Speechless

  day six

  I haven’t been ice skating since Beth Murkowski’s birthday party in the fourth grade, and I’m not sure that even counts since it was on the pond in her backyard and I had to borrow her sister’s pair of skates that were three sizes too big. Needless to say, that experience ended in many bruises and tears. I’m skeptical of my ability to get through this without inflicting some horrible injury on myself or innocent bystanders, but Asha assures me on the car ride over I’ll be fine.

  “It’s not that hard,” she says. “One foot in front of the other!”

  Yeah, easy for her to say. She clearly has experience, if the pair of beat-up baby-blue skates resting in her lap is any indication.

  “Don’t worry, I promise not to laugh when you fall down,” Sam promises. He pauses before he adds, “Much.”

  If this seat belt allowed me to reach over and smack him, I would. Unfortunately I’m left to glare at the back of his head.

  As soon as we get to the rink, Asha takes off for the ice while Sam and I wait in line for skates. When Sam approaches the counter and asks for size seven skates, I can’t help but think of what people say about how the size of a guy’s feet correlates to the size of their dicks—or is it hands? And then I realize I’m thinking about Sam’s dick and it’s getting kind of embarrassing.

  I’m still staring at his hands when Sam steps aside and says, “Chelsea?” I realize he’s gotten his skates and it’s my turn now.

  “What can I do for you?” the guy behind the counter asks.

  I don’t have my whiteboard with me, or any writing utensils, and I don’t know how to mime “ice skates” in an effective manner, so I flounder for a few seconds before looking to Sam for help.

  Thankfully Sam steps up to the plate. “She needs skates,” he explains.

  The guy raises his eyebrows at Sam. “Is she deaf or something?” he asks.

  “No,” he says. “She just had her tonsils taken out. She’s still recovering.” The lie comes so smoothly from Sam’s mouth I’m caught off guard. He throws a sympathetic arm around my shoulder, pulling me in close. “But she insisted on coming anyway. She’s a brave little toaster, this one.”

  This explanation seems to placate the guy. When he asks me what size I need, I hold up six fingers, pay for the skates with cash and then head down to the rink with Sam. We sit on the benches, pulling on gloves and strapping on our skates, and I unsteadily follow him into the rink.

  The second I step foot on the ice, I nearly slip, but Sam grabs my arm to prevent me from falling flat on my ass.

  “Easy there,” he says. “I’ve got you.”

  He gently pushes me toward the wall so I can hold on to the railing. I cling to it for dear life. Out of the corner of my eye I see Asha whiz by, unbelievably fast and effortless, like skating is the easiest thing in the world. How does she do it? I can barely stand on the ice without tripping over myself.

  “We’ll take it slow,” Sam says. “Hold my hands.”

  I hesitate, every instinct screaming at me not to let go of the railing since it’s the one thing keeping me up, but I slowly convince myself to extend one hand to take his and then the other. I’m gripping his hands so hard it should be painful, but if it is, Sam’s face doesn’t show it.

  “All right, now I’m going to move backward, and you’re going to follow me. Okay?”

  He doesn’t wait for an answer before he begins to glide backward. My body leans forward to keep hold of his hands, my legs refusing to move until they have no choice. As soon as I attempt to skate toward Sam, I immediately trip and tumble face-first onto the ice in the most comically ungraceful manner possible, an embarrassing, crazy flail of arms and legs, landing hard on my elbows. It hurts, but not nearly as much as my pride does at the moment.

  “Yikes.” Sam skids to a stop in front of me, trying not to laugh but only half succeeding. “Teaching you to skate may be more difficult than I thought.”

  I’m too busy pulling myself onto my knees and rubbing my elbows to glare at him properly. I never should’ve agreed to this. All I’m doing is making an idiot out of myself. Hasn’t my dignity taken enough of a blow these days without me contributing to it of my own volition?

  Upon seeing my sulky expression, Sam gives up all pretense of containing his laughter. “Aw, come on, you’re okay,” he says. He extends an open hand down to me. “Get up and try again.”

  After a moment’s more of moping, I take his hand, letting him assist me to my feet. This time he goes more slowly, helping me inch along the ice. After a little while I start to get the hang of it—it’s like Asha said, one foot and then the other.

  “There you go!” Sam says, his voice a little more enthusiastic than what is warranted. “You’re getting it!”

