Читать книгу Speechless - Hannah Harrington - Страница 10

day one

RAT.

The word is scratched across my locker in fat black marker for everyone to see, lettered in abrupt, messy slashes, like whoever wrote it didn’t even pause, didn’t have to think twice about what they were doing. I can feel the eyes of everyone in the hall boring into my back; hear their titters behind me, providing the soundtrack to my humiliation. Blood rushes up to my face and turns my pale skin as red as my hair. The familiar hot prick of tears stings behind my eyes, waiting for their cue to spill over.

Well. This semester is gonna suck.

I stand there and stare at the new label I’ve been branded with, forcing myself to suck in deep breaths through my nose in the vain hope it will help subside the urge to burst into tears. I can’t say anything. The article, folded neatly and tucked in my front pocket, is a constant reminder.

In an effort to keep myself from crying, I start reciting times tables in my head, except I suck at multiplication and lose track by the time I get to four times six. Okay. We’ll go with the prompt: rat. List all animals that start with the letter R. Rabbits, raccoons, roaches, rhinos, rams, ringworms, roosters, rottweilers (do dog breeds count?), reindeer…oh, and can’t forget red hawks—like the Grand Lake High Red Hawk. Our school mascot. Is there even such a thing as a red hawk? I’m dubious. If there is, I’ve never seen one in Michigan. Whatever. The Red Hawks, our basketball team, are definitely animals, and I’m making up the rules, so I say it counts.

This little game does the trick, and once I’m confident in my ability to stave off the tears, I calmly spin my combination into the lock and pop it open. My geometry book is right where it should be, on the top shelf, so I slide it into my backpack and shut the door. Everyone is looking at me, waiting for my reaction. They probably think I’m about to collapse into sobs and have a meltdown of epic proportions. Part of me is dying to do just that, but I know it’s exactly what they want; they’re hungry for it. That is, after all, the goal of a public shaming. Everyone loves kicking the popular girl the second she’s been knocked off the pedestal.

No way am I giving them the satisfaction. These are the same people who two weeks ago envied me and clamored for my attention, and now I’m supposed to, what? Get on my knees and beg for their forgiveness? Embrace the role of whipping girl they’ve designated for me? That is so not happening. Their opinion of me never mattered before, and it’s not going to matter now. Nothing has changed. I’m still the same Chelsea Knot. Bow down, bitches.

I stride down the hall with my chin tipped up defiantly, ignoring the pressing stares. As I come up to the corner, at the edge of my vision I see Kristen huddled with a few other girls. I can’t help but slow down and sneak a glance. Since school started up again, she’s studiously avoided me, and I stopped trying to call after leaving her a week’s worth of pleading voice mails that went unanswered. I’ve tried telling myself that it’s only time she needs, that maybe the shock of her boyfriend’s arrest hasn’t worn off yet, and once it does, she won’t hate me for doing what I did. She’ll understand. We’re best friends.

When I approach, she looks the way she always does: immaculately put together, with every strand of her glossy blond hair perfectly in place, her makeup flawlessly applied. She’s wearing this creamy cable-knit sweater matched with a black skirt, more modest than her usual wardrobe, and when she sees me, I catch her midsmile. Her expression is almost demure. For a brief, shining second I think it’s going to be okay. She’s going to be on my side.

But then her face changes as she sees me. God, that look. She’s staring at me like I’m a bug she’d squash under her heel if it wouldn’t make such a mess.

She levels an icy glare at me as I pass and sneers. “What are you looking at, bitch?”

And that’s it. The final judgment. She might as well have stamped SCUM on my forehead.

The other girls around her giggle nervously, Tessa and Natalie among them. Now that I’m out of the picture, the pecking order has changed. They’ll all be vying for my old rank. I wonder which one of them will be bestowed the honor.

What everyone else thinks doesn’t matter, but what Kristen thinks does. I can’t pretend otherwise. I knew she’d be mad, but I also thought she wouldn’t throw so many years of friendship out the window. But that look on her face…my slim hope that her anger wouldn’t last dissipates, crushed to dust in some imaginary fist.

Tears, again. I fight them down and hurry around the corner without a word. At least I know where Kristen and I stand for good. Kristen, my supposed best friend. Former, now, I guess. What was I thinking? Warren is her boyfriend. I told the cops what he and Joey said at the party, after they found out about Noah from me. What they said about teaching him a lesson. And now they’ve both been arrested. It doesn’t matter if it was the right thing to do or not. Of course she hates me.

I should’ve expected this. I really did expect it, on some level. I just didn’t realize it was going to be so hard.

* * *

Mr. Callihan gives me a funny look when I hand him the note before class.

“A vow of silence?” he says dryly.

