Damsel Distressed (35 page)

“It is,” Carmella says. She has entered the kitchen in silence and is standing in the doorway. “And I would appreciate it if you wouldn't talk about my problems in front of her, Mother.”

Carmella's eyes are puffy, and I can tell, without a doubt, that she's been crying. Her face is bare and she looks tired, but she also looks like a lot of other things. Like angry and frustrated and scared. She's wearing a giant sweatshirt and her trademark tiny shorts.

It occurs to me that she has nobody to impress. Maybe she really does just like those shorts.

“Imogen is your family now,” Evelyn declares.

“She is not my family,” Carmella snaps. “
You
are supposed to be my family. And Dad.
My
dad. That's supposed to be my family.”

I swallow and take a step back. I don't need to be in the middle of their squabble. It doesn't feel right.

Evelyn's voice is firm. “I believe you have some things you need to say to Imogen. Now.”

“Fine.” Carmella's voice sounds mostly bored, but also gritty and annoyed. She gestures to the sliding glass door.

I hesitate just a moment, choking on the word, “Okay.”

We head out the back door and sit on the weatherworn patio furniture.

She sits across from me, her legs crossed in her seat, and she still manages to look like a freaking beauty queen. Even without makeup, it's obvious that she really is beautiful. It's not just a façade. She really is.

“Let's get this over with,” she starts abruptly.

Touching.

“My mom wants me to apologize to you for the posters. So…sorry.”

“Your sincerity astounds me.”

It's strange to me that, all at once, Carmella is no longer a threat. I'm not sure if it's what Evelyn's said or if it was the picture at the dance or if it was my going back to school and moving on or what. But in this moment, I see that she is just a girl.

A very sad, very angry girl.

“Take it or leave it,” she says.

I stand up from my chair, unwilling to sit and stress myself out on this beautiful post-kissing day.

“Carmella, I know this is going to sound weird, but I'm ready to move on from this. So, whenever you're ready, you just let me know, and we'll wipe the slate clean. Congratulations again on Rally Queen.”

“You know,” she says to me as I walk toward the house. “The first time I met you, I was so excited. I thought that maybe, just maybe, a sister would be the silver lining of my parents ripping our family apart. But that first day, I walked into your life, and I realized it would never be about ‘us.' It would always be about you. The rest of my life as your sister would always be about you.”

I pause for a moment at the open door, with one foot on the threshold. I turn slowly to face her. “You know, I'm sure you think that going through whatever you've been through all alone makes you stronger than me. I bet you feel so tough when you hide your feelings behind your makeup and mean words, but I can see through you now.”

Carmella is looking out into the yard, her eyes so tired and sad, and even though she's been horrible, I feel bad for her. I really do.

“You said something once, and it stuck in my head like superglue. You told me that when people who don't have power pretend that they do, they lose. Sometimes they lose what they have. Sometimes they lose what they want. But they lose.” I resist the urge to bite at my thumb, but take a deep breath instead. “So, when you're ready to stop pretending, you let me know.”

I follow her gaze out across the mostly dead grass as the sun continues to climb over the houses behind ours. The weight of my own pretending causes my shoulders to slump. I take a deep breath and turn back to her where she sits cross-legged on the worn plastic chair. Her jaw is set like stone.

I hesitate for half a moment more before I speak. “I've got one question for you though.” She doesn't move a muscle. “I've gotta know. Why were you ‘Carmella' last year and ‘Ella' this year? I mean, why did you get so adamant about this name change? I've been wondering since the day you moved in.”

At first, I think she's going to ignore me. She sits there for so long, unflinching, that I wonder if I asked it in my head. And then she turns to me with a calmness and a sadness I haven't seen on her face since Christmas.

“I…” She stops, and I can see the words swirling behind her eyes. “I wanted so badly to not be me that, eventually, I made myself into somebody else.” She closes her eyes for a second and then opens them again. “Okay?” She tries to snap back at me, but her words have none of their usual fire. “Is that what you wanted to hear, Imogen?”

My stomach drops at the familiar sight of pain, this time sitting behind
her
eyes. I know the look of it so deeply, I feel, for a second, like I'm staring straight at a mirror instead of at the girl I'll never be. She hugs her knees to her chest and drops her chin.

“Ella…” I wait a moment, and slowly, she lifts her head and turns her red-rimmed eyes to mine. “You can call me Gen.”

I step inside and slide the door closed with a gentle click.

36

B
ack in my bedroom I walk over to my shelves and see the photo of my mother lying on its face. I set it upright and look at us, smiling and beautiful.

Sometimes it's just as simple as wishing I could look at her and say, “Oh my God, Mom, you wouldn't believe the drama.”

I think she'd eat it up.

My eyes slide over from the frame to the storybook, and I reach to pull it from the shelf. I run my hand over the cover and open it to the inscription she wrote.

The little rainbow frame and squared off words look different now. But they look the same too, I guess. I toss the words around on my tongue, tasting them, trying to figure out if they're any different now than they've been since I was five.

