Damsel Distressed (3 page)

“It's nothing major, I know.”

He pauses. “Come here, you.” He jerks his head, gesturing outside, and gets out of the car, closing his door behind him.

As I stand in the space of my open car door, he walks up to me. The sunlight is breaking through the tree in his front yard and streaming across his face. He squints his hazel eyes—more green than brown, but definitely both. The skin around his mouth folds into familiar creases as he smiles.

“Come on,” he says as he opens his arms wide and pulls me against him.

I press my cheek to his chest and listen to his heartbeat.

We stand there, my arms wrapped neatly around his narrow waist and his arms crossing gently over my shoulders. All that exists is the smell of his hair. I could never describe what it is exactly, but the smell of him and his drugstore hair product does me in every single time. I could live in that smell.

“Thank you for my present,” he whispers over my head.

When Grant, Brice, Jonathan, and I step out of the Edgehill Community Theatre at half-past ten, the entire sky is bright with stars. I turn around and look up at the beautiful theatre marquees, glowing with colorful neon lights.

“That was so good!” Brice skips to the edge of the sidewalk and starts balancing on the curb. His grin is a mile wide as Jonathan, hands shoved deep in his pockets, comes to his side. Brice's bright voice fills the cool evening air. “When the Jackal was revealed, I was like ‘whaaaaat?!' 'cause I did not see that coming. Did you see that coming, babe?”

Brice holds out his hand for Jonathan, who pauses for a moment before taking it.

I recognize insecurity. One might call it my specialty. It only lasts a second, but that hesitation sticks out at me and I make a mental note to pay closer attention and listen for clues the next time Brice is talking about his boy.

“Definitely not.” Jonathan gives him a twirl, which causes Brice to giggle adorably.

While Brice skips over to me, I watch as Jonathan shoves his hand back in his pocket before turning to Grant and mouthing, “Yes, I did.” They laugh as they walk down the sidewalk in front of Brice and me.

We follow them closely. Brice's face and wide, round eyes are bright as he chatters.

“And did you see those costumes? The ensemble had to wear at least four different looks, maybe five. That is impressive.”

“Well, you could do just as well,” I say as I look up at the stars.

Brice smiles. “Probably, yeah.”

In front of us, Grant suddenly turns around and runs up to me with a grin on his face.

“HA! Gen, you thought I'd forget? You sneak!”

I laugh because I already know what he's going to say. Grant turns toward the boys and explains.

“Gen and I have a standing ice cream bet for every theatre production we see. She thinks it will be lame. I think it will be awesome. Optimism wins again!” He turns back to me. “You lose. You buy the ice cream.”

I scoff and cross my arms. “It's your birthday! I would have bought the ice cream anyway.”

He bends down so we're at the same eye level.

“I think you're trying to keep me from my ice cream.”

I stand up straight and put my hand over my heart. “I'd never, ever keep a person from their ice cream. I thought you knew me so well.”

He winks, and I stick out my tongue before we step onto the crosswalk arm-in-arm.

“So,” Brice chimes in, “I don't know much about how you and Grant got together.”

He raises his eyebrow a little bit, and my rebuttal gets caught in my throat.

“Not
together
together,” Grant says with an easy smile that seems to mean nothing. His words echo off the walls of my chest, banging around between each rib before settling in my stomach.

“Yeah, we're not together. But you
know
that,” I say to Brice with a slim smile as the warmth of Grant's arm radiates into mine.

Brice stops and puts a hand on his hip. “Oh, excuse me for misinterpreting.” He gestures to our intertwined limbs.

“We've been best friends since kindergarten,” Grant says.

“Yeah, it's true,” I say as I watch Brice snake his hand through the gap between Jonathan's body and where his hand's still shoved to the bottom of his pocket.

“Gen?”

I shake away my curiosity at Jonathan's hidey hand and pick up where Grant left off. “We really got close right after my mom died in fourth grade.” I say the words, but with Grant's body close to mine, I barely feel the sting.

