Speechless (10 page)

“Chelsea.” Mom’s arms drop to her sides, and she takes a step toward me. “Tell me what’s wrong. Tell me so I can fix it.”

I waver for a minute, wondering if I should just give in and tell her what she wants to hear. Since it seems like she just wants to hear
something,
anything at all. I even open my mouth, the words forming somewhere in my throat, but when I try to actually speak, it’s just…like my vocal chords are paralyzed or something. Nothing comes out.

“What I don’t understand is why you would go to that party in the first place,” she says. She sighs again and walks over to the dryer. “And then I think about everything else you must’ve been doing behind our backs. I’m smarter than you give me credit for, Chelsea. I knew things…happened, things I figured I was better off not knowing about. Like the drinking. The boys. But I thought we raised you better than that.”

I want to tell her that it isn’t like that. So I drink, sometimes, but it’s not like— It’s just a social thing. A fun thing. I’m not like her cousin who got so drunk at Thanksgiving he passed out in the driveway. And as for the boys, well, there isn’t much to talk about in that department. The most I’ve done is make out with Joey a few times, mostly because Kristen kept pushing us together. But kissing Joey wasn’t even enjoyable. It was actually a little gross. Nothing like movies make you think.

Anyway, after what happened on New Year’s, I’m never going to drink again. And probably will never kiss anyone ever again, either. Chances are I’ll die alone. Surrounded by cats. Oh, God. I can see it all so clearly. I’ll be the crazy cat lady chasing kids off her lawn with a broom.

“I told your father this would happen,” she continues. “We should have pulled you out of that school. Those kids are barbaric.” She rearranges the fabric sheets boxes absently, and I notice the slight tremor in her hands. She’s really worried about me. I feel that twinge again, the guilty twist in my gut.

I always wondered what it’d be like to grow up in a big family like my mom did. She and Dad made a conscious decision for me to be an only child. Yeah, there are perks—like never having to share my room or toys or attention. But it might be nice, in times like these, to have someone to confide in, or at least commiserate with. Maybe an older sibling, someone who would be able to tell me that all of this high school stuff doesn’t matter. That things will get better. My parents can tell me as much as they like, and maybe they’re right, but I’m never going to fully believe it.

The thing is, despite everything going on—I don’t want to change schools. It feels too much like running away. Let the jerks that vandalized my locker and my car and harassed me think they can just run me off that easy? No. I’m not going to end up as one of Kristen’s little victims. I know the games she plays; she expects me to cave under the pressure and come begging for forgiveness, but it’s not going to happen. I’m not like those other girls she can scare into submission.

When Mom looks at me again, her eyes are a little glassy, like maybe she’s going to cry, but I can’t tell for sure. It might just be the lights down here.

“I know I can’t change your mind,” she says. The slightest of wry smiles appears on her face. “You get your stubborn streak from me.”

I smile back as much as I can, hoping it’ll tell her without words what she desperately wants to hear. That this isn’t her fault. It’s like what those cheesy action-movie heroes always say before they finish taking out the bad guys: I started this, and I’m going to finish it. Except even in the movie of my own life, I’ve never been the heroine. I’ve never been Action Girl. I’ve only ever been Kristen’s supporting character.

day four

On the drive to school the next morning, in an effort to psych myself up, I blast Eminem at full volume. I got this album when I was, like, nine. I had to beg Dad to buy it for me on the down-low, since Mom had a ban on me owning any music she deemed inappropriate. Eminem definitely fell in that bracket. But Dad’s always been a softie, and even though he’s all about Led Zeppelin and Eric Clapton himself, he likes to think he still has the kind of antiestablishment streak that would allow him to procure contraband music for his only daughter.

What’s really hard is overcoming the temptation to sing along. Sure, no one would know but me, and it’s doubtful I’d hurt anyone by spitting out lyrics alone in my car—no matter how vulgar they may be—but when I said I have something to prove, I didn’t mean only to the kids at school. I have something to prove to myself. That I’m not who everyone thinks I am. That I can stick to this.

