Speechless (9 page)

try using your words.

I am. Just not with my voice.

is it hard? not talking?

Yes. No. Sometimes. Not really. Except for the early onset of carpal tunnel. Like now. Owwwww. L Going 2 use shrthnd frm nw on k?

k. so y no talking? isn’t writing the same thing?

No. I have to think about what I write b4 I put it on paper. I don’t want 2 say the wrong thing. No 1 wants to hear it n e way. Me + talking = BAD NEWS.

Sam pauses for a long time, twirling the pen around in his hand.

saw noah last night. he’s going to be o.k.

I look at him and then back down at the page. Part of me is glad he’s sharing this information with me, but part of me wants to know why. Is he trying to make me feel better, and if so, why the hell would he do that? He has every reason in the world to hate me. The pen hovers over the pad as I try to figure out what to say next.

Charles Schulz. We’re totally doing it. OK?

o.k. you win.

* * *

The most awkward part of my day comes after my second-to-last class. And that’s really saying something, since there is so much awkwardness spread out throughout the day—from avoiding Kristen and all the jocks in the hall, to finding a safe haven at lunch, to dealing with the ritual embarrassment of Mrs. Finch doling out my daily detention slip. Yup, lucky me received another one today, all shiny and pink. I’m convinced she gets a twisted satisfaction out of dispensing these punishments. My best defense is to act like I don’t give two shits.

I’m also crazy worried about my car. I almost didn’t drive to school today, but I was afraid my parents might notice and ask questions. Mom would totally flip out and ship me off to a boarding school or something; Dad would probably inflict bodily harm on the perpetrators, less so in honor of my dignity and more for the sacrilege of damaging a vehicle. Especially one he paid for.

Even if I told my parents about the locker vandalism and the car defacement, and they told the school, it wouldn’t help anything. They wouldn’t catch whoever did it, and it would only add fuel to the fire. I’ve accepted the fact that I’m going to have to suck it up for however long it takes people to get over this, even if that means spending the next three years watching my back. I can only hope I don’t develop a crippling ulcer or die of a heart attack from all the stress in the meantime.

The sad thing is I thought this was going to be my year. Getting my license, having a car of my own, partying it up with Kristen and Warren and Derek, hanging out every weekend and going to dances and prom and living the high life, as it were. Maybe landing a boyfriend of my own for once instead of being Kristen and Warren’s third wheel.

I’m reminded of this as I walk out of my last class and see the big blue banner advertising the upcoming Winter Formal stretched across the wall. And Brendon standing underneath it, bent over the drinking fountain. I stop dead in my tracks, disrupting the chaotic flow of traffic and causing some upperclassman with the body of a cinderblock to bump into my back.

“Watch it,” he mutters, pushing past.

Whatever. The guy has this weird faux-hawk/mullet thing going on, so I just can’t take him seriously.

You know who has perfect hair? Brendon.

I really need to get over this swoony phase. I need to move on and accept that it is never going to happen. I blew it. He hates me. We are never going to date. He is never going to walk down the hall holding my hand, or ask me to the prom, or kiss my neck, or anything. He won’t even look at me! And, not to brag, but I am something to look at, dammit. I’m not gorgeous like Kristen, but I’ve been known to turn a head or two in my time.

These days the only heads I turn are the ones who want to glare at me.

Brendon wipes his mouth off with the back of his hand, turns around and—oh. Eye contact! Eye contact! Houston, we have visual!!

Oh, God, what do I do now? Think, dammit, think! Suddenly, inexplicably, I’m raising my hand in a wave. Brendon, frozen in place, looks at me like a deer caught in the headlights of a semi barreling forward at one hundred miles per hour. So then we’re both just standing there, six feet apart, gawking at each other like idiots.

The warning bell rings, loud and shrill. We both jump, startled out of this weird transfixed staring contest. Brendon’s face burns bright red, and he hesitates, looking like maybe he wants to say something. But he doesn’t. Instead he hurries off and merges into the stream of stragglers rushing for last period, disappearing down the hall in the opposite direction.

God, he must hate me for embarrassing him with my come-ons at the party. I’ve been so preoccupied dealing with the repercussions of ratting out Warren and Joey that it’s easy to forget everything else that happened. To him I’ll always be the ditzy alcoholic slutbag who tried to jump his bones that one time.

