Free Damsel Distressed by Kelsey Macke Page A

‘Myth: BUSTED!’”
    â€œWell.” He crosses his arms and raises his chin. “That makes it our show.”
    He grabs the pizza box while I scoot back to the headboard and turn on the TV. He sits next to me on my bed, his legs over the covers, but right next to mine.
    â€œGrant, Mythbusters is not the answer to all the world’s problems.”
    â€œIsn’t it, Gen? Isn’t it?”
    We eat some more pizza. I keep it to a preposterous two slices, even though I’d slap a baby for a couple more. We watch as myth after myth is unceremoniously busted, and as the team is building some sort of catapult contraption, their gear reminds me of all the crap Grant carried into school today.
    â€œSo how was your meeting this morning? Was there any news about the competition?”
    â€œWell, Mr. Simmons keeps hounding us for our sign-up money, but I’m not worried about it. If I do okay at the preliminary meet this week, I’ll earn my way in.”
    â€œThat’s a good point.” I lean over and bump his shoulder.
    â€œPlus it’s the same day as the Rally, so even if I don’t get to compete, I’ll have something to distract me from the misery of defeat later that night.”
    As soon as he mentions the Rally, the sound of Carmella’s voice in the hallway earlier rattles around my head like a penny in a jar.
    She said she’d spoken to him about the Rally.
    That’s the dance.
    Our dance.
    I mean, we don’t actually dance, but it’s still ours. Like Mythbusters .
    â€œSo, um…” I swallow. “In the hallway before, she mentioned the Rally. I mean, I don’t want to intrude on your conversation or anything, but—”
    Grant’s face flushes red.
    My heart falls to the pit of my stomach.
    â€œUm, well, we’re in the same AP History class, so, you know…third period. I mean, she was just asking me about the school and, you know, the clubs and groups, and, like, the Fine Arts Rally came up,” he says without looking at me.
    I think he hears me gulp because he looks at me so intensely. The familiarity of his perfect eyes surrounds me, and I’m asking him—with my dull ones. I’m begging him to tell me I’m wrong about the answer he must have—that almost any boy would have—given to a girl who looks like her.
    My voice sounds flimsy as I speak. “So did she, like, ask you to go to the dance with her?”
    â€œShe just…yeah. Like, if I wanted to go with her and show her around or whatever.”
    My mouth dries out, and my tongue feels like it’s choking me. I look down at the bed and see Grant’s skinny ankles next to my giant clubbed feet. I follow our legs up the bed toward our hips and I see that my side of the bed is sagging lower than his and I can’t be next to him anymore. I sit up quickly and then scoot off the bed.
    â€œRight.” I knew it before I’d asked it. My sadness at the news quickly boils into anger. I want to be angry at her, but I can’t. She’d be stupid not to ask him. He’s beautiful and kind and funny. I can’t be mad at her because it’s the one reasonable thing I’ve ever known her to do. But in my chest, the ache turns to fire and I connect all of the dots that I see in my mind, and when I’ve drawn the last line, I’m left with him. He’s like any other average, seventeen-year-old, straight guy being asked by a beautiful girl to stand inches apart and sway together for three sweaty hours. Who could blame him for saying yes?
    â€œWell, you’ll have an incredible time with her.” I begin rationally, but quickly derail. “I’m sure if you ask really nicely, she’ll let you carry her purse and might even let you see a boob!”
    His face scrunches up, and his brows come together as his mouth purses into a tiny circle before opening wide. “Yes, Gen, yes! I’m going to go