Speechless (26 page)

I do feel like I’ve figured some stuff out. Not everything. Not even close. But the not-figured-out stuff feels less scary now. Manageable. It’s like someone opened my eyes and suddenly I’m seeing everything all new—like when Asha explained to me how to solve for
x,
and something just clicked, and from that point on I wasn’t just looking at a mess of numbers and letters but actual equations with actual solutions. Even if I still couldn’t solve every single one.

“Maybe,” I say, and apparently that’s enough for her, because she nods and takes the whiteboard from me.

“Glad to hear it.” The smile she gives kills me with its kindness. “It’s good to be uncertain, Chelsea. It’s a big world. There’s always more to learn.”

“Ms. Kinsey, I didn’t just come here to give you back the whiteboard,” I say. “I need your help with something. It’s kind of a…sensitive issue.”

“Oh?” She looks more concerned now. “Well, I’ll do whatever I can. What is it?”

“I need to leave an anonymous tip.”

* * *

When Sam comes up to my locker before art period and says, “Let’s cut,” I’m annoyed.

Not at him. I was already annoyed before he came up to me. I’m annoyed because there was a typo on page two of the essay I handed in to Mrs. Finch, but I didn’t have time to dash to the library and reprint it. I’m annoyed because there are some kids down the hall erupting into the school song with plastic mini megaphones in preparation for this afternoon’s pep rally. I’m annoyed because I have no idea if the plan has worked yet, or if it will work
at all,
or if it’ll somehow backfire and the not knowing is making me all itchy and anxious.

“The narcs,” I point out, but Sam grins and shakes his head.

“I’m parked in the teacher lot,” he explains.

“You’re not supposed to do that.”

“I’m not supposed to do a lot of things.”

It’s such a cliché response, but he makes it work. Maybe it’s because right after he says it, he slips one of his thumbs through my belt loop and pulls me close to him. Close enough that I can see his clear blue eyes perfectly. And his not-so-perfect mouth, a little crooked, a smile that goes up farther on the left than the right, but is somehow even more alluring for that. Perfection is overrated.

I hesitate. I already cut once this week....

“Hail to the Hawks!” the kids chorus. “Hail, hail, hail to the red and blue! Hail to the conquering heroes, proud and true!”

Screw it.

“Let’s go.”

* * *

Sam lets me drive the Cutlass. Not that I really ask. I snatch the keys from him the second we hit the teacher lot and jingle them in my hand as we walk. I’m nervous and I don’t know why.

That’s a lie, I totally know why I’m nervous. Stupid Lowell and Derek and their stupid faces. Their faces are genuinely stupid, not like Sam’s—Sam’s is just stupid cute. Especially when he’s looking at me like he is now.

I buckle myself into the driver’s seat, adjust the mirrors and say, “What?”

“You know how to drive a stick?” he asks.

“Please. My dad taught me on an old-ass Camry.”

I throw the car into first, ease up on the clutch and tap on the gas. The Cutlass bucks a little and jumps forward, and we’re off.

I don’t know where we’re going. Rosie’s would be the obvious choice, but I kind of just want to drive around for a while, getting used to the feel of the car. It’s hard to relax, though, with Sam sitting next to me, playing his fingers over the seat belt, stretching it in and out. I keep thinking about his hands. It’s so distracting that I accidentally let the clutch out too much and stall the car at a stoplight.

I’m waiting for Sam to yell at me for screwing up his transmission, but he just waits for me to restart the car and says, “You’ve got it.”

He is so nice it
hurts.

We drive around in silence. Funny how now that we’re both talking, we have nothing to say to each other. Or maybe it’s just habit. As far as silences go, it is pretty comfortable—it’s the kind of quiet shared between two people who don’t feel the desperate need to fill every second with the sound of their own voices.

Eventually I pull down into the park by the lake, take the gear down to First and cut the engine.

“Good,” he says when I set the parking brake. “We don’t need to pull a
Risky Business.
”

I blink at him. “Huh?”

“You know, the movie? With Tom Cruise? When the Porsche rolls into Lake Michigan?” he says, like I should know this. At my uncomprehending stare, he shakes his head. “We really need to make a list of every classic you haven’t seen and Netflix them all.”

