Damsel Distressed (7 page)

I feel my palms begin to sweat as my heart picks up speed.

“Oh, no, I—” I try to find my voice to tell Mr. Reed and everyone she made it up just so people would laugh, but I can't speak with the power I need. And the class has decided the prospect of me pining for someone is far too delicious to let pass.

Carmella's smile threatens to wrap all the way around her head as I stand there like an idiot, tongue-tied and near tears, unable to find something to say.

Just then, something brushes against me, and Jonathan is standing by my side. He reaches up and puts his arm around my shoulder without a breath of hesitation.

“Sorry, Mr. Reed. Imogen and I were planning to work together.” He looks at me but says loud enough for the whole class to hear, “Guess she misunderstood you. But if you want to talk about the cutest boys in class, I'm happy to give my opinion.”

Jonathan looks like a stranger. His chin is high, and he towers over me with his shoulders back. He doesn't look at the kids who are staring with wide eyes. He just keeps pressing his right hand against my arm, tucking me safely under his wing.

In a rare moment of awareness, Mr. Reed frowns a little and clears his throat. “Fine, fine, everyone. Grab your things please. We'll be reporting to the library for the next few weeks. Imogen and Jonathan, you're good to go. The rest of you, tell me your partners before you leave.” Carmella's posture melts from vixen back to schoolgirl as she walks through the room with everyone else.

“Thanks,” I mutter to Jonathan as we shuffle out the door. He gives me a tiny grin, but doesn't respond. He also doesn't remove his arm from its protective position over my shoulder. Even so, I can't help but feel weak. Victimized.

Twenty-five minutes ago, I was blissfully invisible. No laughing. No evil grins. No drama. And now? It couldn't be more dramatic. I've got a stepsister masquerading as Cinderella, the chauvinistic villagers think I'm the ugly stepsister, and the boy coming to my side is more likely to snag a prince than I am.

7

A
fter an afternoon of ducking into bathroom stalls and taking extra-long sips from the water fountain to avoid Carmella, I practically explode with joy as the last bell rings. As every period started, I waited for her to walk into my class. Jaw clenched, I set my eyes on the door and held my breath, but thankfully, I dodged every single spray-tanned bullet. I didn't see her again all day.

I walk as quickly as my stubby legs will carry me and throw myself through a set of double doors into the auditorium. In the back, between the aisles on the left and right sides of the house, I find my little home away from home: the sound booth.

As the door latches behind me, I'm enveloped in a room with foam padding and dark paint on every wall. Not much bigger than a walk-in closet, sound equipment sits on every flat surface, and cables sit coiled in neat stacks on the floor.

My throne awaits me.

I reach up and slide the large glass window all the way open and then sit in my ergonomically-correct rolling chair and watch other members of the cast and crew trickle in.

“Hey, kitten!” Brice and Jonathan's heads pop up in front of me, their faces pushing through the large open window between the auditorium and me.

“Hey,” I say with a smile. “Did you guys have a good afternoon?”

“Sure,” Brice answers. “You?”

“It was all downhill after your mister swooped in to save me.”

Brice looks at me quizzically and then turns to Jonathan and says, “Awww, you swooped?”

“You didn't tell him?” I ask Jonathan who looks back at me with the tiniest grin on his face.

“Well, I don't swoop and tell,” Jonathan says with a glint in his eye. “Come on, I've gotta finish spiking the stage before we start.”

“Bye, love,” Brice says.

“Bye, guys,” I answer.

Brice's arm is looped through Jonathan's as they walk down the aisle. They're completely adorable together. Like, make-me-want-to-barf adorable.

I'm a little surprised that Jonathan didn't tell Brice about what happened in English. Maybe it wasn't a big deal to him, but it really mattered to me.

I make a mental note to thank him again.

My phone buzzes against my palm. Grant's text says,
“If you're in the booth, stay put, okay? Gild is sending the fish your way.”

“Got it,”
I reply.

