Damsel Distressed (31 page)

I'm almost disappointed that Brice didn't cue up the song for me. What a missed opportunity.

I smile. I look at myself, at my shape, at my body, and I smile.

Brice turned this smelly old costume into something amazing.

I look in the mirror and see Evelyn ducked behind me. The absence of my mother slams into me like the truck that took her. Putting on dresses and tying my bows. I wish she were here to do those simple things. I shrug the feelings away as Evelyn spins me around in my perfect, angsty-chic dress. I look at her and say, with more sincerity than I can believe, “I'm so glad you're here. Thank you. Thank you so much.”

“You look beautiful.”

“Brice! How did you pull this off? How did you possibly do this? And please, dear Brice, tell me this has been dry-cleaned.”

“Evelyn and I talked when I first got here this morning, and I remembered how fabulous you looked in this costume. I knew that with a few layers of lace and those fabulous gloves from the Halloween store, I could make this dress look a little less Winnifred and a lot more you. I texted Gild, and she said that as long as I put it back to normal afterward, I could alter it for you to wear. Oh, and of course. Ew.”

He stands up and goes to put an arm around Evelyn. “And since Evelyn bought all of the material and I put it together, I guess we get to share the glory.” He turns to her and says, “I'll be the ‘Fairy' and you be the ‘Godmother!'” He starts laughing, and we all giggle with him.

I look in the mirror again and can't make sense of how grateful I feel.

This could have been bad. A very bad situation. Too tight, too short, too sleeveless, too many things could have gone wrong.

I look down at my lacy black gloves and set my hand on my left forearm. “It's perfect,” I say to no one in particular.

“I wish I could see you out there in those pretty lights with all of your friends,” Evelyn says with a smile. “I'd love to see both of my girls out there together actually.”

I feel my jaw go slack, and my eyes dart to Brice and Antonique, who look similarly freaked out.

“Carmella? You mean, she's going? I didn't even consider that she might be going.”

I glance sideways and see my chest flushing red in the mirror.

“Well, she spent the night with some friends last night, and they're all getting ready over there, which is great because it gives me a chance to clean up her room tonight, but anyway, yes. She is on the dance team, so…”

I'm sure I look like I've been slapped in the face with a bag of bricks.

I summarize my new revelations. “Dance is part of fine arts. Of course she's going.”

“Is…that okay?” She pauses. “Are you okay?”

“Oh. Yeah. Sure,” I lie.

I'm great.

“Okay, then.” She smiles. “Maybe you girls can take a picture sometime tonight? I'd really love a shot of the two of you together. I don't have one yet.”

A picture with Carmella. And me in a dress. Just shoot me.

30

W
e're almost ready to go. Brice is putting his suit on in my closet, and Antonique is changing in my room. I'm putting on the finishing touches—my mom's earrings—and as I step onto the landing, I notice a box just at the top of the stairs. About a foot long and half as tall, I recognize the shape of it instantly. A shoebox. It has been wrapped in black paper and topped with a shiny black bow. My name is scrawled across the top in silver marker.

I crouch down to tear open the package, and when I've exposed the logo on the side, I can't help but grin. I pull it open to reveal a pair of bright fuchsia low-top Chucks. Tied to the double set of pink and black laces, I find a handwritten gift tag:

Imogen
,

I hope that these shoes work with your new dress. I considered buying you a new pair of heels but thought better of it. These look like you. The real you. The joyful, thoughtful, beautiful you that I can't wait to know better
.

With love
,

Evelyn

I look again at the hot pink shoes. I squeeze my eyes shut, and my mother's face swims in my vision. I can see her sitting on our back porch, sipping on iced tea, watching me twirl in my amazing dress. I notice that in my imagination Evelyn is sitting beside her. I can picture my mom reaching over and grabbing Evelyn's hand.

She would be so grateful that I have Evelyn here to watch me grow up.

I should be, too.

“Antonique?” I call. “Check out these shoes.”

She's already exiting my room.

And she looks incredible.

