Speechless (20 page)

I sit there, the cold air heavy in my lungs, absorbing this. Andy
wanted
me—well, not me specifically, but
someone
—to find out, all along.

It sounds like he blames himself as much as he blames me. I want to write
It’s not your fault,
underline the words until he believes them, but I know by now it’s never that easy.

“You have to stop punishing yourself,” he says, so quietly I almost don’t catch it.

I don’t know if he’s talking to himself or to me. I guess it doesn’t really matter.

day twenty-one

I wake up the next morning when my phone beeps on the nightstand. It’s not a ring, more of a
bloop.
The sound it makes when I receive a text message. I roll over and fumble for it, squint through bleary eyes at the front display. It’s already past noon. I flip it open and scroll through screens to my in-box. It’s from Asha.

lets go shopping 2day

God, I could just pull the covers over my head and float back into the warm, dreamless sleep I was so rudely interrupted from. Instead I tuck my Nelly under my arm and respond.

im not going 2 wntr frml

I rub my eyes, trying to wake up, and stretch my arms over my head, thinking. Saturday Saturday Saturday. Dad will probably be hanging around the house all day in his pajamas. Mom will be slaving at the shop until later this afternoon. I didn’t really have any plans today; Asha and I technically have the night off, but I figured we’d go hang out at Rosie’s anyway, just to have something to do.

My phone
bloops
again.

w/e. i need yarn. plz?

Sigh. Might as well. I’m too awake to fall back asleep now.

give me 1 hour.

When I pick her up, her brother Karthik is out in the front yard with some other neighborhood kids, in the midst of a heated snowball fight. I know he must be her brother because he has the same black hair and light brown skin and big dark eyes. Asha squeezes out the front door. I wave to her, and a snowball sails through the air and splats against my windshield. Karthik points and laughs.

Kids these days.

Asha yells something at him I can’t hear and ducks into the car. She has this thick blue-and-white scarf wound around her neck. I bet she made it herself. It’s gorgeous.

“There’s a craft store in the mall,” she tells me as I back out of her driveway and onto the street. “I usually go there.”

I know where the craft store is; I’ve been there plenty of times to pick up fabric for my various ill-fated sewing projects. It’s funny to realize Asha and I have something in common outside of the diner.

The mall is crazy busy, of course, since it’s Saturday, and there’s nothing else to do in this town. It takes ten minutes just to find an open parking spot. Blah. Crowds. They never bothered me before, but when we walk through the sliding doors and are met with the swarm of shoppers, my stomach crawls.

We wind our way past the moms with their strollers and packs of preteen girls in their way too slutty outfits. Looking at these girls makes me sad, even though they don’t seem to be—they giggle in high-pitched voices, their faces stretched with glossy-lipped smiles. All of them are the same type; girls with overprocessed hair and too much makeup and way too much access to Daddy’s credit cards. Girls who, if you took away the designer labels, hair dye and cover-up, wouldn’t be more than average-looking, but with all that stuff look too plastic to be pretty.

I know because I used to look just like one of them. I’m wearing next to no makeup now, just a touch of mascara and some clear lip gloss. Compared to them, I’m practically naked. I haven’t set foot inside the mall in weeks. Saturday mall trips used to be a weekly tradition. But that’s over. Like so many things.

No. No angsting today. Time to cheer up, emo girl.

The crafts store is full of old ladies with too much perfume, and Asha and I are the youngest customers by at least thirty years. She goes straight to the yarn aisle, starts sifting through the shelves. I randomly pick up a roll of scratchy black wool.

“You should get some,” Asha says. “I said I’d teach you, right? I have some extra needles you can borrow.”

I do have some leftover Christmas money I haven’t spent. My grandparents on Dad’s side are crippling agoraphobics who live in Maine, and as compensation for seeing me only once every few years, they always send a hefty check. I was saving it for—irony of all ironies—a new Winter Formal dress. Ha ha ha.

Asha ends up with an armful of different-colored yarns, and I pick out the black wool for myself, since Asha says it’s good material to learn on. I try to imagine myself knitting like she does. Maybe I’ll fare better with knitting needles than I do with sewing machines.