Listening to Eminem makes me feel like a badass. Or at least as though I have the potential for badassery. I mean, the way he sings, it’s like he’d probably punch out a puppy if it looked at him wrong. Obviously I’m not glorifying animal cruelty here, I’m just saying, I could use some of that attitude. It’s better than the attitude I have now of just letting everyone mess with me all the time.

I pull into my usual parking spot and leave the car on until the current song finishes, and when I walk through the school doors, I try holding on to that newfound sense of I-don’t-give-a-crap. My first test is the fresh graffiti on my locker, the word
BITCH
etched in black marker. For a second I flinch inwardly, stung, but then I’m just annoyed. Bitch? Really? Whoever is behind this is in dire need of a thesaurus. The level of creativity is tragic more than anything.

I decide not to bother cleaning the slur off my locker this time. I even take a red marker out of my locker and dot the I with a heart. I’ll wear it as a badge of honor. Yeah, that’s right. You think I’m a bitch now, Grand Lake High? You ain’t seen nothing yet.

“Chelsea?” Asha pops up behind me, clutching some notebooks to her chest and smiling wide. Her face falls as she notices the defacement of my locker. “Who did that?” she asks.

I snap the lock shut and shrug my shoulders. I’m not going to waste time caring about it. I lean back against my locker and level Asha with a questioning look. She still hasn’t explained why she’s talking to me.

She seems to understand the implied question. “I’m on my way to Advanced Algebra,” she explains, gesturing down the hall. “I saw you as I was walking and just thought I’d say hi.” She grins again. “By the way, I was going to ask you—”

“
Excuse
me.”

I look up in time to see Kristen shoulder her way past Asha, hard, sending her stumbling into the bank of lockers. Her books fall from her arms and her notes flutter to the floor.

Tessa trails after Kristen, laughing. “What reeks?” she asks, her nose wrinkled. She eyes Asha up and down. “It smells like curry.”

I instinctively put myself between her and Asha, opening my mouth to respond with something like
All I smell is bitchassery and acne cream,
but then I close it when I remember I cannot, of course, say anything. Still, I do a pretty mean glare, and for a moment Tessa’s smirk falters. Asha doesn’t react, just calmly bends down to collect her scattered papers. I kneel down and help, ignoring Kristen and Tessa’s looming presence. Just as I grab one of Asha’s math worksheets, Kristen steps on it, causing the paper to tear in half as I pull upward.

“Oops,” she says flatly.

I rise to my feet so we’re face-to-face. I’m so angry I’m shaking with it. The urge to haul off and punch her in the face is strong, but I swallow the temptation; I don’t even know how to throw a punch, and while it might feel satisfying in the moment, it won’t solve anything. The worst is the way Kristen stares back at me, so unaffected and
smug,
like she knows I can’t touch her.

“What are you going to do? Glare me to death?” she drawls. She looks from me to Asha and back again. “This is sad, even for you. Do you really have to drag the queen of the loser brigade down with you?” Her tone goes ice-cold. “Don’t you think you’ve ruined enough lives already?”

“You better watch your back,” Tessa warns Asha. “Chelsea will throw you under the bus in a heartbeat.
Trust me.
” She casts a bitter glare my way just in case I didn’t get the intended message. I’m itching to spill to her who was
really
behind the blackmailing, but there’s no way she’d believe me over Kristen anyway.

Asha tucks some loose papers inside her binder and smiles at them, big and fake. “Thanks for the super helpful advice,” she says. “I’ll take it into consideration.” She starts down the hall, barely slowing to glance back at me over her shoulder. “Coming?”

I take one last look at Kristen before turning and falling in step beside Asha. My heart is still pounding like crazy as we disappear around the corner out of their sight. When Asha stops at the water fountain, I lean against the wall with my eyes closed, taking deep breaths and trying to calm myself. I hate that I’m letting them get to me this much when I promised myself I wouldn’t. I hate that I just stood there and let them talk to Asha like that.

The worst thing is knowing they’re right. Asha might be a loser, but she’s been nice to me, inexplicably so, and she doesn’t deserve to deal with what’ll come to her just by being in my orbit.

“You’re not ruining my life.”

I open my eyes as Asha wipes her mouth off with the back of her hand. She must see the uncertainty on my face, because she smiles at me, equal parts grim and reassuring.