I nod, fiddling with the strap of my bag. Mr. Callihan has never liked me much, but that’s okay because I don’t like geometry, either. It’s my worst subject, and the most boring. I typically sit in the back next to Megan and talk to her as much as I can before Mr. Callihan threatens me with detention. My hope is he’ll be so keen on the prospect of me shutting up during his lectures that he won’t ask a million questions about why I’m keeping quiet. The last thing I want to do is try to explain. It’s why I came prepared with the note.

“Well.” He sighs. “You’re lucky I don’t grade on class participation.”

I take my usual seat next to Megan, who is diligently copying down the warm-up problems in her notebook, all of her attention focused on what she’s writing. She glances at me as I swing my backpack onto my desk, and then just as quickly averts her eyes again. I know she has to have heard what happened; everyone has. It even made the front page of the Grand Lake Tribune. Sure, the article didn’t include the dirty details or mention me by name, but too many people witnessed my scene in Kristen’s kitchen to keep my role in everything under wraps, and I’m sure Kristen didn’t hesitate to fill in the blanks with her own revisionist history designed to paint her in the most flattering light. And I know the gossip grapevine well enough to know how fast that story would’ve traveled.

Geometry goes okay, all things considered. Everyone acts like I’m invisible, which isn’t so surprising. All of my friends hate me now for turning in two of our own, and everyone else hated me already. The few who didn’t have no doubt heard the story and blame me for what happened to Noah. Mr. Callihan doesn’t call on me, but when the bell rings and I pack up my stuff, I can tell he’s watching.

Invisible is preferable to what I get in next period, American Lit. Mrs. Finch is far less accommodating of my voluntary silence. When I show her my note at the beginning of class, she sends me straight to the guidance counselor, Ms. Davidson.

The only time I’ve ever set foot in Ms. Davidson’s office was to fix my schedule—freshman year I’d picked French for my mandatory language credit without consulting Kristen, who’d chosen Spanish, so I went and convinced Ms. Davidson to let me switch over. Even though I’d been kind of excited about taking French, imagining that one day I would utilize it while showing my spring collection during Paris Fashion Week, it was more important to share as many classes with Kristen as possible. High school was now; my career in fashion design would come later, and there was always Rosetta Stone.

Ms. Davidson sits behind her desk and reads the note I provide, hmm-ing under her breath. She’s quiet for a while, longer than what’s necessary to read my explanation. Poor Ms. Davidson. I can tell she’s mentally reviewing all of her training and schooling to see if there’s something she’s learned that is applicable to my situation, some proper protocol for dealing with the voluntarily mute. I’m pretty sure they don’t make pamphlets for that.

“Chelsea,” she says finally, “what is it you hope to accomplish with this?”

I shrug one shoulder and stare up at the ceiling. Even if I could explain it to her, I don’t want to. She wouldn’t understand. I don’t know what the big deal is. No one wants to hear what I have to say anyway. Not Kristen, not my teachers. Not even my parents. After I explained to them what happened that night, they looked so completely let down by me I thought I would be crushed under the weight of their combined disappointment.

Running my mouth has hurt enough people already—the least I can do is shut up. Why can’t everyone see I’m doing the world a favor?

Ms. Davidson sets my note down on her desk and folds her hands on top of it. “Well, I can’t force you to talk to me,” she says. “But this kind of behavior is unhealthy and unacceptable. And unreasonable. You can’t shut out the world. Your teachers need to you to communicate.” She pauses. “I’ll have to speak to your parents about this. In the meantime, you should return to class.”

I can’t help but smile a little in triumph as she writes me a hall pass. I may not have won the war yet, but I’ve won this battle.

She hands over the pass and says, “If you ever want to talk, my door is always open.”

Yeah, that’ll happen.

Back in class, Mrs. Finch calls on me to answer some question about Of Mice and Men and symbolism or something. Not only do I not know the answer, but even if I did, she already knows I’m not going to say it out loud. So I sit there and look at her and do nothing.

“Chelsea,” she says warningly, and everyone in the class starts whispering, like, ohmygodlookathersheissuchafreak. Finally she sighs. “I’m issuing you a detention,” she informs me, and the murmurings grow louder.

I haven’t had detention since freshman year when I got caught cheating off Ashley Ziegler’s algebra exam. And Mondays are the days of meetings for the school paper, right after school—I’ve been a contributor since the start of this year. Mrs. Finch knows that; she’s the one who runs the meetings. She’s a stickler for attendance. Miss one meeting and you’re booted from the staff, unless you’re on your deathbed or something.

I guess this means I can say goodbye to my one extracurricular activity. Dammit. I open my mouth to protest, and then promptly shut it again. Whatever. I don’t need to work on the paper, even if I really like doing it. I’ll find something else to occupy my free time. I’m not letting her—or anyone else—get to me.

She signals for me to come up to her desk. I stand there, ramrod-straight, holding out my hand as I wait for her to write up the detention slip. Once she’s handed it to me, I take it and march back to my seat, leveling a defiant glare at everyone who stares. Of course, now that my weird silent freak status has been established, people don’t hold back. Whenever Mrs. Finch turns her back to the class, rubber erasers go flying, bouncing off my head and shoulders. I don’t have to turn around to know where the assault is coming from. Derek and Lowell are both on the basketball team, too. They were at the party. They know what happened.

