Читать книгу Speechless - Hannah Harrington - Страница 11

day two

The next day, Mrs. Finch issues me another pretty pink detention slip. She also keeps me after class because I clearly have not been berated by her enough. I wait until the rest of the students have cleared the room before I reluctantly walk over to her desk.

“Chelsea, I obviously can’t force you to participate in class,” she says, “but for every day you refuse to contribute, I can—and will—give you a detention.” She pauses to press her lips together for a moment. “Do you understand?”

I stare at her stony-faced.

She sighs with a curt nod. “Very well, then.”

If Mrs. Finch thinks the threat of detention is enough to deter me, she really doesn’t understand the scope of my stubborn streak.

No Brendon in detention this time, but the Indian girl from yesterday is there again. I sign in and sit down next to her. Today she has a single orange on her desk, but she isn’t looking at it. Instead she’s knitting something out of teal and purple yarn while reading a folded up newspaper. The only other person I know who knits is my grandma Doris. But this girl is good at it; she moves the needles in smooth, quick motions, in and out, in and out, not even looking down at her work as she reads. It’s oddly fascinating to watch.

I pull out my geometry assignment and get to work. Or I plan to, anyway, except five and a half problems in, the numbers start blurring together. I end up doodling spirals all over the page while I stare into space. I don’t mind detention, really. It’s boring, yeah, but it’s not like I have anything better to do. There could be way worse punishments. Mrs. Finch can suck it.

The girl next to me shifts in her seat, the chair legs scraping against the floor, and I glance up just in time to see the orange roll off her desk and toward mine. I put my foot out to stop it, then bend down, pick it up and extend it back to the girl.

“Thank you,” she says brightly. She takes it from me and peers at my open textbook. “Hmm. Asymptotes are so depressing.”

I stare at her, trying to figure out if she’s actually serious. She looks like she is.

“The curve goes toward the line, you know, and they get closer and closer, but they never get to touch,” she explains. She shrugs. “It’s just sad, is all.” She holds out the fruit. “You want my orange?”

I shake my head. The detention teacher shoots us a stern glare from behind her book.

“I’m Asha,” the girl hisses out of the side of her mouth, when the teacher’s buried her nose back in her trashy romance novel.

I look back down at my textbook, pretending to be absorbed in the nonsensical formulas and graphs displayed before me, but I can feel her gaze on me, like she’s expecting a response. I consider ignoring her; it’s what I would’ve done before. Normally I wouldn’t bother with some geeky freshman loser dressed in the most unfortunate fuzzy purple sweater I’ve ever seen in my life. I don’t associate with freaks.

Except this particular freak won’t stop staring at me, and it’s a chore to act like I’m concentrating on this math homework, so I write I’m Chelsea on the whiteboard and slide it to the corner of the desk so she can see. Maybe now she’ll leave me alone.

Asha nods knowingly. “I know. I’ve heard of you,” she whispers.

Oh, great. Is she going to give me a hard time, too? Even the freaks hate me.

She rummages through her backpack and tears a blank page from one of her notebooks. She scribbles something down and then passes the sheet of paper to me.

You’re the girl taking the vow of silence, right?

News travels fast.

I hand the paper back and start returning to my homework, except Asha keeps writing, and a minute later she pokes me in the shoulder with the corner of the page. I take it back, assuming that she’s written a profanity-laden attack on my character, but when I look down, that’s not what I see. And she doesn’t look mad or mocking—there’s something weirdly sincere about her.

Since she doesn’t appear hostile, I decide to humor her. What can it hurt?

I hear things. People say a lot in front of me because they don’t think I’m listening.

What else have you heard? Don’t answer that. So what are you in for?

I punched a teacher in the face.

Seriously?

No, but it sounds cooler than having a bunch of tardies.

Point taken.

Hey, your answer to problem number four is wrong. To find the domain you need to set the denominator to zero.

Wow. I was not even close.

Not really, no.

It goes on like this for a while, until the teacher glances at the clock and says, “All right, you’re all excused.”

Everyone clears out of the room like it’s on fire. Asha is the only one who takes her time packing away her knitting needles, zipping up her bag and tucking the newspaper under her arm. Now that we’re both standing up, I can tell exactly how short she is. I mean, I’m no giant, but I tower over her by a good three or four inches. Her sleek black hair sways back and forth as she walks in front of me out the door. I wonder how she deals with it—it must take forever to wash, and even longer to brush. I have enough trouble keeping my own tamed, and mine only goes a little past my shoulders. It’s flaming red and wavy, and no matter how much product I use, it always ends up looking wild and tousled within an hour of drying. Ridiculous.

Asha and I head in the same direction, and we end up walking side by side through the parking lot together. Outside the weather is clear and cold. There’s snow blanketed on the grass; it’ll be there for another two months, at least. Michigan winters are like that. Last year there was a blizzard in April, bad enough to close the schools. Usually I’m eager for all the snow to melt, for spring to start and the birds to sing and the flowers to bloom, all that jazz, but today I’m glad for this miserable weather. It suits my perfectly miserable mood.

“I love winter,” Asha announces out of the blue, winding her scarf tight around her neck. “I get to wear all of the stuff I knit. I need to buy some new boots, though. My old ones fell apart.”