Speechless (21 page)

“That sounds like a terrible idea,” he tells her. “Like, monumentally bad.”

Sam runs his knuckles along his jaw. “I don’t know, man…”

Oh, my God, is he seriously interested in going to Winter Formal? I almost choke on my orange juice.

Andy must share my incredulity, because he says, “You can’t actually be considering this. You were the one talking about how much of a waste of time school functions are.”

“I know, but if we all crash it as a group, maybe it would be fun.”

“Yeah, and maybe we’d all get our asses kicked.”

“You shouldn’t let them stop you from doing what you want to do,” Sam says back to him with a pointed look.

Andy stares at him, and then he says, “You’re going to burn the omelet.”

day twenty-four

For the first time in a week, I’m actually home for dinner. The good news is that it isn’t tofu. The bad news is that the reason it isn’t is because Mom stopped buying organic foods since we’re now on a tighter budget. Dad resorted to his old standby: mac and cheese from the box.

“I used to make this all the time when you were a kid,” he says as we sit down at the kitchen table.

I remember. That was when Mom was taking night classes at the business school. The idea was that she’d eventually start her own chain of floral shops instead of just managing someone else’s, but she ended up dropping out before she could graduate. I don’t know why.

“How is school going?” he asks, brushing some lint off his sleeve. I’m so used to him wearing work clothes—button-down Oxfords and ties—that it’s strange to see him like this, wearing a flannel shirt and
jeans.

I give him a thumbs-up that is far more enthused than I feel. I can’t lie, though—it has become significantly less torturous now that I can glom on to Asha and Sam. I’ve memorized their schedules and made a point of meeting them outside their classrooms so I’m not on my own in between classes. There’s a safety in numbers. People are less likely to mess with me when I’m around them. The worst I’ve gotten lately is some shoving in the halls, pointed glares and snickering from Kristen and her minions, and of course the daily locker vandalizing. I guess that Spanish teacher’s intervention didn’t stop Lowell. Or someone else is picking up his slack. Today through the vent cracks someone slipped in a folded note that read
WATCH YOUR BACK TRAITOR BITCH.

I promptly tore the note in half and threw it in the trash. Hey, at least that’s easier to get rid of than the marker.

As I pick at my mac and cheese, I have to admit, after so much delicious diner food lately, all this bland processed cheese is a chore to eat. But I don’t want to hurt Dad’s feelings, so I shovel as much into my mouth as I can bear.

“So, you’re still not speaking.” It’s a statement, not a question, and a displeased one at that. The corners of his mouth are pulled down like he’s sucking on something sour.

I keep my eyes on the orange clumpy mess covering my plate. My appetite is suddenly gone.

“I’m just wondering,” he says. “How long is this going to last? It’s been nearly a month now.”

Dad is supposed to be on my side, not grilling me about this. That’s what Mom is for. I guess, though, that in light of his own problems, mine must look childish and dumb.

“Chelsea,” he presses, “I think it’s time you—”

I’m spared from more lecturing by the phone ringing. Dad exhales, shooting me a
this-is-not-over-young-lady
look, and answers it.

“Hello?” he says. He pauses for a moment. “Yes, this is he.”

I watch him, stirring my mac and cheese around, but he walks out of the room with the phone before I can hear anything else.

I tell myself that Dad is just stressed out. Justifiably so. He’s been sending out résumés, applying for jobs online, but the economy sucks, and he hasn’t had a single call back. My first paycheck from Rosie’s won’t come for another week or so, but I’m already planning to give the entirety of it to my parents. It’s the least I can do.

I dump the rest of my lukewarm mac and cheese down the garbage disposal and run the tap for a while. I wish I was back at Rosie’s. Or at least out of this house. Six o’clock on a Saturday night and I already have nothing to do but kill time before going to bed. My life is so depressing.

I tear off a page from the refrigerator pad and write,
Going out for a drive. I’ll be back later. –C.
I stick the note next to Dad’s half-finished plate where he’ll be sure to see it.

