Speechless (19 page)

And what am I supposed to do when Sam isn’t there to swoop in and save me from the big bad wolf?

Of course he wasn’t thinking about
that.
He doesn’t understand how this is all a balancing act. Yes, someday I am going to pay Lowell and Derek both back for the way they’ve treated me, and it will be a very sweet revenge indeed, but I can’t afford to be reckless about it like Sam just was.

“I’ll see you later,” he says to me, but I just give him a cold look in return.

When he’s gone, Brendon puts a hand on my arm and says, “Are you okay?”

Touching. He’s actually touching me. Acknowledging my existence. This is new. Even through the fabric of my sweater, I can feel the warmth of his skin. But it’s not like before. No butterflies. I feel like I should be more excited about this.

I nod and wonder what’s changed.

“How’s the whole vow of silence thing going?” he asks.

I shrug, and then I take out my whiteboard and write,
How’s GSA?

“It’s a lot of work,” he says, “but I think it’ll be worth it. My older sister, Dana, is actually the one who suggested starting it to me. She didn’t come out until college, but she told me she always wished there’d been something like that for her in high school.” He stops for a second, mouth turning down. “Were you…thinking of coming to a meeting?”

I shake my head. I’m not stupid. I know where I’m not wanted.

“Good,” he says, relaxing. “I mean, I wouldn’t stop you, of course, but I just think—I think it might be uncomfortable if you did. For everyone.”

I realize Brendon’s probably right, but the implication still stings. I guess this shows how much he really thinks of me.

I look down at where he’s touching me. He’s wearing this button-down shirt and a sweater over it, as preppy and clean-cut as ever. The sleeves are rolled up enough to show off his forearms. They look strong, muscular, not at all like Sam’s. And even now, in the middle of winter, his skin is all golden tan. He told me he spent Christmas vacation in Miami, and I acted jealous at the time, but really, I thought it was kind of ridiculous. I mean, Christmas is like the one time of the year where it’s nice to have snow on the ground. Christmas without snow is like the Fourth of July without fireworks and barbecues, or wearing leggings as pants. Just wrong.

What’s really wrong is that I’m looking at Brendon’s sexy arms and all I can think about is snow.

“Brendon?”

A heavyset kid with glasses approaches, his hands twisting nervously around the straps of his backpack. He looks from me to Brendon…like he’s afraid he’s intruding.

“Sorry,” he says, “I just wanted to ask you about something about next week’s meeting.”

“Sure, Garrett,” Brendon says with a smile. He turns that smile to me with an apologetic shrug. “See you around, Chelsea.”

He squeezes my arm and walks off with Garrett, and I watch him as he goes, but something’s off. A few weeks ago I was dying to jump his bones. What is the matter with me?

day twenty

“I can’t tell if you’re giving me the silent treatment, or if you’re just being…you.”

I ignore Sam and scrub the pot in my hands. The Friday night special is lasagna. It crusts on the bottom of the dishes so I have to hand wash them.

It’s taken Sam two days to catch on to the fact that I’m giving him the cold shoulder. He is right, though; it’s hard to let someone know you’re pissed off when you’re already not speaking. My method has mostly involved avoidance of eye contact and a lot of scowling. Passive aggressive, I’ll admit, but it’s all I’ve got unless I want to tell him off via whiteboard.

He steps in front of me when I go to set the pot in the dishwasher. “Look,” he says, “about the other day… I wasn’t trying to—you know. Overstep. I just
really
can’t stand that guy.”
That guy
being Lowell, I assume.

I roll the rack in and fold my arms over my chest, waiting to see if he has more to say. He does.

“I know, you don’t want me fighting your battles, and I won’t anymore. I promise.” He tucks his chin to his chest, wiping his hands on his apron, and then looks up at me. “I just want you to know, I’m on your side. Okay?”

I nod a little so he knows I understand. I appreciate what he’s trying to do. But he’s right. I don’t want him fighting my battles. There doesn’t need to be another person getting caught in the crosshairs.

Usually the diner closes at ten, but on Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays, Dex keeps it open until two in the morning. It’s a haven for the burnouts—clusters of kids filter in after midnight, coming down from their highs and seeking to fulfill their munchie cravings. They all order the twenty-four-hour breakfasts and black coffee.

