Speechless

  I drive in silence, thinking about what she just said. I don’t know Asha well enough to consider her my friend, and honestly, even now, as nice as Asha is, it still feels bizarre to socialize with someone I never would’ve given a second look a few weeks ago. Like some part of me feels this is just temporary. I guess I had convinced myself that eventually everyone would get over what happened, and I’d be accepted back into the fold—but that prospect is looking dimmer and dimmer as time goes on. And after receiving Kristen’s scathing email, which makes me see red even just thinking about it, I’m not sure if I really want that anymore. Maybe some bridges are better left burned.

  “You should come again tomorrow,” she says. “I could help you with your geometry some more. If you don’t have anything better to do.”

  Andy will probably be there. I don’t know if it’s fair of me, to be hanging out at Rosie’s, like I’m trying to rub my presence in his face or something, when he’s so obviously angry at me. But then I think about Asha, how she really wants me around. I know it’d be better if I kept to myself—for both of our sakes, and Andy’s and Sam’s. But being alone sucks. It sounds like Asha knows that firsthand, and that’s why she’s offering her friendship. I don’t know if I have enough pride to turn that down, no matter who it’s coming from. Even with what happened with Andy, today was the best day I’ve had since New Year’s. It seems like that’s something I should hold on to. That I need to hold on to. I turn my head and nod. And the pleased look on Asha’s face tells me I’ve made the right decision.

  day five

  Friday used to be the best day of the week because it hailed the start of a weekend of partying and shopping and blowing off homework in favor of hanging out with Kristen and everyone else. Now Friday is my favorite day for a different reason. It means I get two full days of blissful peace where I don’t even have to think about school.

  This Friday will be longer than usual due to another detention, courtesy of Mrs. Finch. All of my other teachers have, if grudgingly, accepted my silence, but she has not. Every day she comes up to my desk first thing, asks if I’ve decided to participate, and when I just stare at her with my jaw clenched, she writes up the detention slip and sets it in the middle of my desk for everyone to see.

  On my way out of her room, Lowell stuck a wad of gum in my hair and I had to spend fifteen minutes in the bathroom picking it out best I could, warding off the amused looks other girls gave me at the sink as I held my hair under the tap. It was disgusting and humiliating and I wanted to scream, but I just settled for pulling my hair back in a bun to hide the wet spots.

  Halfway through Geometry, I catch Megan staring at me. It’s the first time she’s made eye contact this week. Her expression is unreadable, so I try for a small smile, testing the waters. Megan is a sweet person, and we were friends before; maybe she hasn’t made a snap judgment about my involvement in what happened. Maybe we can still be friends.

  The cold look she shoots me in return kills that short-lived hope.

  She leans toward me and hisses, “I know you knew about Owen and Tessa.”

  My stomach twists. I’ve been so caught up in the Noah situation that I almost forgot about that.

  “You were supposed to be my friend,” she says, her voice tight and strained with a mixture of anger and hurt. “You should’ve told me. I had to find out from some girl in my science class. She showed me the picture of them on her phone. You know, the picture you spread around.”

  My eyes widen. The pictures are still on my phone, but I haven’t sent them to anyone.

  “I guess everyone was right about you,” she mutters.

  Mr. Callihan stops midlecture to clear his throat pointedly, and Megan leans away from me. She stares straight ahead, and I know that once again, I no longer exist to her.

  I’m too busy processing this latest information to pay attention to the rest of Mr. Callihan’s diatribe. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to realize what had to have happened. It was Kristen. She must’ve sent the picture and told everyone I did it—a perfect way to turn Tessa and Megan against me for good. Knowing I have literally zero way to defend myself against her accusations.

  This must be phase one of Kristen’s retaliation. And I know this isn’t the end of it.

  When I see Brendon at lunch, I’m not sure if it’s going to make my Friday better or worse.

  He’s standing in front of the library double doors, riffling through his backpack. I’m supposed to meet Asha for another tutoring session. Part of me wants to flee the moment I spot him there, but the only way out is if I turn around abruptly and backtrack. I’m still considering my options when Brendon glances up and sees me. He looks uncertain, but since I have him inadvertently cornered, he can’t really ignore me.

  “Hi,” he says, zipping up his backpack.

  I try for a disarming smile and hope he doesn’t notice the way I’m staring. I can’t help it. Why does he have to be so pretty?

  “I heard about your…thing,” he says. “The no talking?”

  There’s an awkward moment where I’m just looking at him. Obviously I can’t really respond to that, can I?

  “I heard you joined a cult, and that’s why you’re doing this.” A smile flits over his face, a little uneasy.

  So that’s what people are saying, huh? The rumor mill must be in overdrive—certainly Kristen’s taking care of that much. I wonder what else is being said about me. I’m sure I could take a wild guess and not be far off the mark.

  “I didn’t do anything,” he says. At my completely confused look, he elaborates. “That day I got detention. Some girl asked me to borrow a pencil during a test, I handed one to her…my Civics teacher gave us both detentions. Total overreaction.” He pauses. “I just remember you looked surprised to see me there, thought you might want to know why.”