“I remember the day Gen and I became inseparable. I'd crawled under the fence to sit in her living room and play video games—”

“And on this random day, I answered the phone instead of my dad. It was a telemarketer who asked if my mom was home, and I totally freaked out. I panicked and almost hyperventilated. I ran upstairs and crawled under my bed to hide.”

Grant turns to me and says, “I went upstairs and crawled right under there with her. And I told her that no matter what, no matter how bad things got, I'd stay.”

Brice stops dead in his tracks. “That. Is. The. Cutest. Story. Ever.” He sniffles and then turns to Jonathan and starts playfully smacking him on the shoulder. “Can we have a romantic story like that? You need to crawl under my bed real freaking quick, you got it?”

Romantic. The heat returns to my cheeks.

And Grant lets go of my arm.

No, Brice, it's not romantic 'cause we were ten. And even if it happened tonight, we're just friends. Period. Been there, ruined that
.

Jonathan smiles at Brice and softly says, “Give us time. We'll get a story.” His voice is warm and has a gentle twang. Brice turns and stretches onto his tiptoes to wrap his arms all the way around Jonathan's neck. Brice is a whole head shorter, but other than that, they're a matched set. Twin puffs of honey-colored hair, swept up into fashionable pompadours; square jawlines; and bright blue eyes. As Brice pulls back, Jonathan kisses his forehead before we cross the next block.

As I walk past the glow of a green stoplight, envy swells in my belly. Romantic might be their story, but it won't be mine. Not with Grant. It just won't.

And I shouldn't take our relationship for granted by wishing it was something else.

We finally arrive at our favorite ice cream shop, and I make good on my promise and order Grant a double chocolate chip. He doesn't have to tell me his order. I just know.

I usually get a double scoop of butter pecan in a waffle cone, but after Brice orders lemon ice and Jonathan gets frozen yogurt, I come to the table with a kid's scoop of vanilla. In a cup.

“Where's your butter pecan?” Grant asks.

“They were out,” I lie. “But that's not important.” I clear my throat with a flourish. I hold up my cup and say, “Here's to Grant. Happy Birthday.”

We bump our scoops together. As we dive into our first tastes, Grant leans over to whisper in my ear. “You made it great.”

I grin as I dig the tiny plastic spoon in my little paper cup. This boring, old vanilla has never tasted so sweet.

3

M
y dripping paintbrush creates the sweetest rhythm as it swipes color across the particleboard. I dip the bristles into the stony grey again, and the wet paint reflects miniature versions of the hot stage lights into my eyes. I can almost hear waves crashing with every brush stroke, back and forth, up and down.

I love the sound.

Grant is working on the opposite side of the stage. He's building a giant, colorful bed for the second act, which rolls on casters and towers thirteen fake mattresses high. I look over at him, perched on top of the giant contraption, whacking a hammer with Thorlike precision. He is hunched over the side with his dark hair flopping across his increasingly sweaty brow. As if on cue, his head snaps up. He's too far away and the lighting is too weird, so I can't really see the details of his eyes, but that's okay. I've had them memorized for years. He looks right at me, standing in front of a half-painted castle wall. I'm staring with my lips apart like an idiot, paint from my brush dripping down the back of my hand 'cause, well, that's what paint does.

He lifts his chin and tries to shake his sweaty hair out of his eyes as he gives me a big smile.

“You okay?” he mouths. I nod at him and stifle a laugh. He's dangling off a ten-foot tall platform and haphazardly using power tools, but he's the one checking on me. Grant crosses his eyes and sticks his tongue out just as Jonathan walks up and asks for help lifting a platform.

I laugh as Grant pulls his tongue back in his mouth and tries to act like a self-respecting stage manager, jumping down from his perch and dusting off his hands. Jonathan looks back in my direction with a grin and shakes his head slightly before punching Grant in the shoulder and then guiding him to the large, heavy step that belongs further upstage.