Things calm down around one or so. Dex and Lou work the counter while the rest of us take a break. Technically, as far as the state of Michigan’s child labor laws are concerned, Asha’s shift ended at nine, and Sam’s and mine ended at ten-thirty, but we’ve been hanging around helping out anyway. Dex repays us with free food. We sit in the long wall booth, Asha drinking chamomile tea while Sam devours leftover home fries. I squish in next to him and steal a few from his plate. They’re mushy and a little cold but still good.

“I need to buy a dress,” Asha says.

Sam taps the bottom of a mostly empty ketchup bottle against the table’s edge. “What for?”

“Winter Formal.”

I groan, and everyone stops to look at me. I can’t help it. Is Asha really still stuck on this?

“You want to go to Winter Formal?” asks Sam. He sounds incredulous. I’m glad I’m not the only one who thinks the idea is ridiculous. And bad. Bad bad bad, all around.

She shrugs and licks her spoon. “Why not?”

“Uh, because dances are lame?”

“How would you know? Have you ever even
been
to one?”

“Well, I’ve never been attacked by a scorpion, either, but I know I wouldn’t want to be.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” she asks.

He dips a fry in ketchup and points it at her.
“Exactly.”

Asha huffs like she’s given up on the argument. I pull my feet into the booth with a yawn. I’m so tired. I really should go home soon. I check my cell to see if either of my parents have noticed my absence, but I have exactly zero missed calls and no new texts. I’d bet anything that Dad fell asleep in front of the television again, and Mom probably went straight to bed as soon as she came home from work. She’s been running herself ragged to clock in as many hours as she can.

I lie down and stretch out my legs, resting my head on Sam’s lap. He looks down at me, surprised, but doesn’t say anything. A few seconds later he sets one of his hands on top of my hair. He starts stroking it, very lightly, like I’m a cat. It feels good. I rub my cheek against his leg and close my eyes. I could fall asleep right here....

Right as I’m drifting off, someone shoves my legs off the booth seat and snaps, “Move it.”

I open my eyes to see Andy scowling at me. He has a rag in one hand and a spray bottle in the other.

“Don’t be a dick,” Asha says to him.

Sam clenches his jaw but keeps his mouth shut. I guess he’s afraid I’ll get annoyed if he says something. He’s right. I would be annoyed.

I
am
annoyed, anyway. But not with him. With Andy. I set both feet on the floor and sit up so fast I get a little dizzy.

Andy makes an irritated sound in the back of his throat as he wipes down the table next to ours. “Oh, grow up, Asha.”

She goes quiet and stirs her tea slowly, the spoon clanking against the ceramic mug. Okay, that is not cool. No one should be mean to Asha. She’s nice to everyone, all the time.

“Leave her alone,” Sam says, and Andy whirls on him.

“Oh, right, let’s not hurt the princess’s feelings.”

“Dude, what is your problem?”

“
My
problem? What’s
your
problem?” He slams the spray bottle down on the table and glares at me. “I see Mute Girl here is making herself right at home, isn’t she? Putting her goddamn feet on the furniture.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about how she’s Single White Female-ing Noah’s ass!” he bursts. “Taking his job when she’s the reason he can’t even work. And none of you even care.”

“Don’t tell me I don’t care about Noah.” Sam’s voice shakes, and it makes my heart feel like it’s splintering into tiny pieces.

“Oh, really? How many times have you visited him in the hospital, Sam?” he asks. Sam lowers his eyes to his plate, silent, and Andy scoffs. “Yeah. I’m sure you’ll be awarded your Best Friend of the Year trophy any day now.”

He stalks off toward the back, and we all watch him go. Dex grabs his arm, says something to him, but Andy brushes him off and storms out of sight. We all sit in silence for a long time. Sam won’t even look at me.

I push my way out of the booth. As I pass, Asha tugs my sleeve and says, “Chelsea, maybe you should leave him alone. Let him cool off a little.”

No. I think it’s time we had this out. It’s been a long time coming.

I snag my whiteboard from my bag and follow him out the back door. He’s sitting outside on an overturned crate, hunched forward, smoking a cigarette. When the door closes behind me, he looks over his shoulder and frowns.

“Fuck off,” he says.

I stand in front of him. At the party, when he left with Noah, I remember he was smiling, this wide grin that was too big for his face. He’d had no idea what would happen that night. Neither of us did.

I’m sorry.