We’re walking toward the food court when Asha grabs my sleeve and says, “Hey.”

She points to a window display where there are Barbie-shaped mannequins lined up, dressed in tight, flashy, fashionable formal dresses.

“Can we look?” she asks. “Just a look. Really.”

I roll my eyes a little but follow her in. This store, Athena, is a hotbed for teen girls looking to catch up on the latest trends. At least eighty percent of my own wardrobe originates from here.

Asha fingers her way through a rack of dresses toward the back of the store. She pulls some out—ranging from the pretty to the god-awful, and all of them way too big for her tiny frame—and holds the hangers up to her chin. One in particular is just a crime against fashion, and for that matter, all laws of nature—this horrible shade of orange with poofy sleeves and a giant bow at the hip. Tacky to the max.

“What do you think?” she asks, trying to keep a straight face but barely suppressing a grin. “Fabulous, right?” She spins in a circle with the dress pressed to her front, and we both laugh.

My laugh stops short, however, when I turn my head and catch sight of Kristen Courteau all of six feet away. She has a few dresses draped over her arm and is staring at me.

The funny thing—not ha ha funny, but, you know—is that she looks shocked. Upset, even. Only for about two seconds, of course, before she masks her expression with her default bitchy face. The perfect look for an ice princess, I can’t help but think nastily.

Except my feelings toward Kristen aren’t all nasty. They’re… complicated, like everything else in my life. Because, stupidly, I miss her. Even with everything that happened. Even if our friendship was never the same after she hooked up with Warren. All I want at this moment is for her to look at me and smile like she used to. The smile that made me feel important, because Kristen is important, because people want to look like her, date her,
be
her, and she chose me as her best friend, so that had to mean something.

And maybe she meant some of that crap in the article, about how bad she felt about what happened to Noah, and it wasn’t just damage control. Part of me wants to believe she does. I want to believe that I wouldn’t ever be friends with someone completely heartless.

Tessa steps out from one of the dressing rooms. “You should totally buy the pink one,” she says. “It’s so hot. Brendon will
die.
”

Brendon? That must mean… Kristen is going to the formal with him. As her date. She knew how into him I was.

Maybe she really is that heartless.

Kristen smiles at me, but it’s not like her old one—it’s more of an “I’m better than you and don’t you forget it” smile. The kind that cuts straight through my bones. How many times have I stood where Tessa is standing? How many times have I seen that smile? Too many to count. But this is the first time she has ever directed it at me.

It makes me feel about two feet tall.

Asha steps next to me and says, “We should go.”

I’m shaking as we walk to the parking lot. I hate that Kristen can do this to me without saying a word. I hate her. Except I don’t. Like I said: complicated.

I almost drop the keys twice before I manage to unlock the car. Asha watches me, concerned, and says, “Are you okay?”

I just nod and stick the keys in the ignition. Even if I could speak I wouldn’t have the words right now. I drive out of the crowded lot and shove that nauseous feeling into the pit of my stomach. My phone
bloops
as I roll to a stop at a red light. I pick it up and flip it open. The text is from Sam.

Hey loser. what r u doing rite now?

I smile.

w/ asha. Mall. U?

Rosies. come over.

I hand the phone to Asha and point the car toward the lake.

* * *

Sam’s practicing ollies on his skateboard outside Rosie’s when we arrive. He sees us coming down the sidewalk and glides over, popping to an abrupt stop. He has this grin on his face, big and crooked, so different from Brendon’s perfect million-dollar smile, and I don’t know why I keep on doing that. Comparing them.

“Look who finally decided to show up,” he teases. He pushes his floppy hair out of his eyes and picks up his skateboard.

“Don’t lie. You’re thrilled we’re here,” Asha says. She leaps onto his back, throwing her arms around his neck as he staggers forward a step, laughing, surprised by the sudden weight. “Mush,” she commands.

He aims that slanted grin at me. “So demanding!”