When class ends, Lowell walks by and shoves the books and papers off my desk. I don’t know why someone wrote RAT on my locker when Lowell is the one who looks like a rodent. Beady eyes and pointy nose and thin mouth. The only reason anyone gives him the time of day is because he can shoot a stupid basketball and always knows where to score the best weed.

“Finally decided to keep your mouth shut, huh?” he says with that rodent smirk.

I shoot a quick glance to Mrs. Finch, but she’s sitting at her computer, clacking away on the keyboard, totally oblivious. Even if she was looking, she wouldn’t be able to tell anything out of the ordinary was going on. It would look like I was talking with friends, Lowell leaning his palm casually on my desk, Derek flanking my other side. I’m trapped.

“We all know your mouth’s only good for one thing,” Derek chimes in, “and it’s definitely not talking.”

I’m kind of taken aback, despite everything, because—because Derek was my friend. Yeah, Lowell’s always been a creep, but Derek’s always been a decent guy when he’s not hanging around getting high or drunk with Lowell and Warren and Joey. We run in the same circles. He’s the kind of guy who wouldn’t mind if I copied his homework or asked to borrow a pencil, someone I’d wave hello to when we crossed paths in the halls. I even helped set him up with Allie Dupree last year after I figured out he was crushing hard on her and he asked me to find out if the feeling was mutual.

And now he’s standing in front of me with the cruelest smile I’ve ever seen. Carelessly cruel, which is maybe why it hurts the way it does. I train my gaze straight ahead and sit statue still.

Lowell shoves his face in front of mine so I have no choice but to look at him. “I think Derek’s right,” he says, all mock serious and wide-eyed. “Hey, maybe at lunch, you can come by our table and suck my dick. Then Derek’s. Then everyone else’s. Think you owe that much to the team after costing us our two best players, don’t you?”

If I were speaking, I’d retort that the very idea makes me want to vomit, and inform them that contrary to popular belief, guys do talk, and from well-placed locker room sources, I am aware that neither have impressive dick sizes anyway. I’d watch that comment land and saunter away, secure with the knowledge I’d one-upped them both.

But I’m not speaking, and I’m not used to being on the receiving end of this kind of harassment, and after everything else—my locker, Kristen, the detention—I’m not equipped to fight back. It’s taking every ounce of resolve I have not to crumble under their sleazy smirks.

I will not cry. I will not cry. Dammit.

Derek and Lowell laugh, and I carefully stand up, collect my papers and shove everything in my bag. I don’t look back as I walk out, and I don’t stop walking until I’m in the bathroom, locked in the second stall. I sit on top of the toilet seat, drawing my bag onto my lap and wrapping my arms around it. My whole body shakes.

All I want to do is scream, but I can’t. I can’t. I made a promise to myself. Talking is what led to this mess in the first place. If I hadn’t said anything, no one would have found out Noah is gay, and Warren and Joey wouldn’t have beat him unconscious. If I hadn’t said anything to the cops, they wouldn’t have been expelled and arrested, and I’d still have all my friends. My biggest worry would be the state of my hair at this point in the morning, or what I should use as the topic of my next column in the school paper, not wondering how I will possibly survive the rest of this semester.

I close my eyes and take deep breaths as the door swings open and two girls come in, chatting away about a Spanish grade, unaware of my presence.

“Hey, did you hear about Chelsea Knot?” one of the girls suddenly says. I recognize that voice; it’s Allie Dupree, Derek’s girlfriend. I hold my breath and listen hard.

“No,” the other girl says. “What about her?”

“Derek’s in one of her classes, and I guess she’s refusing to talk. Like, at all,” Allie explains. “She’s like a mute or something now.”

“She probably just thinks she’s too good to speak to anyone,” the other girl says.

“Wow, you really don’t like her.”

“Chelsea Knot is a total bitch.” The words ring a little louder than they normally would, bouncing off the tile floor and walls. “She’s the one who told everyone that time I got my period and stained my jeans. It was mortifying.”

I vaguely recall this incident, but cannot for the life of me remember the name of the girl. My stomach twists and I try to push the feeling down. It’s not my fault the girl made the mistake of wearing white jeans that week. Besides, it was funny. Can’t she take a joke?

“She’s so stuck-up, always acting like she’s better than everyone else in this school,” the girl whose name I don’t remember continues.

“Except for Kristen Courteau,” Allie points out. “Any farther up Kristen’s ass and she’d be able to see her tonsils.”

“Poor Kristen,” the other girl coos. “I can’t believe all that happened at her house.”

They continue talking, but their voices fade as they exit the bathroom, the door swinging closed behind them. I release a long, shuddery breath, willing my heart to stop beating so fast in my chest. Part of me wants to race after them and tell the two of them off, but the larger part of me is rooted to the spot, unable to move, and relieved they didn’t realize I was in here the whole time.