  Of course when Brendon gets in trouble, it’s not really trouble. I knew he was too straitlaced to do anything wrong. I nod slowly, not sure how else to react to this. I feel like I should be coming up with some way to extend this interaction, but part of me wants it to end as soon as possible to kill the painful awkwardness of it all.

  “Um. So.” Brendon swings his backpack onto his back and shifts uncomfortably. Clearly the novelty of a one-way conversation has worn off. Or maybe he believes I really am in a cult. “Guess I should probably…yeah.”

  He ducks his head and hurries off, and I turn to watch him disappear into the sea of students. Just as he rounds the corner, Asha comes walking up to the library. She looks from Brendon to me with a knowing smile.

  “You like him, don’t you?” she says, head tilted to one side.

  I give her an incredulous look. What is this, middle school?

  “I don’t blame you. He’s cute.” She snags my arm and tugs me toward the library. “Come on, no more time for swooning. Parabolas await!”

  Oh, my life.

  * * *

  “Tell me I’m not the only one counting down the minutes until school lets out,” Sam says, collapsing onto the stool next to me in a dramatic fashion, half sprawled over the art table.

  It must be a long day for him if he’s commiserating to me, of all people. I know the feeling. This has been the longest, most hellish week of my entire life.

  I pull a sympathetic face and write on my whiteboard. You are not alone.

  “I think I’m going to need the weekend just to recuperate from all the studying I did this week,” he says. “I
had two major projects due and four big tests. That’s inhumane.” He sighs, pushing his head up and propping it against his open palm. “Asha told me you’re coming to Rosie’s again.”

  I nod warily. While he acted okay with making me the tuna melt and for most of the night, I still remember his conversation with Asha. I know his tolerance toward me is only because she asked for it.

  “Listen,” he says, leaning closer to me, “I told Asha I’d give you a chance, because she asked. But if you’re going to be hanging around, I need you to be honest with me about a few things.” His eyes narrow. “You’re not messing with her, are you?”

  I shake my head hard. I don’t even know how I could mess with Asha. Hasn’t he noticed that I’m in no position to screw anyone over? I’m the lowest of the low.

  He studies me carefully. “I hope not,” he says. “Asha is a good person. Better than most. She’s not like you.”

  That stings. I frown and reach for my whiteboard. You don’t know me.

  “You’re right,” he says. “But I know Asha. She sees the good in people, even when she probably shouldn’t. She’s the best friend you can have, not just some consolation prize. She doesn’t know how to be mean. If you act like you’re her friend, she’s going to believe you are. If you’re just using her to help yourself get a good grade and then drop her, she’s going to be upset. I don’t want to see her get hurt.”

  I can’t pretend his concern isn’t warranted. After all, my main motivation for spending time with Asha so far has been for help with my homework. But at the same time, I can’t deny that there’s something about her I genuinely like, too. Sam is right—Asha doesn’t know how to be mean. When she says something, she means exactly what she says. She isn’t like Kristen, where cutting criticisms are disguised as compliments, where everything has a double meaning. It’s refreshing to be around someone I can take at face value.

  Asha is the only person who is nice to me, I write, turning the board for him to see. I don’t plan to screw that up.

  He stares at my words for a while before he clears his throat. “Good,” he says softly. “Now that that’s out of the way, I have a few more questions for you.”

  I sit up straighter, bracing myself for the worst.

  “What’s your favorite color?”

  Okay, that’s the last question I expected. I was thinking something more along the lines of Why are you such a bitch? or How dare you? or something else dripping with disdain and accusation.

  “You were right when you said I know nothing about you,” he explains. “So let’s remedy that. We’ll start off easy. Tell me your favorite color.”

  I try to hide a grin as I write on my board. Guess.

  “Oh, I see how it is. You’re going to make this hard for me.”

  I like to keep an air of mystery.

  “I’m sure you do,” he says with a smile.

  A smile? I’m so surprised I almost fall off the stool. It’s a nice one, too. Kind of lopsided, but cute. The fact that it’s so unexpected makes it even better. I return it with one of my own, a real one, and I feel the tension between us fading like a slowly deflating balloon.

  Sam even walks me to my locker after class. He doesn’t say anything about it, just does it like it’s a perfectly normal thing to do. I appreciate the company, if only because listening to him talk helps distract me from worrying about who I might possibly run into. I text Dad to let him know I don’t know when I’ll be home since I’m being tutored after school, which isn’t really a lie; Asha said she’d help me out again. That girl is on a diehard mission to drill geometry into my head.

  “Okay,” Sam says, leaning into me as some freshman barrels past us on the staircase, “favorite Peanuts character.”

  He spent all of class playing this game with me—trying to guess things about me without me speaking. All I have to do is shake my head or give him the thumbs-up when he guesses correctly. So far he’s found out that my favorite color is green, my favorite vegetable is carrots and my middle name is Rose. That last one took a lot of guessing on his part.