The sound of someone beating an alley cat catches my attention. It is, in fact, the insufferable laughter of Charity Wells as she enters the theatre. She's brazen and obnoxious in the worst way. Not only is she popular for being super-pretty, but she's also an honorary “bro” according to most of the football team. I saw a photo of an altogether impressive keg stand from her sophomore summer—apparently, she's stronger than she looks. Currently she's barreling across the stage saying something I can't understand while snapping up every drop of attention possible. She's been perfectly cast as Princess Winnifred.

I shudder and pull the glass window closed again.

I recognize a few other faces, mostly sneaking through the shadows and skulking in the wings. Other than my crewmates, there aren't too many people I recognize.

There's Andrew. The guy who laughed when someone called me the ugly stepsister. The guy who spent the rest of the class in the back of the library with Carmella practically in his lap. The guy who calls Charity one of his “bros.” Three strikes. He's out. I wish I could have shoved his English book right up his smug, snickering nose. I'm sure he and Charity will have a lovely time being total asshats on stage together.

At lunch, when Grant and I analyzed the cast list and discovered Andrew was Prince Dauntless—Winnifred's love interest—I asked Grant to stab me with a fork. He declined.

The twist of the door handle startles me, and as I turn, my chair rotates to face the sound. I actually have to lift my head to find her face.

“Hi. Are you Imogen? I'm Antonique. Your side-fish. I mean, sidekick. Oh, God. Fish-kick. I'm sorry.” She reaches up to tuck a thin braid behind her ear. Her fingers are long, as are her arms. Seriously, she's about six feet tall. She stands in the doorway as if she's unable to come in without an official invitation.

I smile at her reassuringly. “Hey, no worries. It's a stupid nickname for you guys anyway. But yeah, I'm Imogen. It's nice to meet you. Come on in, you don't have to stand at the door.”

Having a “fish-kick,” or freshman sidekick, for this production means I have a fifteen-year-old shadowing my every action in the sound booth. Not the best news I've ever gotten, but she seems polite. Her limbs are long, and she looks like she's been stretched in every direction. But she has kind eyes.

Her grin almost knocks me back into my chair as she enthusiastically says, “Awesome, so what can I do?”

“Knock, knock, ladies! Never fear, your stage manager is here!” Grant tips his head into the doorway without entering. “Gen, I see you met your fish-kick?”

“Yep, I just did, actually. Antonique, right? This is Grant. He's the stage manager for the show.”

It looks like every single finger is shaking with nerves as she tangles them into a knot behind her back so Grant can't see.

“Hey, good to meet you,” Grant says as he reaches out his hand, and she takes a tiny step to grab it. Her jaw is locked tight, and I smile as I imagine all the effort she's using to keep her hands steady. “Allow me to impress you with my stage manager prowess and give you a tip.” Grant walks over to my chair and puts his hand on my shoulder. “Stick with my Gen. She's the Sound Goddess. She was the youngest solo sound designer in the school's history when she worked on
West Side
as a sophomore last year. I'll hold for your applause.”

Antonique smiles, and her eyes sparkle as she claps for me.

“But in all seriousness,” he adds, “she'll take good care of you.” He nods his head toward her in an assuring way, and my face warms at the cheeks when he turns around and gives me a wink.

“Sound Goddess? I could get used to that nickname,” I say.

“I know. It's awesome. That's why I made it up.” He smiles as he spins my chair to face him. “I gotta run. I'll see you ladies around.” He marches back through the doorway, and I watch him bound back down the aisle to the stage.

I laugh a little as I spin my chair to face her better. Her eyes are so brown they're almost black, and she has the longest eyelashes I've ever seen.

“So,” she asks, as we look out the glass at the beautiful set that almost looks like a real castle. “What do you think of the show?”

This is the sweetest, most vague question ever, and I think she is adorable. She has no idea how deep my musical theatre knowledge goes, but I don't have even the slightest desire to snark about it. There's nothing about her that makes me feel defensive. Her trusting eyes and generous smile have warmed the sterile, dark room in under ten minutes.

“
Once Upon a Mattress
in general or our production?” I ask.