  I start to gain a little confidence, and with it speed, pushing off the ice with a little more gusto. Just as I think I’ve figured it out, however, I lose my balance and stumble forward into Sam, toppling us both to the ice in a tangle of limbs. I land right on top of his chest, so when he laughs, I feel it reverberating through me, and I can’t help but laugh, too. Sam’s eyes widen like he’s startled by the sound. Our faces are so close together, and looking at him looking at me, I’m suddenly, painfully aware of the rush job I did on my makeup this morning. I must look like such a mess.

  Sam’s laughter fades, slowly replaced by an awkward smile, his eyes locked on mine. He reaches one gloved hand up to brush some of my hair behind my ear, and my breath catches in my throat at the contact.

  “You should smile more often,” he tells me. “It’s a good look for you.”

  I know that a normal person would’ve gotten to their feet by now, and this has officially passed the welcome sign to Awkward City, but I’m so struck by the look on his face that I can’t bring myself to pull away yet.

  “Wow, you two really suck.”

  The sound of Asha’s voice defuses the moment like a bucket of cold water poured over my head. I look over to where she’s standing with both hands on her hips and push off Sam quickly, struggling to my feet. I’m not sure whether to be disappointed or grateful to Asha for interrupting.

  “Hey, we can’t all be Michelle Kwan,” Sam retorts, sitting up on his elbows.

  To his credit, he sounds completely unfazed by what just happened, so maybe I really was imagining things. He stands up, brushing off his knees while Asha skates around him, throwing in a few graceful spins. I like watching her move. She seems so sure of herself out here.

  She skates over to me and snatches my hand. “Come on, skate with me,” she urges. My eyes widen, and she smirks. “I’ll go extra slow, I promise.”

  I allow Asha to drag me for a while, until I get into the rhythm enough to keep up with her snail’s pace, and we glide along semismoothly. Sam catches up and skates backward in front of us. Showoff. Every so often Asha breaks away to zoom around the rink and do a few twirls and spins, or she and Sam will race around, or they’ll skate tight circles around me, laughing.

  I fall down a few more times, and they both laugh, but every time I do they help me up again, so I can’t be too annoyed about it.

  * * *

  “This is for me?”

  Asha is marveling at my gift to her like I purchased a diamond necklace or something. I nod as I sip on what’s left of my Coke, the straw making gurgling sounds. We’re seated in the rink’s small eatery, stuffing our faces with nachos and hot dogs. Crap food compared to the diner, but once the free skate was
over, we were too hungry to drive over to Rosie’s and wait.

  I figured now would be a good time to give her my birthday gift. I don’t know why she’s so impressed; I didn’t exactly have a lot of notice, so I just dug out one of the half-finished denim clutch purses I’d pieced together from my bin of sewing projects and completed it last night. All it took was sewing in the snap buttons—tedious, but not too difficult—and then cutting and sewing on the shoulder strap. I didn’t even wrap the stupid thing, just stuffed it in a gift bag with some tissue paper.

  Whatever. I’ve only known the girl for less than a week, I figured I’d already put in more effort than anyone would rightfully expect.

  “I love it! Homemade gifts are my favorite,” Asha says, examining the little purse more closely. “I can’t believe you made this! It’s so cool. You’ll have to teach me sometime.” She turns to Sam, beaming. “Isn’t it cute?”

  “Adorable,” Sam agrees. He’s looking at me as he says it, eyebrows raised like he’s impressed but doesn’t want to show it too much.

  Somehow that look makes me feel like I’ve passed a test I didn’t even know I was taking.

  day seven

  Sunday is my most relaxing day of the week. I don’t have to deal with a million people expecting me to talk. I don’t have to explain myself to anyone. Mom is mostly out of the house, working at the store, and Dad camps out in front of the television watching sports. I use the time to finish reading Of Mice and Men, which turns out to be just as awful as I thought it would be. I hate stories with dead puppies. So depressing.

  After I’ve finished the book—well, after I’ve thrown it across the room—I spend some time at my sewing table, digging through my big bin of various fabrics and old, abandoned projects. I’m terrible at finishing anything; what I try to sew never looks the way it does in my head, and I end up ditching most of my work with the intent to pick it up again later. Except then I get distracted by a new idea, and the vicious cycle continues anew. Asha’s purse was the first project I’ve completed in months.

  I find a pair of old jeans I’d saved to convert into a denim skirt and work on it for a while, figuring out the measurements and trimming off the pant legs. I get annoyed removing the inseam stitching, though, and decide to set it aside, knowing I’ll probably never touch it again. Coming up with ideas is much more fun than trying to make them reality.

