Damsel Distressed (32 page)

He isn't wrong. I mean, of course he's not wrong. But I guess I thought that part of doing the dance thing right meant sucking it up and trying to play the game. I guess I should have mentioned that.

The two of them glide to the dance floor. They're both so tall and thin. They look like two well-dressed giraffes shaking around. Seeing them laughing lightheartedly should make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

Somehow, it's just made me feel stabby.

“Hey, Imogen.”

I turn to my right and see Andrew. I'm instantly caught off-guard. All I can think of is how he ignored me in English during first period yesterday. He stood up for me when Carmella freaked out at the show and was handsomely rewarded by reading immature nonsense I wrote about him. I am trying to calculate how far I could run in the opposite direction before he'd catch me, but I decide that four steps probably won't be good enough. I brace myself for his blow.

“Wow. You look nice.”

That was not what I expected. I let out an “uh” before I fall silent again.

He is smiling at me. Not full on shoe-salesman cheese, but sincerely, or so it seems. I'm speechless.

The fact that I'm staring at him like he's an eye chart has thrown him off.

“So…” He rocks back on his feet and takes a sip of his soda.

“Right, um. Andrew, I need to apologize. I wrote those things about you when I was in a really messed-up state of mind. I never intended for you or anyone else to ever see those private thoughts. It meant a lot to me that you stood up to Carmella…uh, Ella, and I hope we can be cool.” I reach up and nervously tug at a loose lock of my hair.

“Don't worry about it. I was kinda mad at first, but then I realized you were just being honest. And I can't fault you for that.”

“Uh, okay. So, yay.”

I am the most awkward panda in the universe.

“What do you say? How about a dance? It will be like old times. I'll even do some of my sweet breakdancing choreography moves with you.”

Passing out would be a bad idea, right? Because I'm pretty sure a boy just asked me to dance.

It isn't Grant, but I've known since Christmas that, at some point, I'd have to stop seeing him as the only boy in the world. I push my shoulders back and slide my small purse to the center of the table.

“Why not?” I say. “But I have to warn you, I require a larger than normal dance space. Mere inches cannot contain me.”

“Well, I need a lot of room for my massive ego and fat head. At this rate, we'll take over the entire floor.”

He laughs as he offers me his elbow, and we head into the crowd.

The lights swirl all around us as we make our way to our cluster of friends. I try to keep my movements small to minimize the sweat and heavy breathing, but I'm not being a stick in the mud. I'm moving—just enough.

“Gen? Andrew? What are you doing?” Grant is looking at me with an incredulous look on his face. His eyes dart back and forth between Andrew and me.

“Is it that hard to identify?” I speak very slowly for him. “I am dancing.”

“I'm kinda just bouncing. I don't know if you'd really call it dancing!” Andrew is shouting over the din and continues his gyration a few steps away.

“But…you hate dancing! I mean, you don't dance, right?” Grant asks, loud enough to be heard over the music.

“Well, you didn't ask.”

He looks down with what seems like shame on his face.

“Hey,” I shout to him over the music. “It's no big deal. I'm just kidding.”

“No, it is a big deal.” He steps between some bodies, and I find Grant, my best friend, standing really, really close to me on the color-drenched dance floor. The heavy beat melts into a slow and soulful song about youth and love and forever, and I can't think of a single thing to say about how ridiculous it all is. I smell the breeze and the perfumes of girls mixed with sweaty teenage pheromones, and he's close. He's really, really close. I feel the lightest pressure of his fingertips at my waist as he looks straight at me and says, “I should have asked you to dance. I mean, I asked Antonique because I assumed you wouldn't, but I was obviously mistaken, and now I've nearly lost your first dance to Andrew, too.”

“What do you mean ‘too'?” I ask.

“Nothing. It's nothing.”

“No, really, what?” I insist. I put my hands out and tug gently at his coat lapels.

“I just…I mean, do you like him or something?” he asks with his head turned toward the stage. Before I can even ask him to explain what his crazy brain is talking about, he continues. “I mean, he's got your first kiss, your first dance, I mean, Jesus, I just always thought your first…”

“Yeah, my first…?”

“Dance. Your first dance…I thought it'd be with me.”

I can't breathe or figure out why his fingertips are on my waist or why my chest is so hot or why my heart is beating so hard it feels like I've got lava pumping through my veins. I bet if I look down, I'll see my dress has burst into flames.

“Well, then how about you ask me?” I furiously chomp down on the edge of my thumb.

“Can I have this dance?” He says it slowly. Right to my eyes. No jokes. No bowing and offering his hand. He just asks me.

“Won't Antonique mind?”

“I don't think so. It looks to me like she's already been swept off her feet.”

He points over my shoulder, and I see Andrew shifting back and forth on his feet, very close to Antonique, who's timidly got her arms on his shoulders.

I turn back to Grant and say, “Well, seeing how the first girl you asked already ditched you, I guess I'll throw you a bone.”