I love driving. I love the feel of the steering wheel under my hands, all of that power. It makes me feel in control. In summer I like to open all the windows, the cool air rushing in and pushing my hair off my shoulders, and take off my shoes so that the pedal grooves dig into my bare feet. It’s too cold outside to do that now; the heat is on full blast, the radio low as I try to figure out where to go. Instinct points me toward the center of town and the lake.

I’ve lived in Grand Lake all my life. It’s a small town, yeah, but I’ve always liked that, that I know it inside and out, the way everyone knows everyone. Something about that is comforting, even if a little incestuous. And everyone knows everything
about
everyone; I should know. I’ve spent the last few years collecting secrets and gossip the way other people collect butterflies or Pez dispensers.

There are never any surprises in Grand Lake—which I think is why what happened to Noah was so shocking. Because things like that aren’t supposed to happen here. Everyone was so defensive, so desperate to downplay the situation. I think they all would’ve been happier if I’d kept my mouth shut so they could stick their heads in the sand and pretend nothing had happened. When they couldn’t just ignore it, they were so quick to blame it on Warren and Joey just being two bad apples, because if they weren’t, that meant something more insidious was going on. That kids who grow up here aren’t raised right. That this town could produce that kind of hatred in its children. And no one wants to believe that.

I don’t want to believe that.

The problem with small towns is the same thing I like about them—it’s so insular. No one’s thinking about the big picture. Derek and Lowell, they don’t care about Noah, they care about winning at basketball, because for them…what else is there? College, maybe, but we all know they’re the kind of kids who will inevitably end up back here. And they’ll be happy about it. They wouldn’t get to feel so big and important in any other place.

I want my life to be more than this. More than just this town and everything that’s happened in it. I don’t want my high school years to be the best of my life. I want to be better than this, better than the Chelsea Knot who stirs up trouble just for lack of anything more interesting to do. Andy was right—I didn’t see Noah as a person, the same way I didn’t see Tessa as a person, or anyone else I’ve helped to spread rumors about. Their feelings didn’t matter, at least not more than my need for a quick entertainment fix.

I end up at the hospital, underneath the buttery-yellow light thrown from one of the parking-lot lamps. In the daytime the building stands stately and inviting, made of warm red brick, but in the dark it just looks scary. Daunting. Like it could swallow me whole.

I take out my phone.

u busy?

Sam texts back a minute later.

Not rly. whats up?

Im at the hospital.

R u ok?

Fine. Parking lot. Can u come?

Yes. ten mins.

All I’m doing is sitting there, engine running, my heart beating fast in my throat for no reason, when Sam’s Cutlass pulls in next to my driver’s side. He gets out of his car and climbs into mine, shuts the door and turns to me.

“What happened?” he asks, worried.

I shake my head. Nothing happened. Nothing new. It’s just everything else, weighing on me.

“So no one’s hurt?” Even behind his glasses, I see the relief in his eyes, the way it relaxes his shoulders. He breathes out and rubs his face with both hands. “Jesus. I thought…” He trails off instead of finishing the sentence.

My whiteboard is at home. I wasn’t expecting to need it. I dig through the glove compartment and find an old gas station receipt and a Jelly pen, use the light from the outside lamp to scratch out some words.

I keep thinking about Noah.

He swallows hard. “Yeah?”

I don’t know what to do.

This applies to, like, my entire life, really, not just the Noah situation.

“I know.” Sam’s voice sounds strange. A little choked. “Andy was right, you know. What he said. I’ve been…avoiding Noah, because I’m—I don’t know. It’s too hard.”

He swallows, looking away from me. I’m suddenly, brutally struck with how much what I’ve done has hurt him, too, even though I know he doesn’t see it that way. Still, it makes the way he treats me even more baffling.

“I know I didn’t have anything to do with what happened, but I still feel all this guilt,” he says. “Like I should’ve stopped it somehow. I have no idea what to say to him.”