“I can’t look at Tom Cruise the same ever since the Oprah incident,” I say, and he gives me a blank look. I scoff indignantly. “The couch? And the jumping? And the Scientology craziness? Come on, you have to know about that!”

He doesn’t have a clue, of course. I sigh and rest my forehead on the steering wheel.

“We don’t have anything in common, do we?” I say in a small voice.

“That’s not true.”

“It is! I mean, I tried listening to NPR the other night, and my eyes glazed over, like, five seconds in. And you read all these books—” I gesture to the stack between us, the top title staring up at me—
Ham on Rye,
is that a cookbook or something? “—while I just follow stupid shallow internet blogs mocking celebrity fashions, and I’ve never even
been
on a skateboard, or in-line skates, for that matter—”

“Whoa, Chelsea, slow down.” He puts his hand on the back of my head, and I stop midsentence. “What about Rosie’s? We have that.”

“I wash dishes. Big whoop. I can’t cook
anything
—”

“You know how to make tuna melts.”

“I made one, once. And only because you showed me.”

“Well, then I can teach you more. You can ride my skateboard. I’ll listen to your music. I usually stick to political blogs, but I’ll read your celebrity gossip ones, if you want. But, Chelsea, all that stuff…it’s just
stuff.
It doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it
matters!
” I sit up and rub my eyes. “Mutual interests! It’s what ties people together! You’re going to get
bored
of me, because I’m so shallow and stupid, you don’t even know.”

“I really don’t think that’s a concern.” He’s still smiling, and it drives me a little crazy how completely unworried he is. Does he not hear what I’m saying? “So you like reading about celebrities. So you like clothes and stuff. So what?” he says. “And don’t give me this crap about how shallow and stupid you are—we both know you wouldn’t be hanging out with Asha and all of us if that was true. You’d still be friends with Kristen and that crowd.” He pauses, and the smile fades. “Is that what you want? To be friends with them again?”

“That’s not an option.”

“What if it was?”

“No.” I don’t even have to think about it. “God, no.”

“Why not?”

Because I don’t even miss Kristen anymore. Okay, I miss the idea of Kristen, a little, but not the cold, hard reality of what it means to Kristen’s best friend. Because what I thought was important to me then doesn’t feel so important anymore. Because I don’t have anything in common with them, either, and all of that
stuff
didn’t really mean anything in the end, anyway, did it?

Maybe Sam’s right. Maybe when it comes down to it, what we’re interested in doesn’t mean so much—it’s who you are that ties people together.

“You asked me before, why I wasn’t mad at you,” he says. “It’s because you turned Warren and Joey in. You did that. Now I just want to know…why? What made you do it?”

No one has asked me point-blank before. Not my parents, not Kristen, not Asha. No one.

I take a deep, shaky breath. “When I was seven, I had to get my tonsils taken out,” I tell him. “I was in the hospital, totally freaked out, because I’d never had surgery before or anything. And my dad showed up with this stuffed dog. He sat next to me the whole time, holding my hand, and that stupid dog—it made me feel better. And after…what happened, with Noah, I kept remembering that. How scared I was, and how much it meant for my dad to be there, so I wasn’t alone.” I have to stop for a moment because my throat is constricting with tears. “Noah must’ve been so scared. He was by himself. He didn’t have his dad, or his mom, and I just—I couldn’t. I had to. No one should have to go through that. It’s not
fair.
”

Sam reaches over and brushes away the lone tear that’s trailed down my cheek with his thumb. “Yeah,” he agrees softly. “It definitely isn’t fair.”

“I was so stupid,” I say. “I never want to go back to that. I am so much happier around you guys.”

It’s the truth, and not only that, it is also so
totally
the right thing to say, because Sam lights up with a smile, like I not just made his day, but his
life.
I grab his shirt collar and kiss him, hard and long. Then I sit back and put my hand over the dangling key ring, thinking.

I’m at a crossroads. If I drive west, I’d be going toward Recollections and liquor stores and gas stations. If I drive east, I’d be going toward the nice houses, including mine. And it would take only a minute if I decided to drive to Rosie’s.

We could go anywhere.

I turn to Sam and say, “I have an idea.”