I hold the board up so he can see it. He stares at it, and then at me, unimpressed.

“What for?” he asks flatly.

Everything.

“Wow. Thank you. I feel all better now,” he says. “I don’t care if you’re sorry. I don’t care what you feel. I don’t
care.
”

I don’t expect you to forgive me. Ever.

He blows out a thin stream of smoke. “Good.”

I’m still sorry.

He doesn’t respond. I start to write more, but then he stands and says, “Stop it, okay, just stop! You can’t be sorry. You don’t even know what to be sorry
for.
You have no idea. Noah isn’t some stand-in to teach you a moral life lesson. He’s a fucking person. Do you even know anything about him?”

I swallow and slowly shake my head.

“Well, let me tell you,” he says, not at all nicely. “His favorite color is blue. His middle name is Christopher. He’d eat nothing but macaroni and cheese if he could get away with it. He judges anyone who lists J. D. Salinger as their favorite author. One time he spent an hour explaining to me in specific detail why he thinks
Catcher in the Rye
is a piece of crap. He has a scar on his left knee from wiping out on his skateboard when he was twelve. Sam was there when it happened, and puked because of all the blood. It took five stitches to close it. Noah went as Draco Malfoy for Halloween, and he tried to get me to go as Harry Potter, but I thought it was a dumb idea, so we had a big fight about it. The first time he kissed me, we were standing right over there.” He points to the Dumpster. “It was raining, and I was smoking a cigarette as he dumped the last of the trash, and I made a stupid joke about the weather, and Noah laughed, because that’s what Noah does—he laughs at any joke, no matter how stupid. Sometimes he just laughs for no reason. He tossed the trash, and then he came over to me, and he flicked my cigarette out of my hand and he kissed me, out of the blue. Just like that. Like it was nothing.”

Andy throws out each fact like he’s drilling nails into my heart. His stare doesn’t waver from mine, rooting me to the spot. I feel like crying, but I think if I did, it’d just make him angrier.

“He’s never been out of the country, so we’ve planned this road trip to Toronto for the summer, just so he can say he’s been,” he continues. “He wants to become a doctor and volunteer in Haiti, because he saw this documentary about it last year, and it’s stuck with him ever since. He’s excited about senior year because he makes good grades, and if he gets into any of the schools he applies to, he’ll be the first one in his family to go to college.” He stops to let that sink in. “Someone almost stole all of that from him. For no reason. And you helped it happen.”

I didn’t think it was possible to feel any worse than I have, but it is, because in all the thinking I’ve done, I haven’t thought about it like this.

“So forgive me if I don’t feel like extending you the hand of friendship,” he says. “Everyone else may buy your little act, but I don’t. It’s pathetic. You’re not helping anyone.”

I cap the marker and stare at my feet. Maybe he’s right. Maybe I should give it up already. And if I’m going to say anything to anyone, I should be apologizing to Andy, out loud.

The problem is that now it’s all hyped up in my mind. My first words should be important—and apologizing to Andy is important, but not enough for me to break my silence. Not yet. That moment has to mean something, it has to, but I don’t know what.

“Sam says you’re getting a lot of shit at school,” Andy says.

I look up and nod. I wonder how much Sam’s told him.

“They’re all fucking scum. I hate them so much.”

I don’t disagree with his assessment. Even if he’s including me in that category.

He sits back down with a sigh, ashing his cigarette, and after a minute I sit on the crate next to his. I write,
How is Noah?
and inch the board toward him.

“Why should I tell you?” he says, but then, after a pause, “He’s…better. Getting there. He sleeps a lot. Has some trouble figuring out what he wants to say, sometimes. But that could be the painkillers. He’s got some broken ribs, so.”

It hurts to hear, but it’s good that I do. That I don’t just ignore the Noah component in this fucked-up equation that is my life.

“He didn’t even want me there,” Andy says. He’s staring down at the cigarette pinched between his fingers. “I had to
beg
him to let me come to that stupid party. I was mad because—I always knew, what I was, you know? It was never a big…thing, with my parents or at school. I was
mad
at him, for not being comfortable with it. Like I thought he wanted to hide us. Me. So I made him take me to that party. I was the one who…started things. In the bedroom. And I didn’t lock the door, because part of me wanted someone to walk in, and when you did—” He laughs, but the sound is like shattered glass. “I was glad. I thought, ‘Good. Now people will know.’”