I lower my brush and wipe my paint-smeared hand across the leg of my already color-crusted tech day jeans. Just then, Grant and Jonathan lean over and pick up the giant platform on “three,” and I feel my eyeballs pop out of my head.

I can see Grant's arms as he hefts the platform. He's not “buff,” but he's strong and looks good in his bright green shirt. It has white block lettering in two rows. The top row says, “NaCl,” and under that are the letters “NaOH.” Of course, I wouldn't have any idea what this means if he hadn't taken the time to explain to me once that it was actually a guffaw-worthy science joke: “The base is under a salt!” If he weren't so tall and fast, I would have beaten him over the head with the nearest Bunsen burner.

Brice sits on the floor beside me. He's been painting the shadows around each of the castle's stones as I finish them, but it seems he's taken an eye candy break as well. He's also staring across the stage at this public display of brute strength, and without moving his eyes, he reaches up and holds his phone out in my direction.

“Here. Take my phone,” Brice says.

“What do you want me to do with this?” I ask.

“Call the ambulance. I've just died and gone to Heaven.”

We turn our faces toward each other and lock eyes before bursting into hysterical laughter.

I gasp for air while Brice is now rolling into a ball on the floor. I'm giggling so hard I plop down onto the floor beside him, and I have to wipe my eyes just to see him at all. I'm suddenly aware of the kids in the stage left wing sorting props into neat piles and the girls stacking gels and focusing the spotlights on giant ladders. Drill bits are whirring, and hammers are clanking. Our director is nowhere to be found, and somewhere backstage, someone is listening to the
Wicked
soundtrack. Again.

Only in the theatre. Two people are making complete idiots of themselves, rolling around on the floor deliriously, and no one's even noticed.

In between gasps, Brice is mimicking his phone call with imaginary EMTs. “Yes, please hurry. My boyfriend is doing manual labor in a tank top, and I don't think I'm gonna make it!”

The bang, like a gunshot, when Jonathan drops his end of the heavy platform, drawing our attention back to the boys. Jonathan shakes out his left hand as if it's been injured before shoving it deep into the pocket of his cargo shorts. Grant looks at me, and his eyes open with surprise.

He smiles as he cocks one eyebrow disapprovingly. “What are you two laughing at? Are you okay?” Grant hollers while Jonathan wipes his brow.

“It's nothing! We're fine!” I call as I try to shrink my smile. My cheeks ache, and my deeply buried ab muscles are sore from laughing. This was not listed as a side effect of happiness in my “So You Wanna Kick Depression?” pamphlet.

“We're okay,” Brice shouts loudly across the stage. “But we might need mouth to mou—”

“WHOA MYGOD!” I dive on Brice and practically smother him with so much skin and laughter. Grant and Jonathan snicker and head backstage just as someone cranks up the volume on “Defying Gravity.” Again.

“Miss Keegan? Mr. Wilson?” The sound of Mrs. Gild's voice stops all giggles in their tracks. I sit up straight and pull my shirt out at the waist. We face the rows and rows of velveteen auditorium seats, and standing in the center of the house is our director with a stern look on her face. I have seen some sad, scary things.

I have been hospitalized for panic attacks. I tried on a pair of shorts last year. But nothing—nothing—chills a theatre kid to the bone like the roar of a pissed-off director.

“If you two cannot be productive, you're welcome to take the rest of the afternoon off.”

Under his breath, Brice mutters, “Sweet. I could use a break.”

I jab at him with my elbow as Mrs. Gild pushes up the sleeves of her charcoal grey cardigan. I can feel the eyes of the rest of the techies, who are all standing at attention because that's what we do whenever our director speaks.

“As a matter of fact,” Gild begins, “you can take the entire semester off and just forgo this production altogether, unless you wouldn't mind getting back to work.” Her voice is singsong-y, and just as she sets her jaw and stares at us with her steely eyes, the speaker backstage bursts into the loud, ominous, dissonant music of the last thirty seconds of
Wicked
‘s first act.