I guess I should get used to this feeling of being invisible. Almost everyone’s acting like I don’t exist at all, and the people who’ve acknowledged me—well, I wish they hadn’t. For once in my life, I wish everyone would just forget about me.

* * *

Ms. Kinsey is totally that cliché free-spirit art teacher you’re always seeing in movies. You know, with the crazy long curly hair and hippie skirts and Birkenstocks, and when it’s warm, she takes us outside to sit on the grass and sketch trees and shit. Last year a rumor went around that she’s a lesbian. I didn’t believe it until this one time Kristen and I went to the dollar theater across town and saw her there, holding hands with this really tall, willowy woman with short hair. Kristen thought it was both hilarious and gross, and spent an entire week cracking lesbian jokes at Ms. Kinsey’s expense.

Ms. Kinsey is a freak show, but she’s not so bad compared to my other teachers. I mean, she’s totally ridiculous and over-the-top, but even though she’s been teaching at Grand Lake for a long time, she’s not jaded and bitter like most of the veterans. And she’s always nice to me, even after I almost started a fire with the kiln last year in Intro to Ceramics. I’m not great with pottery, but I do enjoy drawing; I spend enough time sketching out different outfit ideas in my free time to pull out a halfway decent rendering of a flower vase or a bowl of fruit when necessary. Of course, Ms. Kinsey grades on such a wide curve that my actual skill doesn’t matter anyway. If I could ace Ceramics with my lopsided candle holders, I can no doubt pass General Art Studies. I can tolerate Ms. Kinsey’s obnoxious hippie persona in exchange for an easy grade.

I duck into the art room early, not wanting to linger in the halls and risk running into Kristen or Derek or Lowell or anyone else interested in making my life a living hell. It’s a long list. Going to the cafeteria for lunch was like being behind enemy lines. Everywhere I turned, there was someone glaring or pointing and whispering. I ended up sitting at the table where the Special Ed kids eat, and even they ignored me. Talk about humiliating.

Art is one of my only new classes. Last semester I had Keyboarding, a subject so tedious the only reason I didn’t kill myself to spare me the agony of Mr. Newkirk’s monotone was that I had Kristen to talk to. Thankfully she’s not taking art. No one I am—was—friends with is, as far as I know. At least I hope.

The art room is empty when I get there, save for Ms. Kinsey, who is erasing a chalk depiction of a pineapple off the board. This is the only room in the school equipped with an old-fashioned chalkboard; every other classroom has one of those glossy white dry-erase boards.

“Good afternoon, Chelsea!” she chirps pleasantly. So pleasantly I’m actually startled. “It’s good to see you. How are you doing today?”

Terrible. Horrible. Like I want to crawl under a rock and die.

Ms. Kinsey flashes me one of her full-on, thousand kilowatt sunny smiles. She’s the first person today to look like she’s glad to see me, and I feel a sudden, unexpected surge of gratitude toward her.

I smile a little and shrug, digging through my bag for my note. I can’t find it—though I do come across the detention slip and mentally berate Mrs. Finch for being such an uptight bitch. Finally I walk up to the blackboard and take a piece of chalk.

I can’t talk.

Ms. Kinsey frowns. “Oh, what’s the problem? Are you sick? Is it laryngitis?”

I shake my head and write on the board again.

I’ve taken a vow of silence.

I turn to see her reaction. She reads what I’ve written and then looks at me again, smiling.

“That’s very interesting,” she says, and she sounds like she actually does find it interesting, not like she’s mocking me. “What inspired this?”

I pull the National Geographic article from my pocket and hand it to her. She unfolds it, eyes scanning the wrinkled page, before her face lights up like the Fourth of July.

“Brilliant idea, Chelsea!” she exclaims. “I think it’s great that you’re on this voyage of self-discovery. If more people strove for spiritual enlightenment, the world would be a much better place for it.” She squeezes my shoulder with one chalky hand. Even though she’s totally off base (I’m not exactly sure what “striving for spiritual enlightenment” entails, really), after a day of no one being nice to me, I could just hug her anyway. Which is proof that I am totally losing it.

Other students start filtering into the classroom. I hastily wipe off the board and make a beeline for one of the workstations. The good thing about art class is that it is devoid of jocks and most populars. I’m here only because it’s the easiest elective available, and it sure as hell beats Shop (such a misleading title!) or Personal Finance (my only interest in money is spending it, not budgeting it).

If previous experience is any indication, the art freaks will be too consumed with fostering their existential angst and crafting abstract pieces out of coat hangers, Styrofoam, magazine cutouts and black paint (to symbolize their dark, tortured souls, of course) to heed me any attention. A few weeks ago I was comparing schedules with my friends and lamenting the fact that none of them had this class, but considering my new circumstances, I’m relieved. The tardy bell rings, and I think maybe, just maybe, I’ll finally be able to actually relax.

