposit wisps of powder on my skin, and dark kohl is used to ring my eyes. My hair is being straightened and curled. My lips are swabbed with color.

He pauses for a moment, and then in the mirror, as he steps to the side, I see them.

My arm. My scars.

I haven't looked at them, thought about them, worried about them, but now, with only a couple of hours to go, my arm is all I can see.

“Brice!” I hear the panic in my voice, and I feel the dress start to squeeze against my lungs. The edges of my vision start to turn grey as I try to breathe.

“What?” Brice asks without really looking at me.

“Brice, I need you to find me some sleeves.”

My pulse beats faster and faster as Brice douses me with a fourth coat of hairspray.

“You look hot. Don't worry about sleeves, really. You look great.”

I reach up and place my hand on my chest, and I can feel that my heart is pumping out of my skin. I look down and watch my ribs heave as I struggle for air.

Brice isn't looking. He doesn't see.

“Brice!” His name comes out in a desperate crack. “I can't breathe.” The corset of the dress is wringing my lungs out, crushing me like a vice grip, and I really can't breathe. I can't breathe at all. “Brice, I need you to find me sleeves.”

My eyes fill with tears, and I tip my head back so that they won't fall.

Full on panic sets in as Brice puts down the hairspray, and confusion and worry finally fill his face.

“Brice, I need you to give me sleeves. I need sleeves.”

“Honey, we don't have sleeves. You need to calm down.”

“Brice.” I sound like a child. I can hear the tremble in my voice. I hold my arm up, showing him my scars only an inch from his face.

He looks at my arm and then lowers it to my side. And wraps his arms around me while I sit in the chair. He shushes me, and he doesn't even worry that he's flattening the hairstyle he so painstakingly teased.

“Look at me. Listen to me.” He puts his face as close to mine as my arm had been to his nose. “Breathe.” He smiles at me and soothes me with his voice. He waits for a second and then says, “Here.”

He reaches over to the vanity top and picks up a makeup sponge and a pallet with a rainbow of flesh-colored cake makeup. He begins to daub the flesh-colored crème onto my arms, and slowly, I watch as my scars disappear. With every layer of color, my breathing slows. With every press of the sponge, the scars grow fainter, and I feel my heartbeat return to normal. When he's done, he spritzes it with setting spray and coats me in a fine layer of translucent powder.

He's daubing the sweaty part under my nose and humming under his breath. As quickly as it came, the panic recedes. I stare at him. His precious, pixie face and his sweet tiny nose. I start to cry, but he wags his finger in front of me and says, “No, ma'am. I don't have time to redo that makeup.”

He blows me a kiss and then vanishes into the hallway on a mission to turn another simple schoolgirl into someone else.

It's thirty minutes to curtain.

The entire cast and crew (minus Charity, of course) is holding hands in the back, arms crossed, and Mrs. Gild is trying, and failing, to hold herself together.

“So I just want to thank you all again for going so far above and beyond the call of duty today. Every single one of you stepped up. Not just Miss Keegan over here.” She looks across the circle at me, her eyes all glisteny. Grant leans into my shoulder just slightly. Brice on my other side pulls up his leg behind us and kicks me in the butt. I smile.

She continues, “You've all made this possible, and you all should be proud. And no matter what happens, you're going to get through it together. Even so, I think it's only fair that Miss Keegan has the chance to speak before we pass the squeezes and go make our final preparations. Imogen?”

Again, I feel the weight of all their eyes. I feel the expectation and the fear.

“I don't really know what to say.” I swallow. “I may screw this up. Royally.” I flash a cheesy grin, and they all giggle. “This isn't something I would ever do…normally. But I just…maybe normal isn't actually my best option, so I guess I'm gonna put on my big girl panties and just get out there. It was really amazing having all of you be so totally there for me this afternoon. So thank you.”

They all give me little smiles, and I squeeze both of the hands I'm holding.

I watch and wait as they each pass the gesture around the circle in opposite directions. I feel Brice squeeze my hand, but nothing yet from Grant's side.

“Oh, great, did I ruin the circle?” I ask.

“Nope, I've got it,” Grant says. “I just wanted to make the last squeeze a big one.”

He squeezes my hand, and then we all unwrap our arms and I feel bodies start pressing against me until I'm stuck in the middle of the cheesiest, most ridiculous, overly dramatic group-hug since grade school.

And it feels awesome.

It's five minutes to curtain.

Beyond all comprehension, we're about ready to start.

After years of avoiding the mirror like a plague, I find myself staring into my reflection again with only a few moments before we begin.