“In general. I haven't been able to spend much time with the script yet so I don't know much about it.”

“Oh, it's awesome. I spent most of the summer watching videos of other productions and memorizing cue lines. It makes running sound
so
much easier.” I decide to give her the single-sentence recap instead of launching into a one-woman monologue of the
Once Upon a Mattress
Wiki page.

“It's a totally campy, late-fifties retelling of the
Princess and the Pea
. Except, you know, the Princess isn't very delicate or princessey at all. I've read the script about four thousand times, and I've listened to the cast recording at least twice that much. It's one of my favorites. I think princesses are pretty much the worst. Having a musical about an anti-princess is kinda perfect.”

“It sounds funny.” She smiles as she brings her tangled hands in front of her and continues to fidget. “If you like it so much, why didn't you audition?”

I almost choke as I blurt out, “Oh, God, no!” I laugh louder than is necessary considering the size of the room. “Oh, no. I don't do that.” I gesture through the glass to the stage where various actors are stumbling through choreography and looking like synchronized toddlers learning to walk. “Don't get me wrong, I love music and musicals and I'm pretty much obsessed with everything theatre, but I'm most comfortable way back here. In the dark. Wearing black. Where no will see me or bother me or talk to me.”

“Oh. okay. I'm sorry if I was talking too much,” she says as she looks down at the board.

“No, oh, no! Not you. Techies stick together. You're one of us now.”

On the stage, Grant is walking behind Gild with a clipboard, following her finger as she points at things and gestures all around.

Antonique laughs. “I am? Well, I know you have tons to teach me. I'm really excited to be working with you.”

“I'm excited, too.” And I really am. She has a gentle face that soothes me somehow. I've known her for minutes, but I feel like everything is exactly what it seems. It doesn't feel like drama. It doesn't feel like defensiveness. It feels new…and nice.

“So when do I get to sit in the big spinning throne?” Antonique grins widely from her rock-hard folding chair beside me.

I shake my finger at her with a smile on my face. “Not so fast, fish-kick. We've got a lot of learning to do if you want a turn in the fancy chair. Let's start with the most basic, most important button on the entire console.”

I turn to face the soundboard, and Antonique lowers her face so it's unnecessarily close to the contraption.

She looks as if she's ready to memorize my every word so she'll impress me with her dedication. I gesture to a little button beside the main volume fader.

“This button will preserve your sanity. It will also save you from a multitude of uncomfortable and awkward situations. It is the most critical, most important, most powerful button on the entire board.”

I lower my eyes, building her anticipation. She's leaning forward like a kid waiting for the ending of a ghost story at a campfire.

“What button is it?” she asks, her eyes wide.

I look from side to side, as if I'm making sure we're alone before revealing my greatest secret. I pull closer to her, and right on cue, the sound of Charity Wells screlting out a note just out of her range comes through the hanging house mics and echoes through the tiny sound booth.

“Mute,” I whisper.

I depress the button, and the tiny monitor speakers click off, silencing Charity's screeching. The sound is replaced with laughter as Antonique and I break into cackles and rattle the walls with squeals of our own.

8

M
ondays are always long, hard days. Mondays with a five-hour rehearsal tacked on to the end of the school day are even worse. It's just after nine when Grant and I climb the stairs to my room for a quick bite before he goes home. Grant always goes up the stairs in front of me. He tried for years to convince me I should go up first in case I trip over nothing—which, frankly, could happen.

He proposed that he'd “catch me.”

Even before I was plus-sized, I felt like a big, clumsy thing. I scoffed and told him that my ass being at the level of his face while climbing stairs was simply not going to happen, and he eventually dropped the subject.

So, he's in front of me, taking the stairs two at a time, holding a tray at shoulder level, like a waiter.

As we get to the landing, he pauses by the bannister so I can pass him and enter my room first, but before I can cross the hallway, the bathroom door flies open and steam billows out in a gush that makes me feel like I've stepped into a sauna.

Right on cue. God, it's like she's been waiting in there with a steam machine for this exact moment.