And then Sam Weston walks into the room.

My heart plummets to my feet, and for an awful moment I am convinced I am going to either pass out or throw up in front of everyone. I’ve been so preoccupied worrying about Kristen and the others that I hadn’t even thought to prepare myself for running into Sam. Sam, who I don’t know a lot about, but the one thing I do know is that he is best friends with Noah.

He rubs a hand over his rumpled, wavy dark hair and scans the room from behind his black framed glasses, searching for a seat. I do the same, realizing with growing dread that the only space available is at my workstation. When he catches up to my realization, his gaze flicks to mine for a second, and I look away, silently willing him to sit somewhere else, anywhere else. It doesn’t work. My avoidance of eye contact doesn’t deter him from walking over and setting his backpack on the seat next to mine.

Why? Why is this happening to me?

Oh, right, because God hates me and wants me to suffer. Obviously.

I’m careful to keep my eyes on my sketchpad as Ms. Kinsey explains our first assignment. We’re supposed to imitate another artist’s style. Awesome. Who am I supposed to attempt, Monet? Van Gogh? That’d be nothing short of a train wreck. Maybe the flower lady—what’s her name? Oh, right, Georgia O’Keefe. Yes, that’s exactly what I should do. Paint big flowers that look like vaginas. It’s not like I haven’t already alienated myself from the student body enough. Why not go for broke?

It’s less nauseating to think about flowery vaginas than it is to focus on what I am so acutely aware of—Sam’s very, very near proximity. But as Ms. Kinsey drones on (and on, and on, and on), I can’t help but wonder if he’s going to try anything. At any moment he could make a nasty comment, tell me to fuck off and die, or do something worse, like mess with my stuff. Or with me. The art room has plenty of arsenal: scissors, permanent markers, superglue, X-Acto knives. Oh, God, I didn’t even think about X-Acto knives. I’m going to have to channel Jason Bourne now if I want to survive high school. Assess the situation! Know your exits! Everything is a weapon!

If I’m lucky, Sam’ll just give me the cold shoulder like everyone else. Even though I don’t know him very well—or at all, really, aside from sharing a few choice classes over the years—he’s never come across as a particularly potent brand of douche bag. But then, neither did Derek, so what do I know about anything?

When Sam’s elbow accidentally knocks against mine, I nearly jump out of my skin. So much for playing it cool. He glances at me with big blue eyes, clearly surprised by my crazy overreaction, but doesn’t say anything. I blush and try to return my attention to whatever Ms. Kinsey’s still discussing.

“…and four weeks from now we’ll have the presentations,” she says.

Oh, right, the project. I’m looking forward to it so much I could just shoot myself in the face in anticipation. Ms. Kinsey beams brightly at me, and I struggle to look less outwardly like I feel, which at the moment is borderline suicidal.

“So why don’t you go ahead and partner up, and you can start deciding who you want to choose as your subject.”

Wait. Partners? What?

Please, please, please tell me I heard that wrong.

I didn’t. Everyone in the classroom shuffles around, making the migration to other workstations, meeting up with the partners they arranged via silent hand signals and elbow nudging during Ms. Kinsey’s ramble. Everyone except me, of course. And, oddly enough, Sam. I notice he hasn’t moved from his spot. Doesn’t he have friends?

I try to remember who I’ve seen him with in the past. Noah, mostly. And I know they hung out with a lot of groups, but I can’t think of any specific one—they’re not art freaks, or super academics, or straight edge, or burnouts. I’ve seen them both skateboarding, but they don’t hang out with the skaters, either. Definitely not the jocks, even though Noah plays soccer. They just…floated from group to group. Somehow they still managed to be friends with practically everyone. Cool but still accessible. Which is the reason Noah was allowed to come to the party in the first place.

I chance a glance at Sam as he drums his fingers on the countertop. He sees me watching and stops abruptly.

“Uh…” he starts to say. He looks everywhere else before he settles his gaze on me, and then he does the hair rubbing thing again, like it’s a nervous tic. “It looks like everyone else paired off. Guess that leaves us.”

Sam doesn’t look happy about it, but he isn’t looking at me like he wants to stab me in the face with his pencil, either, which isn’t something I can claim with the least bit of confidence for anyone else in this class. If he can handle this, so can I.

He flicks open his sketchbook to a fresh page. I notice there are a bunch of other drawings on the ones before it, but he flips past them too fast for me to see what they are.

“I don’t know if you had any ideas,” he says, “but I was thinking maybe something more modern. Like Salvador Dali.” He writes the name down on the pad.

I’m not really crazy about the idea of recreating dreamscapes with melting clock faces—that is way beyond my skill level—so I make an apathetic face at the suggestion.

Sam notices my unenthused expression and mutters, “Or not,” crossing out the name sharply. He drops the pen onto the sketchpad and looks me straight in the eye. “You know, I realize this isn’t exactly a dream collaboration for either of us, but it’d be nice if you’d contribute a little something more than a judgmental glare.”