Even if I could explain myself, what would there be to say?

* * *

Last year I went to every school-sanctioned dance, except for the senior prom, of course, which isn’t held in the gymnasium anyway but at the one nice hotel Grand Lake has in midtown. But as for the rest—Homecoming, Spring Fling, End-of-Year—you name it and I was there. Well, at least for part of it, anyway, since usually about an hour after arrival Warren would inevitably get bored and want to leave, and since he was our ride, that meant we all had to go. So we’d all pile into his truck and head over to Kristen’s.

The dances themselves are lame. Student Council is in charge of organizing them, and all they do is throw up some streamers in the gym and pay some of the tech kids to DJ. Really it’s just an elaborate excuse for all the guys and girls to grind on each other to that month’s Top Forty until it gets so obscene the chaperones intervene.

What I like about the formals most is looking for new dresses. That search for the perfect one. I like scouring through celebrity gossip magazines and blogs and taking cues from what the stars are wearing to premieres and award ceremonies. Of course no way can I shell out for Vera Wang or Oscar de la Renta or Chanel, but I’ve learned that if you look hard enough you can find cheaper alternatives. I sort of have this dream of one day writing for one of those magazines, being the person who critiques celebrity fashion; Mrs. Finch even let me publish a few Fashion Dos and Don’ts columns in the
Grand Lake High Gazette
. I’ve never told anyone about that career goal, though, not even Kristen—she got all pissed when I wrote about frosted lipstick being a fashion “Don’t,” since she loves it, and then told me someone who wears gold shimmery eye shadow isn’t one to talk. I still don’t understand what’s so wrong with gold eye shadow, but I threw it out anyway.

By the time I get home from school, all I want to do is zone out, so I go upstairs and sit in the middle of my bed with my laptop, opening all of the celebrity blogs I read religiously. I scroll through a set of photos of Kate Hudson wearing this dress that reminds me a little of the one I bought for this year’s Homecoming, a low-cut silver number plated with tiny glittery sequins. It was flashy and over-the-top and made me look not unlike a disco ball, but it was the kind of dress you wear to have fun in, to stand out, to say,
hey, take a look at me,
and people did.

Of course, it was effectively ruined when we went to Kristen’s after and Joey pushed me into her dirty swimming pool. Ass.

For the Winter Formal, I’d go with something less outlandish and more elegant. Probably a solid dark color, with maybe a few rhinestones on the collar, or sequins down by the hem, but nothing extreme. Something classic.

If I was going, that is. Which I’m not. Obviously. I don’t have a death wish.

I’m just about done reading the comments section when I notice one new email sitting in my in-box. I switch to the window, fully expecting a piece of spam touting penis enlargements or Russian mail-order brides, and instead see a message from Kristen waiting for me. My heart picks up speed in my chest like I just downed a shot of Red Bull. Could it be? Is she reaching out to me to make an apology, or an offer of amends? There’s no subject line to tip me off on what it could possibly say, so I hold my breath and click on it.

I just thought you should know I heard about your little silent act, and I think it’s pathetic, just like everything else about you. Don’t think you’re anyone special. No one misses having you around. Everyone only ever tolerated you because of me, and now they all know the true Chelsea Knot. I’m just sorry I ever wasted any time on you at all.

And if you think this week has been bad, just wait.

For a few minutes all I can do is stare at the computer screen, reading the email over and over like if I do that enough times it’ll somehow make sense. At first I have this weird feeling like someone just punched me in the chest, and I think I might cry, but something hard knots itself in my stomach as I read the words again. I want to grab my laptop and hurl it across the room. I settle instead for slamming it shut with more force than necessary, clenching and unclenching my hands until they stop shaking.

I leap off the bed and pace around my room, trying to calm myself down. I can’t believe Kristen is actually threatening me. I can’t believe she’s implying she orchestrated everything that’s happened to me since my return to school. Okay, on second thought, I can totally believe it—I know firsthand what she’s capable of—I just never thought I’d be on the receiving end of it.

