Speechless (22 page)

I cock a skeptical eyebrow at her as I loop the black wool through the needle. Wherever this place is, it better not be in the mall. No way am I stepping foot in that place again.

“There’s this little vintage shop on the west end,” she explains.

I don’t know the west side of town as well as I know the east end. Every place worth visiting is near the lake, and all of the firmly middle-to-upper-middle-class housing is on the east, including my house and Asha’s. But the west side is safe. Mostly it’s all apartment buildings and liquor stores and low-end groceries. There’s no way Kristen or anyone from her posse would be caught dead over there. The next day after school, Asha and I drive over to the vintage shop, this little place called Recollections. I’ve never been. The inside smells musty, like mothballs, and so do most of the clothes on the racks.

Asha pulls some ridiculous top hat on her head. “What do you think? Maybe I could show up in a tuxedo,” she says, and then sneezes. She sets the hat back down. “Or maybe not.”

Most of the clothes here aren’t true vintage. There’s a lot of crap from the eighties—old KISS band T-shirts, NASCAR sweatshirts, denim jackets, neon-colored track suits. But there is one section, toward the back of the store, a rack of old dresses. I sift through them while Asha looks through some nearby shoes.

Too poofy. Too slutty. Too churchy. Too pink. Crap. All crap.

And then.

It’s like the heavens parting, the light shining down, angel choirs launching into jubilant song. It’s how I felt when Dex offered me the dish-girl job, how I felt when Mr. Callihan handed me back the quiz I aced, how I felt when Sam leaned in to kiss me in the car. The feeling that this is right. This is exactly how it should be.

I’ve found the perfect dress.

* * *

I’m pretty sure my day can’t get any better, but then I get home. I kick the door shut with one foot, careful not to let the plastic bag carrying my new dress drag on the floor.

“Chelsea? Is that you?” It’s Dad, calling from the living room.

Before I can make my way over, he finds me. Mom’s right behind him, a bottle of wine in one hand. Dad skids into the hall, practically running, and this giant grin on his face. I don’t know what’s more shocking—the fact that he’s smiling, or the fact that Mom is home. On a Tuesday. Before nine o’clock.

“Honey,” he says, out of breath, “I got a job.”

He grabs me in a hug before there’s time for this news to sink in. I drop the bag on the ground and hug him back. A job? A
job.
I’m so, so happy for him. When he lets go, he’s still smiling, and Mom is…laughing. Laughing!

It’s nice, for once, to be proven wrong.

“It’s at the Harrison dealership across town,” he says, all in a rush. “Selling cars. Your friend’s dad owns the place. He called Saturday, I interviewed this afternoon, and he offered me the job on the spot. I start next week.”

Mom smiles at me. “I took the night off to celebrate. Come on, we’re watching movies.”

We spend the night on the couch, together as a family, popping in a DVD of Dad’s favorite film,
Caddyshack,
one of his arms wrapped around my shoulders and the other around Mom’s. Every so often I catch them making eyes at each other.

Sam. This is because of Sam. He put this look on my parents’ faces.

If he was here right now, I’d totally make out with him.

day thirty-one

I settle for giving him a huge hug the second I see him the next day in art class.

Of course, the sentimentality of the moment is all but ruined when I nearly knock over the open paint bottles in my exuberance. Sam laughs, catching me around the waist, and I don’t care if everyone in the room is looking, I don’t care I don’t care I don’t care, I could kiss him right in front of everyone. But I don’t.

“My stepdad told me last night,” he says. He keeps his hands on my hips, even after I’ve released him from my death-grip-monster-bear hug. I like that. “I’m really glad it worked out.”

We sit down on the floor, and I pull out a notebook and pen from my bag.

What’s your stepdad like?

Sam looks at the page. “What, afraid he’s gonna be a bad boss?”

Is curiosity a crime now?

“Sometimes,” he says, grinning. “Peeping Toms, for example.”

I punch him in the shoulder.

“Ow!” he laughs, rubbing his shoulder. “Violence is so unnecessary.”

I write,
I’m SERIOUS!! I know nothing about your family.

And, by extension, nothing about Sam’s personal life. Which, let’s be real, is really what I’m getting at.