He grabs my hand and walks me deeper into the crowd, then turns me around to face him. He steps closer, placing his hands once again around my waist. I begin to reach up and place my hands on his shoulders, and at that very moment, the smooth rhythm is interrupted with a double-time dance song.

The bodies around us resume their frenzied pulsing to the up-tempo song, and the slow dance expires.

I start to pull away, but he holds my hand at his shoulder.

I look up at him, and he throws his head back in laughter. “Just dance, Gen!”

Our bodies pull apart, and I throw caution to the wind. I shake my booty and bob my head, my pulse races and my heart beats faster. Serotonin and sweat mix together, and soon I'm laughing as I'm jumping around for the first time ever on a school dance floor.

32

I
t doesn't take long for me to become totally winded, and after several minutes of flailing, our group decides to grab some drinks and stand around talking for a bit. I resist the urge to raid the cookie table and shovel snickerdoodles in my face by the dozen just for the fun of it.

Grant has his back to the mural, and over his left shoulder, I notice a small shape on the wall that I don't remember seeing before. It's not like I have the whole mural memorized, but I can't take my eyes off of this patch of color that seems new. It seems familiar.

“Hey, I'll be right back,” I tell Grant with one hand on his shoulder.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“Totally. I'll just be a minute.”

I tug at my lacy gloves as I press through the crowd and wipe the sweat off my forehead.

At the side of the stage, the rigging is easily twenty-five feet high. Huge black curtains hang down in narrow strips, blocking off patches of the wall from my view. As I duck behind one and climb the metal staircase, my eyes scan desperately for the shape that caught my eye on the wall. I can't even remember exactly what it looked like; my head is still sloshy from dancing.

The stars are bright, and the moon is illuminating the tiny backstage area, casting a snowy glow over everything. I turn and prop my back against the railing so that I'm facing the wall. I close my eyes for a second and let the breeze cool the sweat on my skin and cause the fine hairs on my arms to rise in tiny bumps against the lace. I open my eyes again and scour the rough surface, stopping suddenly on a delicately written block of text.

Being several feet in the air has lent me a different perspective. Everything looks different than it does from the ground.

Above me and to the right, about a foot over my head, I see neat words, written in what looks like a white cloud, outlined in various colors like a rainbow border. It's familiar. I know this shape. I know it like the back of my own hand. The lettering is justified on both sides, creating a perfect square.

I almost scramble up the wall. I extend my body, pushing up on my tiptoes to bring myself a little bit closer. From here, I can read what she wrote:

For a Happily
Ever After.
‘The End' is just
the beginning.
Angela Baker
May 2, 1982

I read the words ten times in mere seconds, my eyes darting back and forth over them again and again.

There has to be something more. Something new.

I've been waiting for years to find this new pearl of wisdom. But this isn't new. It isn't a revelation. It isn't a desperate message from beyond the grave. It's just the same old inscription I've read on the inside cover of my storybook since I was five.

I slump to a seat on the top step and bury my head in my hands.

I was so sure that, somehow, finding this would be like finding the words, “Imogen: Do this.” But it's just more of the same.

Except…for little, meaningless changes. A word and a colon and a date. I picture my book and the way it's inscribed. “For
My
Happily Ever After…”

For me.

It's always been for me.

She treasured it as a girl and then passed it on to her own.

If my mom could see me now, she wouldn't care about my weight. She wouldn't care about my psychological problems. She wouldn't care about my constantly sweaty palms and defensive snark. She wouldn't be disappointed that who I am isn't good enough for her.

She'd be disappointed that who I am
is
good enough for me. That I'm content to be miserable. She'd be so sad that I resigned myself at freaking twelve or fifteen or seventeen years old to the idea that happiness isn't in my cards.

I can see her in my mind. Her arms, her hair, her smile.

I can hear her voice, and I know that if she were here, she'd tell me that it's worth the fight, that I have to fight. And she'd tell me that I'm not fighting against anything or anyone, but that I have to fight for something. For happiness…for a happy ending.

She'd tell me that Dad was right. I have to make more room in my heart for something bigger and better than all that pain.

A surge of strength moves through my limbs as I stand up on the step and smooth my hair with my hands. I look down at my dress and my shoes and back up at the wall again. I raise my hand and place it on her wall. The cool of the concrete chills my fingertips and pulses with her words.

I drop my hand and lift my chin so that I can see the stars. As if on cue, in my peripheral vision, I swear I see a tiny star streak across a little patch of sky.

“Make a wish,” I mutter.

I shake my head and giggle to myself while hitching up my skirt.

I'm done sitting and waiting for dreams to come true.

Shooting stars are for suckers.

33

G
en?”

Grant stands at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at me with a confused expression on his face.

“How did you know I was just about to come find you?” I'm smiling so hard it hurts. “Come up here.” I take a few steps down toward him and grab his hand. “I wanna show you something.”

The heavy black curtains that surround the stage block the access stairs from view, and we're tucked behind them on the platform as the giant moon shines down and lights up the very air we breathe.

“Look. Up here.” I reach up on tiptoes along the rough stone and point. “Right there, you can see her name. Angela Baker.”