I’m considering how to respond to this without actually responding when Ms. Kinsey flutters over to our station. She looks over Sam’s shoulder at our blank page of brainstorms.

“Need any help?” she asks.

We both shake our heads.

“Think we can handle it,” he tells her, but he doesn’t sound like he believes it.

“I just want you to know,” she says to me, “that I am very much willing to work around your spiritual commitment. All I ask is that you find another way to participate if you aren’t going to speak. Use your imagination! Be creative!”

From the way she says it, I can only assume she’s expecting me to break into an interpretive dance for our presentation. Which is just not going to happen in this lifetime. Or any other.

I give her a thumbs-up that far overstates my enthusiasm for her suggestion, and Sam looks at me with raised eyebrows.

“‘Spiritual commitment’?” he echoes, bemused.

“You didn’t tell him?” Ms. Kinsey says. “Well, of course you didn’t tell him!” She laughs at her own joke, turning to Sam with a big smile. “Chelsea here has taken an oath of silence.”

“You’ve—what?” He gapes at me like a floundering fish, processing this piece of information, and then turns to Ms. Kinsey. “How am I supposed to do a project with someone who won’t talk?”

“There are many forms of communication,” she says airily. “I know you’ll find a way to make it work while still respecting her spiritual beliefs.” She pats him on the shoulder, sauntering off as he stares after her with an annoyed look.

I grab the pen from him, scratch out a sentence on the clean sheet and hold up the pad.

I’m silent, not stupid.

“Yeah, okay, if you say so.” He snatches back the notebook. “Let’s just get this over with.”

We spend the rest of the period going back and forth, trying to brainstorm artists, Sam voicing his ideas and me writing down mine. He doesn’t once stray from the topic at hand, and I’m certainly not about to bring Noah’s name into the conversation. Sam was right; we just need to plow through this and get it done.

Eventually we settle on Jackson Pollack (my idea). I think it’s a solid choice—Sam likes modern art, and I like the idea of doing something easy like indiscriminately slashing paint across a canvas. But when at the end of class we go to inform Ms. Kinsey of our selection, she tells us someone else in the class has beaten us to the punch.

“I’m sorry,” she says with a frown, glancing down at her notebook, “but it looks like you’ll have to come up with someone else.” The bell rings, and she smiles again. “Oh, by the way, Chelsea, would you stay for a moment? I have something for you.”

I nod, surprised, and Sam looks at me and shrugs.

“We’ll talk about the project later,” he says. He rolls his eyes. “Or, I guess, not talk. Whatever.”

After everyone has shuffled out of the room, Ms. Kinsey goes to one of the supply cabinets and pulls out a small whiteboard and a dry-erase marker. She hands both to me and says, “I was thinking this might solve some of your communication hurdles.”

I’m touched by the gesture. I uncap the marker and write Thank you on the board.

“You’re very welcome, Chelsea,” she says. “But keep in mind I’m not technically allowed to just give school supplies away, especially with the art budget being what it is. So consider it a loan.” She smiles, reaching out to squeeze my shoulder. “Until you find your voice again.”

* * *

I’m almost late to detention because I’m too busy scrubbing the vandalism off my locker. All I have is a wet paper towel and hand soap, and the marker’s dried already, so it’s slow going. After some time I’ve rubbed it off enough so that there are only a few black smears left. Not perfect, but it’ll have to do.

When I get to the detention room to sign in, I immediately spot Brendon Ryan sitting in the front row. I’m surprised by his presence—Brendon is hardly the detention type. All the teachers adore him, just like the rest of the world. He looks just as startled when he meets my eye, blinking a few times before his mouth twitches into a half smile. He’s probably amused by the memory of how I acted on New Year’s Eve, the pinnacle of pathetic drunken desperation. Still, I can’t help it; my heart flips in my chest at the sight of him, the way it has for the past year, the way it has as long as I’ve been stupidly in love with him and his stupid face.

The problem, of course, is that Brendon’s face isn’t stupid at all. It’s gorgeous. Like the sort of Abercrombie model, statuesque perfection that would leave Michelangelo in tears. I want to lick his high-set cheekbones. I want to run my hands over his chest to see if it’s as hard as it looks. I don’t even want to make out with him—I mean, I do, obviously, of course, but really I’d settle for just tracing his perfect lips with my finger. Or running my hands through his gorgeous blond hair over and over for hours. Or—

Okay, this could go on, but I’m actually starting to creep myself out, and the point remains. Brendon is gorgeous, and even more so because he doesn’t seem to notice exactly how good-looking he is. Maybe he just doesn’t care. He’s that fucking cool.

I tear my eyes off him and hastily duck into a seat on the other side of the room, way in the back row, next to a short, petite Indian girl with long, black hair that falls all the way to her waist. There’s a lone apple sitting in the middle of her desk. I watch as she stares at it intently for almost a full minute, then reaches out and rotates it about forty-five degrees to her right. A minute later, after some more staring, she spins the apple slightly again.