Maybe you don’t have to say anything
, I write.
Maybe just being there is enough.

“Maybe,” he says quietly. “I keep telling myself I’ll go. I just…I can’t make myself do it. I know I should be doing something to help, but I don’t know what. I’m supposed to be his best friend, and I can’t even bring myself to be in the same room as him. What does that say about me?”

That doesn’t make you a bad person
, I write.

He laughs, low in his throat. “I’m pretty sure it does, actually.”

You are the best kind of person.

He stares at the words like he doesn’t understand them. “You really think that?” he says.

I reach out and cover his hand with mine so he knows exactly what I think.

“Chelsea,” he says, barely above a whisper. I love the way he says my name, like it’s something he wants to keep safe. I sway a little toward him.

And then we’re kissing.

It’s weird how comfortable it feels. With Joey, it was always awkward, his hands rough on the back of my neck, his tongue wet and weird in my mouth. But Sam is so gentle with me, lips barely brushing mine, one hand lightly cupping my cheek. He pulls back before we’ve hardly started and looks at me for a long time.

Well. That was unexpected.

I mean, there’s kind of been a vibe. But I’ve never been good at reading these things. It’s too easy to confuse friendship with something more. Especially when you’re looking for it.

His eyes search mine, and I have no idea what he’s thinking. Maybe he’s wondering the same thing, about me.

“I should go back to Rosie’s,” he says softly.

I nod, a little shaky. What we did—it was barely even a kiss, but I feel like I’ve just finished running a marathon. Completely out of breath, every limb as boneless as rubber.

He gets out of the car, walks around toward his. I roll down my window and am met with a blast of cold air. Sam sees me motion to him and, after a heartbeat of hesitation (
please don’t leave, please don’t just walk away, please please please,
my brain screams), he comes over, ducks his head to my eye level.

I don’t say anything. Of course. I reach a hand out, brushing it slowly through his brown hair. It looks almost reddish under this sticky light. I draw him down to me. We kiss through the open window for a little while, my face cold from the whistling wind, my back warm from the car’s heat, Sam’s mouth soft against mine.

When we stop—I can’t tell which one of us breaks away first—he keeps his forehead pressed to mine.

“So,” he says, a smile playing on his lips, “does this mean you’ll be my date for Winter Formal?”

days
twenty-eight &
twenty-nine

Discombobulated. It’s a word my mother often uses, and one that happens to describe me perfectly at the moment. I feel turned around and pulled inside out, all out of whack. But in a good way. I think.

I also like the way it sounds, even in my own head. Dis-com-bob-u-lated. Every syllable pops.

I’m worried that kissing Sam is going to make everything weird between us, but when I go back to school on Thursday, everything feels the same. I go to art class and we work on the project—we’ve moved on to the painting phase—and nothing is different; I spend the whole weekend at Rosie’s, and nothing is different. It’s sort of disappointing. I keep waiting to see if he’s going to kiss me again, but we’re never alone together, so I’m left to overanalyze every fleeting touch.

The one thing that
has
changed is that suddenly everyone is on board with the idea of going to Winter Formal. Even Andy.

Asha is, predictably, thrilled by this development.

“Six days!” she sings every time she dumps more dishes for me to wash. I glare at her receding back as she prances back through the swinging doors and to the dining area.

Six days. Six days, and I’m going to be facing every person at this school who hates me. I don’t even have a dress yet.

Sam hasn’t mentioned it since that night at the hospital—am I really going to be his date? For real? Or was he just joking? It doesn’t matter. Either way I’m going. I’ve committed.

Later Asha says, “I know a place to look for dresses,” while we’re sitting in one of the booths. She’s finally showing me how to knit. I suck at it, surprise, surprise. But Asha says if she can teach me geometry, she can teach me anything. Today I actually got an A- on a pop quiz, much to the surprise of myself and Mr. Callihan, so I figure she must be right about that.