* * *

The last time I was in a hospital, it was last year when Grandpa Murphy had his heart attack and no one was sure whether or not he was going to make it. Mom let me miss two days of school to stay with her, and Dad actually called out of work the first day, which was how I knew it was serious. Mostly I hung out in the waiting room, making prank phone calls to 1-800 numbers on the payphone with my cousin Bree while Mom and Dad and Mom’s crapload of siblings were too busy talking to three different doctors and each other to notice our shenanigans. Grandpa Murphy was okay in the end, even though it was touch and go for a while.

But that was in a different hospital, not this one. The last time I was in
this
hospital, I was eight and fell off the jungle gym, and Mom was convinced I’d broken my arm from the way I was screaming my head off. Turned out to be only a bad sprain. The nurse wrapped it in an Ace bandage, presented me with a lollipop (which shut the tears off instantly) and sent me home with an ice pack and a recommendation for Children’s Tylenol.

I don’t have any traumatic memories associated with hospitals, really, and I’d like to keep it that way. As Sam and I step into the elevator in Van Buren Memorial, somehow I’m not so sure that’ll be possible.

Sam knows where he’s going, of course. I follow him out of the elevator, down the squeaky linoleum hall, and to the nurses’ station.

“We’re here to see Noah Beckett,” he says to the woman at the desk. She smiles and gives him a room number.

I know I suggested coming here, but I’m still numb with fear as we walk down toward some rooms. Am I really ready for this? I’m about seventy percent committed in my head to spinning on my heel and fleeing the hospital when Sam reaches for my hand.

“It’s gonna be fine,” he says, and squeezes, and it helps, a little.

A short blonde woman stands outside of Noah’s room, talking to a doctor in hushed tones. Sam and I hang back until the doctor says a final word and walks away. The woman stares after him, and Sam says, “Mrs. Beckett?”

When she turns at his voice, the woman’s distracted look is replaced by a genuine smile. “Sam,” she says warmly. “It’s so good to see you.”

He drops my hand and hugs her, and she pecks him on the cheek.

“How is he?” he asks softly.

“He’s improving,” she tells him. “They’re saying we can take him home next week.”

“That’s great news.” Sam squeezes her shoulder. “And how about you?”

“I’m holding up all right.” Her smile is a little wobbly around the edges. She looks over his shoulder at me. “Who is your friend?”

I’m embarrassed to be drawn into this conversation, like I’m intruding on some private moment. I hold my hands behind my back and look to Sam.

“This is Chelsea Knot,” he introduces.

“Oh. You’re Chelsea?” Noah’s mom pauses, and in that pause, a million horrible scenarios race through my mind: she knows who I am, and she’s going to yell at me, right there. Or start bawling. Or tell me what a horrible human being I am for what I did to her son.

She steps toward me, and oh, God, I brace myself to be slapped, or spit on, but instead she puts her arms around me and holds me close, and—oh. A hug? She’s actually giving me
a hug?

“Thank you,” she says in my ear, and I’m too bewildered to do anything but stand there. “If it weren’t for you, who knows if those boys would’ve gotten away with it.” She pulls back and smiles at me, her eyes shining like she might cry. “It was a very brave thing you did.”

Not only am I receiving a hug, but
gratitude?
My mind, it is blown.

I’m not sure what to say. “Um, I—I d-don’t—” I want to explain why, exactly, she should be angry with me, but Sam shoots me a look, and I understand I’m supposed to just accept this. So I attempt a smile and say, “It was nothing.”

My first lie since I started talking again. Sorry, God.

Mrs. Beckett says, “Why don’t you go in and see him? I think he’s awake now.”

Sam and I enter Noah’s room. It’s crowded with balloons and flowers and gifts, and I’m shocked, a little, to see such an outpouring of support and love. It’s such a contrast to the ugliness I’ve seen at school. But the row of cards tacked to the wall are all from students, so maybe I just was too caught up in my own bubble to realize how much people do care.

“I’m pretty sure I’m single-handedly keeping Hallmark in business.”

The voice takes me by surprise. I jump away from the wall and whirl to see Noah, in the bed, propped into a sitting position by pillows. He looks…rough. There’s an IV attached to one of his arms, a line of stitches across one cheek and his lower lip is split and bruised. A patch of his white-blond hair has been shaved off and covered with a bandage.

“Hey, loser.” Sam sits down on the side of Noah’s bed. “How do you feel?”