What a freak.

I turn my attention back to Brendon. My enormous crush on him might’ve meant something a few weeks ago. Actually things had been going well in that arena—up until Kristen’s party. I could tell he wanted to kiss me that night. Um, before I ran upstairs to puke, that is, and instead stumbled into Kristen’s guest room. Before I decided to out Noah to everyone within earshot. Brendon’s body language was clear as day. He was totally into me.

Probably.

It doesn’t matter now. He’s just like everyone else; I might as well not exist, unless someone needs a spitball/eraser/pencil/food/sexual harassment target.

That doesn’t stop me from spending all of detention staring at the back of his dumb/gorgeous blond head, willing him to turn around and smile at me, which is one of my most absurd fantasies. Right up there with owning a pet unicorn or marrying Prince Harry. It’s just never going to happen. I don’t know why I’m torturing myself like this. I’m such a masochist.

I take out a notebook and a pen and doodle the outlines of models, drawing different dresses—some of them angular with low necklines, others with big, swooping skirts. My mind and eyes keep wandering back to Brendon, though, and soon enough my outfit doodles turn into me doodling a trail of broken hearts along the margin. When I realize what I’m doing, I stop myself and scratch the hearts out so hard my pen tip almost tears through the paper, my display of aggression causing the girl next to me to glance over. I ignore her and rip the page clean out of the notebook, crumple it in my fist and shove it into my backpack.

There are only two and a half years left of high school. I can make it alone. Once I graduate, I’ll never have to see any of these losers ever again. I will find a way to move to a new, big city where no one knows who I am or what I’ve done, leave all this behind me, and become the fashion designer I’ve always dreamed of being. I’ll be able to block Kristen and Noah and this entire mess from memory.

Until then, I will just show up and shut up and grit my teeth and get through this. Whatever it takes.

* * *

“She needs to see a doctor,” my mother says at dinner.

Of course that’s what she says. Therapy is my mother’s solution to everything. I’m sure she thinks there’d be peace in the Middle East if every country were forced to sit down on a stiff leather couch with a box of Kleenex and talk about their feeeeelings.

Actually…has anyone tried that yet?

Ever since my mother got home from work, she’s been hounding me. Ms. Davidson made good on her threat and apparently spoke to her about my insubordination issues. She also recommended counseling. I’m not crazy; I’m perceptive. What comes out of my mouth is the root of my problems, so the solution is for nothing to come out. Ms. Davidson said I couldn’t shut out the world, but my question is, why can’t I do just that? It’s what the world wants. It’s the only way to keep myself out of trouble.

Mom probably wouldn’t be on my back so much if I’d just owned up and confessed my true motivations behind the vow, but instead I’m passing it off to my parents as an experiment. It’s just the easier explanation, and I know if I was honest, she’d take it as some personal parental failure even though it has nothing to do with her. I can tell she doesn’t believe me, though, by the way she’s staring like I’ll crack under the pressure of her intent gaze if she just waits long enough.

I sigh loud enough to get my father’s attention and roll my eyes, just to garner some jeez, this isn’t a big deal, must be Mom’s time of the month again, huh? solidarity. It works like a charm. He cracks a small smile at me.

“Isn’t sighing almost the same as speaking?” he teases.

I scribble on the whiteboard Ms. Kinsey gave me—the one I’ve resolved to cart around with me at all times—and show it to him. My vow, my rules.

He chuckles. “Fair enough.”

“Frank,” Mom says warningly. She hates when he humors me. She’s not big on humor in general, really. She’s into managing a floral shop, which is what she does for a living. And being a florist is very serious business in her world. God forbid you don’t discuss the art of flower arrangements with the utmost reverence.

“I don’t see the big problem,” Dad replies. “I think it’s important to nurture creativity, and if this is how Chelsea decides to…express herself, then we should be supportive.”

I smile at him to show I appreciate his principled stand, even though I was banking on it all along. See, Dad has this stiff office job where he wears a suit and sits in the most depressing cubicle ever for eight hours a day and tries to sell office chairs over the phone to people who don’t want to buy anything in this economy anyway. He’s got to hate it. I’ve seen pictures of him when he was my age; he rocked long hair and wore these crazy sunglasses and played drums in a band. There’s even this cassette tape of their recordings he keeps in his closet. I listened to it once, but it was all endless jamming that can only sound genius if you’re seriously stoned. All of the lyrics revolved around a) getting high and b) sticking it to The Man. He’s still a hippie at heart, and as someone who went from fighting The Man to working for him, I’m sure he secretly thinks my vow is “rad” or whatever slang word he thinks is hip.