He gallops her into Rosie’s, me tagging after, and carries her up to the counter. The post-lunch lull means the diner is mostly emptied out. Dex is ringing up some takeout while Andy scrapes the grill.

“This is not a playground,” Dex says, extending a white paper bag to the pretty blonde girl waiting.

“Yeah, it’s a mental institution,” Andy says. “Get it right.”

Dex reaches a leg out and kicks him in the shin, but he’s smiling.

Asha slides off Sam’s back and onto a stool. I sit on the one next to hers. Phyllis, the sixty-something waitress whom I usually never see since she works the day shifts, passes by us with a smile.

“Where’s Lou?” Asha asks.

“Ohio. Her sister’s getting married,” explains Dex.

“Which one?”

“Elizabeth. The oldest one.” Dex laughs. “You should see the bridesmaid dress she has to wear. Hang on. I made her let me take a picture of it.”

He digs his cell phone out of his pocket, presses a few buttons and passes it to Asha. I lean over to take a peek. Sure enough, there’s a pixeled image of Lou decked out in some sea-foam-green monstrosity, flipping off the camera.

“Wow, that’s bad. But it could be worse. Chelsea and I saw some seriously awful dresses today,” Asha says, handing back the phone.

“At, like, the mall?” Sam says in a put-upon Valley Girl accent. He’s behind the counter, washing his hands. “Was it, like, totally awesome, like, oh, my gawd?”

Andy snaps a dish towel at him. “Dude, you’re creeping me out with that voice.”

Sam flicks a spray of water his way, and then they’re tussling playfully. Guess the tension from yesterday is a nonissue.

Boys. I will never understand them. Not even the gay ones.

“I give up,” Dex says, throwing up his hands in defeat.

“So why were you looking at dresses?” Andy asks, Sam’s head locked under one arm.

Sam says, “They want to go to the winter dance…thing.”

They? Incorrect plural usage! Only Asha wants to. I draw an arrow pointing toward her on my whiteboard and hold it up. Sam pushes away from Andy—who smirks, victorious—and rubs at his hair.

“Correction. Asha wants to go,” he amends.

“From the way everyone acts, you’d think I was offering myself up as a virgin sacrifice,” she mutters, then blushes at what she’s let slip. To their credit, Andy and Sam don’t crack any inappropriate jokes.

My rumbling stomach interrupts the awkward silence. Oops. I probably should’ve eaten something today. Everyone looks at me and laughs.

“Get that girl some food,” Dex says as he walks off into the back.

Sam leans his elbows on the counter in front of me and grins. Imperfect though it may be, it is a damn charming smile. “What can I get ya?”

“I want an omelet,” Asha interjects.

PANCAKES
, I write. I think for a second, then add,
& eggs. scrambled. & orange juice.
I draw a little smiley face underneath the words.

Andy sees my board and says to Sam, “I call pancakes, bitch.”

“Like I’d trust you to make an omelet anyway. Bitch.”

Andy can’t cook as well as Sam can, or make as many dishes as Sam can, but even I know pancakes and scrambled eggs are easy, and they turn out wonderful. Of course, right now I’m so starved that pretty much anything remotely edible would look wonderful.

He sets the plate down in front of me and says, “I think you should.”

Should what? I cut some pancake with the side of my fork and raise my eyebrows.

“Go to the dance thing,” he clarifies. “I mean, you shouldn’t let those idiots stop you from doing what you want to do.”

Asha and Sam trade looks over my head. I know they must be wondering what transpired between Andy and me to make him suddenly care about me standing up for myself.

“Andy does have a point,” Sam says carefully from his place at the grill. “If you want to go, go.”

I push my eggs around on my plate, thinking. Looking at those dresses…it did sort of remind me of how much fun it is. Wearing the kind of formal wear you can’t get away with any other time of year and dancing my ass off to generic pop music.

“You should!” Asha bounces on her stool. “We
all
should.”

Sam and Andy stare at her as if she’s grown two heads.

“Come on!” she says. “It’d be great! We could all get dressed up and go to the dance and then come back here. You, too, Andy.”