She's wearing a bright emerald-green dress that, if it's possible, makes her look even more tall and elegant. The dress is sequined, more at the top and less toward the bottom, fading into sheer folds of the same green hue. Her braids are piled loosely on the top of her head, cascading a bit in the back, while her skin is bright and glowing. She looks strong and striking.

“You look amazing,” I say.

“Where did you get those shoes?” she squeaks. “Brice!”

“No! Wait! Let me put them on first!” I giggle at her excitement, and she makes me plop down on the top step and tie on my new, fabulously pink sneakers.

When I finish, I look to the bottom of the stairs where my dad is standing. Staring.

“Dad?”

He slowly climbs the steps toward me. He looks like he's floating and not even using his legs. His mouth hangs open a little, and a smile blossoms on his face.

“What are you doing here? I thought you would be gone till late?”

“I just came home to grab my laptop charger. I forgot it this morning.”

I stand up on the top step, and he stops a couple of steps below me so that we're face to face.

“Do you like it?” I ask.

I haven't really taken it all in myself, but the me that is reflecting in his eyes is the me that I want to always be. It makes me smile.

He says nothing, but he reaches up to wrap his arms all the way around me.

“My baby girl. You are so beautiful when you smile.”

In his pocket, his phone pings and pings again.

He pulls back, and I look at his face. There's longing and sadness and pride all mixed together.

“Go, Dad.”

He smiles and reaches up to pinch my nose. “Love you, Immy.”

“I love you too, Dad.”

I watch him turn the corner, and then I turn around to face my friends who've been watching and sniffling quietly behind me.

Brice is dabbing tears from the corners of his eyes. He plays it off and says, “I know you're the one wearing it, but I have truly outdone myself.”

“Man, what a crybaby!” I say as I blink away tears.

We laugh loudly as my nervousness builds. I check the clock on the wall. I haven't heard from Grant, but I know he won't be late.

I walk past the two of them, admiring each other in the hall, and into my room where I make a beeline for my closet door and my full-length mirror.

My reflection is blocked off by so many pieces of paper taped to the glass. I've covered so much that it's mostly good for checking makeup and ensuring that my fly is zipped. I reach up and pull down the playbill covers for
Spring Awakening
and
RENT
. I pull down posters of ballerinas that I idolized as a kid. With the paper littering the floor, I can see clearly.

In front of me is a girl wearing a seriously killer dress. Her steely grey-blue eyes are ringed with shimmering shadows, and her cheeks look rosy and lifted, like she spends a great deal more time smiling than she actually does. Her hair is out of her face, as if she's got nothing to hide. She has delicate shoulders, and an hourglass figure peeks through the fabric. Her skirt almost meets the ground but stops short, granting a view of lily-white cankles perched on a great pair of hot pink sneakers.

She's not me.

Not entirely.

But maybe she could be.

“Gen, your dad let me in!” I hear Grant shout from the top of the stairs.

My head snaps to the side, and my doorway is almost completely filled with Grant, tall and spiky haired, dressed in cool black tux pants. A great tux jacket covers most of a slate grey T-shirt with hot pink hexagonal shapes and lines on it.

He looks awesome.

Really awesome.

“Gen. Wow.”

He takes the few steps toward me.

“Oh. Hey.” I physically shake his significant cuteness out of my head before saying, “How was the competition? How'd you do?”

He looks like he's having a hard time collecting his thoughts. “I got third place.”

“Oh my God, Grant! You liar! You said you'd text with good news!” I take three steps and throw my hands up over his shoulders. I feel his hands wrap around my waist. I hear him smell my hair as he holds me. Being close to him and feeling beautiful, my gut feels like it's been shot through with a bazooka, and I pull away from him, sure that he can feel the pull of his gravity and the black hole in my belly tugging at him.

He's looking at me all over the place. His eyes are jumping from my hair to my eyes to my shoes, and stopping at a few other places along the way. Brice and Antonique are giggling and whispering on the other side of my room, but Grant and I aren't paying much attention to them.