I end up staring into my closet at the dresses from days of yore hung in their plastic dry-cleaners bags. I picked all of them out with Kristen. Actually almost
everything
in my closet was picked out with, or by, Kristen. It was one of our unspoken rules that all outfits were subject to best-friend approval. And Kristen tended to exercise her veto power. Excessively. Which is why, I realize, I don’t own anything I truly like. I only own clothes I
think
I should like.

For instance, why is there so much pink here? I don’t like the color pink. I don’t look
good
in the color pink. But a third of my closet is devoted to pink sweaters and blouses and skirts. All because Kristen always insisted it was “my color.”

I have red hair and pale skin. Pink totally washes me out. I look
ridiculous
in pink.

When I was thirteen, my dad painted my ceiling blue because that’s what I wanted. Not because someone else suggested it, or thought it should be that color, but because
I
liked it. The same way I was so in love with my yellow Beetle, before Kristen berated it to my face.

How did something as simple as deciding what I like become so freaking complicated?

Before I realize it, I’ve torn every article of pink clothing off the hangers and tossed it all into a pile behind me. It feels…good. Liberating. Why should I wear a color I hate? It isn’t like it’ll change Kristen’s mind, or make people like me, or make my life at all easier. These past few days I’ve tried to blend into the walls by hiding in too-big sweaters and jeans, make myself as unnoticed as possible, but obviously that isn’t helping.

So maybe it’s time to stop working around other people’s expectations.

I go through the rest of my closet and my entire dresser, pulling out anything I don’t like anymore, or never liked in the first place. Over half of my clothes end up in the DO NOT WANT heap. I don’t stop there—I sort through all my makeup, my jewelry, my shoes, the girly magazines stashed under my bed. By the time I’m done, my room looks like it was ravaged by a level-five tornado.

I throw everything I’m getting rid of into garbage bags. Most of it can go to Goodwill. The magazines I’ll dump. Clippings of articles I’ve written for the
Gazette
are taped up by my mirror; there are photos, too, snapshots of Kristen and Warren and Derek and our whole group, hanging out on the quad, partying at Kristen’s, group shots of us all in our formal wear for Homecoming, that I carefully peel off the wall. I stuff it all in an empty shoebox and shove it all the way in the back of my closet shelf, where I won’t have to be reminded. Out of sight, out of mind.

* * *

Mom finds me in the basement as I’m piling the garbage bags next to the dryer. She folds her arms and watches, waiting for me to acknowledge her presence. Once I’ve stacked the last bag, I turn and look at her. She has the same hair as me, red and wild, but she always pulls it back in a tight knot. A few wisps have escaped the elastic and frame her face.

Mom’s side of the family is Irish to the bone. The story goes that some great-grandmother of mine came to the States in a potato boat or something. She has three brothers, two sisters, a million cousins, and among them you’ll find all of the stereotypes: Catholicism, raging alcoholism, legendary hot tempers. It sure makes holiday get-togethers interesting. Dad’s one of those American mutts who cites about fifteen European countries as his heritage. Apparently none of them were strong enough to battle out the Irish in the gene pool.

“What are you doing?” she asks.

Crap. My whiteboard’s upstairs and neither of us knows sign language, so that leaves me limited options. I tear open one of the bags, point to the clothing, and then shake my head, trying for my best
DO NOT WANT!
expression. I also attempt mimicking handing a folded pair of studded jeans to a grateful jeans-deprived poor person, which my mother understands about as well as you’d expect. Meaning, not at all.

Ah, well. I can just store it all down here for right now, and if by some miracle life returns to normal, I’ll drag it all back up to my room. I’m not holding my breath waiting for that to happen, though.

Mom exhales in exasperation. “Stop this nonsense and just talk to me!”

For a second she looks so hurt that I feel kind of bad about it. I mean, it’s not like I decided to do this to punish her. And it’s not like I can explain my real reasons to her. “You see, Mom, your darling daughter never knows when to shut the hell up and has a habit of saying things that land people in jail or in comas, or else mortifies them with what may quite possibly fall under the legal guidelines of sexual harassment, and the only way my so-called friends will listen to anything I have to say is if I kneel at their feet begging for forgiveness, which isn’t going to happen in this lifetime, so it’s easier not to say anything at all.” Please. If I said all that, she’d skip Dr. Gebhart and go directly for the straitjacket.