“Mick’s okay.” Sam shrugs. “I mean, you always hear these horror stories about evil stepparents, but he’s not bad. He has two daughters—both older, one’s married and the other’s at Mount Holyoke—so he’s done this before. Doesn’t get on my ass too much.” He stops and unscrews a bottle of black paint. “And he makes my mom happy. That’s what matters, you know?”

I
do
know, actually. I’ve forgotten what it’s like to feel this way—so
happy,
glowing, lighter than air. Maybe everything is finally turning around. Maybe things are only going to get better from here on out. I mean, I have people now—Sam and Asha and Lou and Dex, and Andy, too, maybe. I have the diner. I have a
life.
A different one than before, but maybe this one is better, because it’s totally and completely mine.

And the art project, due tomorrow, has turned out kickass, too. I’m pretty proud of the result. Charles Schulz would be giving us some major props, for sure.

“Hey, didn’t they teach you in kindergarten how to stay inside the lines?” Sam teases when I accidentally get a little red outside of Snoopy’s doghouse.

I respond by sweeping my paintbrush over the bridge of his nose so it leaves a smear of red.

“Oh, no you
didn’t,
” he says with a mock gasp, and retaliates by painting my cheek yellow. I scream and roll away, shrieking with laughter, and when I see Sam laughing, too, all I can think is that it would be so, so easy to tell him everything on my mind.

I can’t believe someone as good as you exists. I can’t believe you even want to be around me. I can’t believe how lucky I am when just weeks ago I thought my life was over.

The words are bubbling up in my chest, I swear I can feel them, ready to spill over, but then…they don’t. And the moment is over.

Sam doesn’t notice, of course. He wipes his palms on his jeans and offers a hand to help me sit up.

“You look ridiculous,” he says, his thumb brushing the splotch of yellow he streaked under one of my eyes.

I could tell him everything, but I don’t. And I don’t know why. What is my vow accomplishing anymore? Why can’t I just speak, say what I’m dying to say?

I don’t know what I’m waiting for.

* * *

“I’m telling you. Purple. It’s the way to go.”

“If you paint this place purple, I’m quitting. Swear to freakin’ God.”

Dex and Lou are arguing about redecorating again. It’s not serious, of course, no matter how many times Lou threatens to walk out. For the record, I’m on her side. Yes, the current beige walls are too boring for this place, but purple would look atrocious with the red vinyl booths. Unless Dex wanted to replace those, too. Really he should pick something striking. Gold, or maybe bronze.

“You should go with blue.”

Lou and Dex stop their bickering and look over. I swivel on the stool, too, to see a cute boy with spiky hair and the cockiest smirk I’ve ever seen leaning over the counter. The dark-haired girl next to him rolls her eyes, but from the way they’re standing, it’s obvious they’re together. Like,
together
together, not together just as friends, or in the weird friends-with-benefits ambiguity sense Sam and I currently are.

“I’m sure they really want your input, Jake,” she says dryly.

“What? I’m just saying.” He grins at her, and she bats him on the shoulder.

“Actually…” Dex twirls the whisk in his hand around a few times, which is how I know he’s considering the suggestion. He always plays with utensils or counts down the till when he’s deep in thought. Once I saw him do all these tricks with a spinning egg on a silicone turner while he was talking to Andy about replacing the milkshake machine. “That…that could work.”

“Blue…” Lou folds her arms over her chest, looking thoughtful. She nods slowly at Dex. “I like it. Blue would look good.”

“See?” the guy—Jake—says to the girl. “
Some
people appreciate my genius.”

“Oh, yeah,” she says around a grin, “today it’s interior design, tomorrow you’ll be tackling world peace.”

Dex gives them their takeout bag and tells them it’s on the house.

Lou comes over and refills my Coke, careful not to splatter any on my open history book. We’re studying the Elizabethan era. As far as historical figures go, Queen Elizabeth I is pretty badass—telling the royal court to go screw itself and refusing to marry and shaving her head and declaring herself a Virgin Queen. Even though Mrs. Griffin, my social studies teacher, says the queen still had all of these affairs anyway.

Good for her. Who wants to be a virgin forever? I mean, it’s something I’ve thought about, obviously. People always assume only teenage boys have an obsession with sex, but girls do, too. The difference is that most of us want it to
mean
something. We’re complicated. We need more than magazines and badly acted pornos to get off.