“Hey, what's on your shirt?” I say, drawing his focus.

“Oh, this? Brice told me about your dress, so I went to my favorite tee shop after the competition.”

I grin at him. His face looks so clean. I can still smell his hair stuff from our hug. I want to bury my face in his hair.

“So…” I gesture to the nonsense on his shirt. “What is it?”

He fidgets with his sleeves, his lapel, and his hair before finishing. “It's the chemical composition of serotonin.”

I look at him expectantly, sure that he'll fill in the gaps for his less-than-scholarly best friend.

“It's the monoamine neurotransmitter that's commonly credited for feelings of satisfaction or happiness.”

“That's what happy looks like,” I say as I point to his shirt.

As I point to him.

“Yep. Pretty much,” he says. His smile creeps up sideways until that dimple appears.

He's such a nerd.

“You look…really beautiful, Gen.”

“Oh, shut your face.” My chest flushes with heat as I speak.

I turn away from him a little, and he turns away from me a little. I find my fingernails incredibly interesting, while he's studying his shoes.

I clear my throat. “What I mean to say is, thank you. And thanks for taking me tonight. I think it might actually suck less than I originally anticipated.”

He awkwardly shifts his weight on his feet, while smiling and reaching up to his hair again. “Yeah. Totally.”

“Umm, if you two weirdos are ready, Antonique and I have a fierce quota to meet. I have a very cute boyfriend waiting for me at the dance, and we need to get a move on.”

Brice links arms with Antonique and pushes Grant out the door, leaving me for just another second with the girl in the mirror.

“Come on, brain. Just make a little serotonin,” I whisper.

I smooth my skirt before grabbing my phone and keys and setting off.

“Be happy,” I mutter to myself. “Just for one night.”

31

W
e arrive at the courtyard fashionably late, as the sun has fully set behind the west wall of the school. The sky is streaked with vibrant hues. Corals, violets, and navy patches smear across the bright open air, and the stars have begun to shine. The courtyard that sits at the heart of our campus has been transformed. Every tree has been tightly wound with twinkling lights, and paper lanterns hang in the open spaces between them. The mural serves as the backdrop for the raised platform, and steps are mounted on either side beside tall, heavy, black curtains. As we pass, my eyes automatically sweep over the blurs of color.

Refreshment stands create a boundary along the wall of windows near the cafeteria. The scent of popcorn and cotton candy swirl with the smell of fall leaves and waft all around us in the cool breeze. We're lucky. Sometimes it doesn't really feel like fall in the south until it's basically winter, but tonight is perfect. Crisp and bright.

Even though Grant and I usually treat the Rally as a joke, there's something really amazing about walking up to the dance and looking like I'm actually going to a dance. It's a combination of the best parts of a carnival and a prom rolled into one. The clusters of friends sweep around in great masses, and every fine arts group is represented. There are easily a couple hundred students already here.

As we enter and duck through the trees, Brice saunters up to Jonathan, who hands him a giant yellow daisy before giving him a sweet kiss. I watch as Jonathan takes Brice's outstretched hand without a moment of hesitation and then picks up Brice, twirling him around under the twinkling lights.

At the edge of the stage, people are taking turns stuffing slips of paper into cardboard boxes labeled with “King” and “Queen.”

I smile as I remember a conversation at the cast party about the royal nominations. We finally figured out why theatre kids never win. Techies don't care enough to vote, and actors only vote for themselves.

On the floor, lots of people are already dancing. It looks moderately horrifying. But at the same time, putting on a dress is horrifying, too, and I did that just fine.

Antonique is already bouncing where she stands as the music sails over the crowd through the large speakers by the stage.

Grant looks at me, and I try to look a little less like the dance floor is a pit of lava. He gives me a little wink and then says, “What do you say, Antonique?”

Grant offers her his hand. She looks a little shocked, and her eyes flit from him to me and back before she stammers, “Oh, sure, I mean, yes. Thanks.”

Grant turns to me with a laugh on his lips. “I know you hate dancing, Gen. We'll be back soon!”