“‘Expressing herself’? How? By not expressing herself at all?” Mom harrumphs and drops her forkful of tofurkey. I swear I’m the only kid not on television who is actually subjected to the evils of tofu on a regular basis. My mother’s been having a two-year-long love affair with organic foods. It’s tragic. For me, I mean. “That’s it. I’m scheduling an appointment with Dr. Gebhart tomorrow,” she declares.

“Irene, come on. It’s just a harmless social experiment,” Dad says. “It’s a phase. She’ll get over it soon enough. Why not let her have a little fun?”

“This isn’t her ‘having fun.’ It certainly isn’t healthy behavior,” she insists.

I really hate how they’re talking about me like I’m not in the room. I pick up the board and write, I’m sitting right here you know.

Ooh, on second thought, maybe not a smart move. Because now that Mom is looking at me, she’s really looking at me.

“If you choose not to act like an adult,” she says with a cool stare, “you do not get to partake in adult conversations.”

And you know, that’s the last straw. There’s only so much condescension one girl can take in a day before reaching her breaking point.

I slam my chair back from the table so hard all the dishes rattle, and then storm up the stairs to my room, making sure to stomp as hard as I can on each step. It’s very six-years-old of me, I realize, and probably won’t help my “please stop treating me like a damn child” case, but I’m too pissed and upset to care. God, everything just sucks today.

As I go to shut my door, I hear Mom and Dad downstairs, arguing. I listen just long enough to hear my name thrown around before flinging myself dramatically onto the bed and staring at the ceiling. When I was thirteen, Dad painted it dark blue and stuck on those glow-in-the-dark plastic stars, so when all the lights are off, it’s like being in a planetarium. A pretty crappy imitation of a planetarium, but whatever. I count each one and list something that is pissing me off: Lowell. Derek. Mrs. Finch. Tofu. My mom. Jell-O shots. Warren. Joey. Whoever invented markers. The list of everything I hate at this very moment could fill an entire galaxy.

I can’t help but wonder what Kristen is doing right now. And how she is, really. Is she upset? Is she worried about Warren? Has she cried? Is she thinking about me? Or was I ever really only a placeholder, someone completely disposable, like Natalie said?

I’m not great at a lot, but I’m good at being Kristen’s friend. Or, I was, until I messed it all up for myself on a stupid whim. I liked it, being in her orbit. Girls wanted to be us. Guys wanted to date us. Even those who hated us wanted a look. I loved that, loved that I mattered, that people were jealous. I loved turning heads. It didn’t matter if most of them were looking at Kristen; I was in their line of vision, and that totally counted for something. Being on the radar at all. It made me more than average. It was everything to me.

I don’t know who I am without Kristen. I don’t know if I want to find out.

I’m interrupted from my thoughts by a knock at the door. Obviously I don’t answer, so it opens on its own. I twist around to see Dad in the doorway.

He hovers for a minute and then clears his throat. “Hey, kid. Can I come in?”

I nod. He walks across the room and sits at the foot of the bed, pushing my feet to one side for room. I lie there and look at him. His shoulders have this tired slump to them, and there are tired lines around his eyes. He looks old. Drained. It makes me wonder how he ever had the energy to do things like paint my ceiling.

“How was school?” he asks softly.

I shrug, pulling my sleeves over my hands. I’m not going to burden him with my problems. This is my hill to climb alone.

“Don’t worry about your mother. I talked her down from siccing Dr. Gebhart on you. You have to understand, she’s just worried,” he says. He puts his hand on my shoe and squeezes. “And I worry, too. Things have been stressful lately. For all of us.”

Is Noah’s father doing the same thing right now, sitting by his bedside and offering comfort? Did he even know his son was gay before I said anything? Does it matter to him?

I fish the whiteboard from the floor where I’d dropped it.

Would you care if I was gay? I write.

Dad blinks a few times. “Are you? Is that what this—?”

I tap the board again with my marker tip. I want to hear his answer first.

“No,” he says quickly. “Of course not. Who you love…that isn’t important. It doesn’t change who you are, or how much we love you. Nothing could change that.”

I knew that’s what he’d say. Still, it feels nice to hear it regardless.

I erase the board and write, I’m not gay. But I’m glad it wouldn’t matter.

He looks at it and smiles a little. “We just want you to be happy. You know that, right?”

Yeah. Yeah, I know.

I nod, and he drops a kiss on my forehead, sets his palm flat on the top of my head for a moment before he starts to leave. “Stay sweet,” he says on his way out, the same thing he always says to me. He hesitates, lingering at the doorway. “What happened to that boy… You did the right thing, Chelsea.”

I feel like such an idiot. I don’t even care if I did the right thing—it doesn’t feel like the right thing. It feels like I screwed myself over. One stupid moment of fleeting conscience and I’ve lost all I care about. Maybe I could try groveling for forgiveness, hope it would get me back into everyone’s good graces, but the thought of it alone is nauseating. Natalie might think I’m just Kristen’s little minion, but I’m not.

I don’t know exactly what I am, but I’m more than that. I know that much.