Since Sam and I kissed, sometimes I find myself imagining. Just a little. And for the first time, when I’m thinking about it, I’m not worrying about how much it would hurt, or if I’d be doing it right, or how awkward it might be; I’m wondering if it would feel as comfortable, as natural and
right
as it did when he kissed me.

Not that it matters—we haven’t done anything since. Or even talked about what happened. Maybe it was nothing more than a fluke. Maybe he’s not even interested.

Lou says, “So I heard you’re all going to some winter dance this Saturday?”

I nod and flip to the next page of my textbook. Andy and Sam said they’ve already picked out suits to wear. Asha never bought anything from Recollections, but she says she has something else in mind, and she’s been all mysterious about it ever since. This morning I pulled my dress out, laid it on the table and started making measurements, figuring out where to take it in and how far to adjust the neckline. I can already see the finished product in my mind. It’s going to be so absolutely perfect.

The urge to whip out my notebook and sketch more ideas for the dress is tempting, but I force myself to focus on history. There’s a test tomorrow, and I’ve been on a roll with this academic kick; I’m self-aware enough to know that if I slip now, I will inevitably succumb to a slacker spiral and never get on top of things again.

Andy comes over to swap out the condiment bottles and glances at my open textbook. “You could save yourself the time and rent the biopic,” he says. “The one with Cate Blanchett and Joseph Fiennes at his physical peak.” He pauses. “You should watch it either way, really. Joseph Fiennes alone is worth it.”

“He is a dreamboat,” Sam agrees, walking up. I’m not sure if he’s joking or if he’s just secure enough to comment on another guy’s objective attractiveness. Maybe some of both. He leans over with his palm right on top of my textbook and grins, his face close to mine, his voice low when he speaks. “You’ve been studying for over an hour. I’m on break. Come take a walk with me.”

That’s all it takes. I abandon my books, grab my coat off the hook and follow Sam out the door. He offers his arm as we cross the icy parking lot, and I take it, and if I’m clutching the crook of his elbow a little too tightly, it’s only because I’m worried about slipping and cracking my head open on the pavement. Really.

I don’t know where we’re going, or if Sam even has a destination in mind—I let him take the lead, enjoying the closeness. After a minute I realize he’s heading for the lake. We pick our way through the snow to sit on top of a picnic table not far from the water. My ass is freezing and even huddling next to Sam doesn’t protect me from the cold wind whipping off the lake, but I’m willing to endure it as long as Sam keeps holding on to my arm like this.

“Can I ask you something?” he says. He’s looking straight into my eyes as he says it, and I can feel myself melting toward him. How did it take me so long to notice how cute he is? How did I spend so much of high school not noticing him at all? I was so busy mooning over Brendon Ryan. Brendon, who probably doesn’t even like me at all, and certainly doesn’t trust me. Brendon, who is taking Kristen to the dance, meaning he’s either a total idiot falling for her lies or more concerned with his image than anything. Either way, he’s not the guy I thought he was. It’s not his fault; it’s mine, for building up this fantasy version in my head, putting him on a pedestal, making assumptions about him the way I make assumptions about everyone, the same way people make assumptions about me now.

I am trying so hard not to be that person anymore. I am trying to be the kind of person who deserves to be looked at the way Sam is looking at me now, like I’m someone worth caring about, someone worth knowing. I want to prove that the risk he’s taken in reaching out to me isn’t for nothing, but I don’t know how to do that.

Sam is so earnest it hurts, and he’s staring at me with this kindness in his eyes, the kind you can’t fake—there’s an innate goodness in him, like deep within his soul or something, and you don’t even have to hear him speak to feel it. It just
radiates.

“Do you know when you’re going to start talking again?” he asks. “I only ask because—well, I like to be on speaking terms with the girls I make a habit of kissing.” He leans forward so our foreheads touch for a moment before backing away with a smile.

I want to remind him that it isn’t a habit yet since we’ve only done it once, though it’s nice to see where his mind is at on that subject.

“I know you can’t answer me right now,” he says quickly, “and I know you have your reasons, however fuzzy they may be. I just think… I don’t know, maybe it’s time to start…moving on. I feel like this whole thing is wrapped up in all these ugly feelings, and it can’t be good, carrying all that around inside you. You know?”