The shine of the blade looks lackluster and muted even in the bright sunlight. I hold it in my palm and let the cold metal shoot needles of chill into my hand.

I wonder, for a moment, if I really need to make such a gesture.

Handing it over to my dad for good will mean that—well—that it's been handed over.

My phone buzzes across the top of my nightstand.

My pulse starts to pound as I reach for what I'm sure is the first text from Grant post all the kissing.

“Hey you. Can I see you later? I need to make sure you're conscious after my amazing display of manliness and romanticism. Hope it didn't overwhelm you.;)”

Oh yeah. This blade has got to go.

I pull my hand up into the sleeve of my hoodie and hop back down the stairs, passing Carmella's closed door.

Downstairs, I approach my dad's office door and take a deep breath.

I'm terrified.

Not at what he'll do or say or think, but I'm scared about what it will feel like to know that that little sliver of metal isn't up there hiding for me.

I lift my hand to knock just as I hear his phone ring on the other side of the door. It's muffled, but I hear him greet his agent and they dive into a discussion of rights and territories and plans.

The wind sucks right out of my lungs.

I lower my hand and spin the blade around between my fingers, hidden in my left sleeve.

Just then, I hear the sound of the oven timer.

Evelyn.

I close my eyes and try to remember the sound of my mom's voice. Just one word. I wish I could hear it again.

When I reenter the kitchen, my mouth drops open just a little because I'm embarrassed by what I need to do and what I need to say.

Evelyn sees my hesitation and immediately pushes back from the table. “Is everything okay?” she asks politely.

I pull my hand out of my sleeve and look at the blade lying in my palm. I grip it firmly, drawing from it the very last bit of “strength” it will ever give me.

With a breath, I set it on the table in front of her.

“Obviously, I didn't give all of them to my dad when I was supposed to. I mean when George made me hand them over. I don't know exactly why I kept one, but I did, and I didn't use it for a long time, until I did.” I look up at the ceiling for just a second to recapture my resolve, and Evelyn takes my hand in hers. “I don't want to keep it anymore because I don't want to hurt the people I love in the moments that I hurt myself. I need to give this to someone I love. Someone I trust. So I need to give this to you.”

My voice is a little shaky, and I'm looking down at her, seated at the table. The blade sits on the smooth wood between us. I don't know what else to say.

I start to pull away, but I don't really want to. I leave my hand lying lightly in hers. Slowly, she reaches over and gently tugs the sleeve of my hoodie up to my elbow and looks at my arm. The lines that stripe it are varied in their color and shape. Six are flatter and smoother, and one is newer, slightly raised, and pink.

She looks at me intently, and I feel my eyes begin to water.

She wraps her warm hands around my arm, her palm right on top of my scars.

“Every single one of these marks is a part of your story. But they're not the whole story,” she says. Her eyes are glistening again, and she tugs my sleeve back down and pats my hand with hers. Then she stands, picks up the blade, sticks it in her apron pocket, and goes back to her packing and sniffling.

I pull away and head to the edge of the kitchen.

“I'm gonna head out for a little while. Is that okay?”

I ask.

“With Grant?” she responds.

“Yeah.” I nod. “Of course.”

“Did you two have a good time at the Rally last night?”

In a surge of betrayal, my face flushes with heat. I'm so glad she's looking the other way. “Yeah. Sure. Totally.”

“Well, have fun, but be back in time for dinner, okay? Grant can stay and eat with us if he wants.”

“Okay, thanks. I'll tell him.”

“And, honey?”

“Yeah?”

“After your dad saw you in your dress last night, he decided it's probably about time to make an adjustment to the current sleepover policy.”

She giggles as she looks back at me and then shrugs her shoulder up and down in a phony, seductive way.

“Evelyn!” I squeal, before she turns back to her boxes.

On my way back to my room, my dad's office door swings open just as I reach the bottom of the stairs.

“Immy, give your old man a squeeze.”

I walk over to him and wrap my arms around his waist.

He pushes back and looks into my face. “What is it? Is everything okay?”

I reach up to kiss him on the cheek before I turn and start heading up the stairs.

“It's okay, Dad. I'm okay.”

When I open the front door, I see Grant sitting on the curb. With his back to me, I'm left to imagine what face he's making and wonder what he's thinking right now.

The door closes behind me, and he turns at the sound. When he stands up, he looks at me with an almost blank expression. I fear, for a moment, that he's disappointed. That he doesn't see the person he saw last night. Maybe when he sees me in the light, something will have changed.

His face slowly blossoms with a smile, and he stands in front of me with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jeans. He's still wearing the shirt from last night, and his eyes are swollen and sleepy.

I walk down the path, coming to a stop just a few feet from him. “Hi,” I say.

“Hey,” he replies.

He reaches out and grabs my hand with his.

“Wanna walk with me?” he asks.

“Yeah.” I reach up to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear as we walk side by side down the sidewalk, deeper into our neighborhood.

We go on walking—without talking—for several moments, and every step seems to turn the gear one more notch, tightening the space between us. As we finally reach our unspoken destination—the cul-desac—I let go of his hand and turn to face him in the light.