“You don’t really believe I think the girls who just bodychecked me into the lockers, called me a loser and ripped up my homework have my best interests at heart, do you?” she says.

I dig my whiteboard and marker from my bag.
They’re not going to leave you alone if they see you with me.

“So?” she says. “In my opinion, if those girls hate me, that only means I must be doing something right.” The warning bell rings, and she sighs. “I should get to class. See you later.”

I don’t run into her again until lunch. I’m holed up in the library, the easiest place to be alone without drawing attention to myself or worrying about anyone bothering me. Every computer is taken, so my genius plan to waste the hour surfing the web is dashed to the rocks. Instead I plop down at an empty table and pull out my lunch—a bag of pretzels, bottled water and a Snickers bar, courtesy of the first-floor vending machine—and my geometry book. I can’t believe this is my life now. Spending lunch in the library. Doing homework. Ahead of time. Homework I cannot even understand. Oh, parabolas, why must your formulas elude me so?

“That looks nutritious.”

I look up to see Asha sitting across from me. She has a brown-paper-bag lunch spread out in front of her: a diagonally cut peanut butter and jelly sandwich, a little bag of crackers, some apple slices and a can of iced tea, along with her knitting.

I have no idea how long she’s been sitting there. Did I really get that absorbed in my geometry homework? Wonders, they will never cease.

Asha sees my look and casts her gaze down at the tabletop. “Sorry, am I interrupting?” she asks. “I can go if you want.”

She pushes her chair back and stands, but I shake my head, motion for her to sit down and close my textbook. Parabolas can wait. Asha beams, sitting again and unwrapping her sandwich.

“How’s it going?” she asks.

I gesture to my homework and point a finger gun to my temple.

She grins. “Having some trouble, I take it?”

I pull out my whiteboard and write,
Only always
, and she laughs.

“You know, I could help you with it sometime,” she says. “I’m pretty good with numbers.”

I am more than willing to use this reluctant camaraderie to my benefit. Maybe I can get a good math grade out of it. That’d be something.

You free after school?

Asha makes an apologetic face. “Can’t. I have to work,” she explains. But then her eyes brighten. “Hey, why don’t you come with me? Thursdays are slow anyway, and I get a break, so I could help you out. And I bet I can get you a free sandwich. Sam makes amazing tuna melts. I mean, I haven’t tried them because I’m vegetarian, but everyone says they’re awesome.”

What about your boss?

“Dex won’t care, trust me. He’s really laid-back. You’d like him.”

I consider my options. Hanging out at a diner does sound pretty sweet compared to the alternative—moping in an empty house until my parents come home from work. The prospect of eating something not made from tofu is too enticing to pass up. What’s the worst that could happen?

O.K.

Asha’s face lights up. “Perfect!” she exclaims. “It’ll be fun, I promise.” She grins and passes me an apple slice.

I bite into it, grateful, and for the most fleeting of moments I forget how depressed I’m supposed to be.

* * *

Asha meets me after detention, and we drive to Rosie’s together. She’s particularly bubbly today. Or maybe I’ve just forgotten what it’s like to be in such a good mood that you feel the need to dance in your seat to the radio.

“You like rap?” she says over the music. “That is awesome.”

Kristen would not find that awesome. And she definitely would not find Asha’s dorky car dancing awesome. At least, not post-Warren Kristen. Pre-Warren Kristen was different. Less concerned about looking like an idiot. We used to choreograph silly dance routines in my bedroom, using hairbrushes for microphones. Those days are long over.

Asha doesn’t stop dancing as we enter the diner. She even does a little twirl on her way up to the counter, leans across it and hollers, “Hey, Dex! I’m here!”

“My savior!” An older guy—late twenties, probably—pops his head over the counter. He has long hair, like my dad’s in those old pictures, and a bunch of tattoos up and down his arms. There’s also a big black star inked on his neck. He sees me hovering and grins. “
And
you brought me a customer? Damn, you really know how to score the brownie points. Speaking of brownies…”

Asha gasps. “You
better
not be teasing me.”

“Of course not. I would never joke about a subject as sacred as baked goods.” He brings out a brownie on a napkin. “Fresh out of the oven.”