Damsel[ed]: No Rescue Required

Chapter 1: Learning To Avoid Heights the Hard Way

My best friends plan to push me off a roof. They've tried killing me before, but never like this.

"I hate you," I say for the quadrillionth time. We're twelve stories up, standing on a condemned buildings' terrace. There are no guard rails. If I fall, I die. My sneakers sink into the warped wood, and I shiver.  It's always colder where it's closer to the sky.

"You know something, Angel?" Heaven asks. I squeeze my eyes shut. I won't move, I won't open my eyes, and hopefully, I won't fall twelve stories. That isn't on my list of 'ideal deaths.' "Angel?"

"It's not Angel," I snap, mentally kicking her in the shin, "it's—"

"Spare us the pronunciation guide," Gats says, words dripping in a British accent so thick he has to be part of an international boyband. I take big breaths to slow my racing heart. Cardiac arrest isn't on the 'ideal deaths' list either.

"It's Angelos." I grind my heels into the roofing plates, blood one hundred and twelve degrees. "Say it with me: An—like Anne of Green Gables—juh—like 'duh', but with a j—lohs—the way Gats says 'loss.'"

"Hey! Is that a jab at my accent? Because I can say 'loss' just fine, thank you." Gats then repeats the word until I want to stuff my hands over my ears and curl into a little ball on the ground.

Heaven laughs. "Will you listen to that? I still say Angel's the cutest thing when he's scared."

I sigh, deflating. There's something very serial-killer-esque about that girl. Give her three years and she'll land herself in a maximum-security prison.

And guess who won't  design her genius escape plan?

I puff my chest, forcing myself to sound rough and growly. "I'm not cute! I...I could hit you, y'know?"

Silence. The words hang in the air for a minute, giving me just enough time to realize how pathetic I sound before my friends burst out laughing. Heat rushes to my face. Maybe intimidation isn't my strong suit...

Heaven gasps between snorts. I cross my arms. "AHAHAHA! Good one! Hate to shatter your delusions, Angel, but I'd whoop your skinny butt."

And she'd be right. She's done it before. Multiple times.

"Don't be so mean," Gats wheezes. I decide his laughter is reminiscent of a choking seal. "He's terrified! Look at him, he's shaking!"

"It's cold!" I shout, tugging my sleeves for emphasis. "It's not my fault humans respond to cold by shaking! Take it up with science!"

"Oh, yeah," Heaven replies, "totally. Do you think he's more scared of us or heights?"

"Heights!" I hunch my back against the wind. "I hate you and your 'surprise adventures!' You know I don't like—"

"Us. He's definitely scared of us." Gats adds, "Just open your eyes, Angel. It isn't that bad."

"Right. And while we're at it, I'm sixty-nine and I actually like raisins in my cookies." I kick a nail. Gats and Hev are gonna kill me. They're gonna push me and I bet they've plotted this moment for years. "When will you stop trying to murder me?"

"We're not trying to murder you!" Heaven shouts. I almost laugh. Oh, the little liar.

"Well, I like raisins in my cookies," Gatsby offers under his breath with a 'humph.' He almost sounds offended, as if I implied all guys named after book characters should be incinerated.

I point at the air. "One: Gats is a monster. No one likes oatmeal raisin. No one. That's why chocolate chip exists. Two: If you're really not trying to murder me, then what's up with you putting crafting glue in the mayonnaise jar?"