  “Let’s start with the obvious,” he says. “Charlie Brown.”

  I shake my head.

  “Snoopy?”

  Nope.

  “Okay… Linus?” No. “Peppermint Patty?” No. “Marcie? Pig-Pen? Lucy?”

  No, no, no.

  Sam grins. “Damn. I thought it would be Lucy. You seem like the Lucy type.”

  I shoot him a withering glare. Lucy? Really? The girl who yanks away the football and is bossy as hell?

  “Fine, fine, not Lucy then.” He pauses, considering, and then snaps his fingers. “I got it. Woodstock?”

  I grin and flash him a thumbs-up. I can’t believe it took him so many guesses. I mean, who doesn’t love Woodstock? He’s adorable.

  “All right, I have one last question for you,” he says. “Asha’s birthday is tomorrow. I’m taking her ice skating. Do you want to come?”

  I’m so caught off guard by the question that I almost trip over one of the steps. I barely manage to stop myself from falling flat on my face by grabbing on to the handrail.

  “Asha asked me to invite you. I realize it’s probably not the level of cool you’re accustomed to when it comes to social outings,” Sam says. “Your crowd’s idea of a fun time is probably driving around bashing mailboxes with a baseball bat.”

  I want to resent his assumption, but the truth is Warren and Joey drove Kristen and me around town at three in the morning doing precisely that like five times over the summer.

  Ice skating. Okay, not really my thing, but it’s for Asha, and a way to prove I’m not just using her. I look defiantly at Sam and nod.

  “You’ll come?” He doesn’t bother to conceal his surprise.

  I nod again, more firmly this time, and Sam blinks once, but then shrugs.

  “Okay,” he says. “I’ll pick you up around noon.”

  We finally fight our way through the steady stream of students and stop at my locker. Sam leans against the one next to mine. He looks like he’s waiting, or like he just wants to chill out. I stand there and wait for him to say something. It’s not like I expect him to keep me company or whatever.

  “Guess I’ll see you after school,” he says, after he realizes I’m just staring at him. He does this awkward mock salute thing and walks away. He is such a dork. It’s sort of endearing.

  I see him later at Rosie’s. When I walk through the door, he’s cleaning off the grill, his back to me. He glances over his shoulder when the bell chimes and flashes me a quick smile. I smile back, starting to approach him, when Asha calls my name.

  “Chelsea!” She waves me over to the booth where she’s sitting. “How was detention?”

  I make a face and slide into the seat across from her, pushing my bag aside. The hour I spent in the detention room after school seemed to crawl by at a torturously slow pace. I really hope Mrs. Finch gives up on this punishment method soon. If not, she may just break me yet.

  Asha and I sit in a booth, rolling silverware as she explains quadratic expressions, while Sam and Andy cook behind the counter.

  I avoid Andy as much as I can. It’s not too hard, since he seems to be doing his best to avoid me, too. The only time he acknowledges me is when he comes over to wipe off the table next to ours. His eyes meet mine for a fleeting second, his mouth pulling down with displeasure. He looks surprised, like he didn’t expect me to show my face here again.

  To be per
fectly honest, I’m sort of surprised, too.

  “I got this, Andy.” Another girl, tall and curvy with a tiny diamond stud in her nose, comes up to him and swats him in the arm. “Get your ass back in the kitchen.”

  Andy rolls his eyes. “Bossy, bossy.” He tucks his rag in his apron pocket and heads back behind the counter.

  “Hey, Asha,” the girl says then cocks her head at me. “Who’s your friend?”

  “This is Chelsea,” Asha explains. “Chelsea, this is Lou. She’s Dex’s other half.”

  Lou laughs. “I think my official title is Head Bitch in Charge.” She smiles at me. “Do you want something to drink?”

  I feel myself blushing, but Asha, thank God, steps in for me.

  “Chelsea doesn’t talk,” she says. She looks at me. “You want a Coke?”

  I nod, and Lou grins again, even wider this time. “I’ll be right back,” she says.

  After Lou has walked away, Asha explains that she’s Dex’s girlfriend. “She waits tables, but she’s basically a comanager. She and Dex have been together forever,” she tells me. “They’re, like, made for each other. It’s ridiculous.”

  When Dex comes in later, he goes straight to Lou, kisses the top of her head and smoothes a hand down the back of her old-fashioned gingham dress, which she paired with black fishnets and neon-green high-tops, a combination that sounds crazy in theory but one she manages to pull off with flair.

  I really like this. Sitting in the middle of this frenzy of activity, watching everyone run the diner. Dex heads up the register, ringing up customers and taking order slips from Asha and Lou, attaching them to the ticket rack and sliding it toward Sam and Andy. Sam and Andy work in tandem, passing cooking utensils back and forth, trading off on orders. Everyone has their duty to make things work smoothly.

  And even just sitting there, it’s like I’m somehow part of it, even though I’m not, really. I’m just an observer.