  I flop back on my bed, staring at my ceiling, which is quickly becoming a favorite pastime since I have no actual life to speak of. I fish my phone out of my purse and scroll down to Asha’s phone number—she gave it to me earlier, told me if I needed help with geometry I could always text her. I type hey and click Send.

  A few minutes later my phone receives a new text.

  Hi! Homework trouble?

  nope. just bored. of mice & men is a terrible book.

  Steinbeck depresses me.

  ugh i know right? one dead puppy is one too many.

  Lol. Hey I’m about to walk over to Rosie’s for a shift. Talk to you later?

  It could just be residual effects from the combination of finishing such a depressing story and being defeated by a pair of jeans, but I don’t really want to be alone right now with the dread that comes from knowing tomorrow I’ll have to drag myself back to school. That must be the reason I ask Asha if I can pick her up and tag along to Rosie’s. She agrees, and it takes me only a minute to grab my bag and car keys and rush out the door. Dad doesn’t notice my exit—he probably won’t even realize I’m gone, and who knows when Mom will get home from work.

  Asha’s already waiting for me in the driveway by the time I pull up to her house. She bounds down the icy walk to the car and dives into the passenger seat, rubbing her hands together to warm them up. She doesn’t say anything as we drive over to Rosie’s, just hums some unfamiliar melody underneath her breath while gazing out the window, lost in her own little world. It’s so weird to me how she seems so damn bubbly all the time.

  Maybe that’s the effect spending time at Rosie’s has on people—everyone there today is in a good mood. I don’t see Sam at all, and I find myself a little disappointed about that. Asha catches me scanning the area behind the counter and must know what I’m thinking.

  “He worked earlier today,” she explains as she ties on her apron. “Don’t worry. Dex will fix you something.”

  Dex looks up from where he’s cooking meat on the industrial stove. “You hungry?” he asks, and before I can shake my head, he turns his back to me. “You look hungry. Tonight’s special is goulash. It’s a new recipe, and if you allow me to test drive it on you, it’s on the house.”

  I apparently don’t have a say in the matter, because he starts fixing it before I can communicate any affirmative answer. That’s okay; my stomach is actually rumbling with hunger and the delicious smells of his cooking only make it growl louder. By the time he serves me the bowl, I’m all but salivating.

  Dex watches me like a hawk as I lift the spoon to my mouth and take my first tentative bite. I’ve never had goulash; it tastes similar to beef stew, except better, thick and warm and a little spicy. I grab a pen from my bag and scribble on a napkin.

  I want you to feed me forever!

  I slide it across the counter to him, and he laughs as he reads it.

  “I’ll take that as a stamp of approval.” He grins. He turns to Asha and says, “I like this girl. She can stay.”

  day eight

  I’m almost feeling good when I get to school on Monday. Refreshed. Rejuvenated. I park my car in the student lot and walk toward the school with a little swing in my step.

  And then I run into Derek and Lowell.

  They’re both standing at the edge of the parking lot, looking straight at me. I freeze for a moment. No one else is around. No one to witness whatever is about to happen. I hate the helpless feeling that crawls its way into my stomach.

  As I come up to them, I veer to the right, trying to walk past, but Lowell steps in front of me, blocks my path.

  “Hey,” he says, and when I keep walking, more sharply, “Hey.”

  I stop and look at him. I try not to let it show the way my heart is beating, fast and hard, like it’s trying to free itself from my chest.

  “What’s that?” Lowell cocks his head to one side, gaze sliding down to the whiteboard tucked under my arm, and before I can jerk back, he reaches out and snatches it from me. “Hey, Derek, catch.”

  He throws it over my head to Derek. I lunge for it, but Derek jumps back, holding it out of reach and laughing at my attempt.

  “Oh, what do we have here?” Derek says. He snaps the marker from its holder and scribbles on the surface. When he flashes the board for me to see, I’m met with the ugly words STUPID WHORE, made even uglier by his harsh scrawl. The same scrawl I’ve seen on my locker. “I think you should wear this around your neck or something. Like, as a sign. Give us all some fair warning.”

  I know I can’t force him to give it back.

  I know I can’t show a reaction in front of them, because that will only egg them on.

  I do the only thing I can think of. The one thing I know will piss them off the most.

  I smile.

  They both stare at me like I’ve been sent from some alien planet, which is how I know I’ve thrown them for a loop. It’s the smallest of victories, but still a victory, nonetheless. Derek tosses the whiteboard carelessly, sending it skittering across the sidewalk.

  “Whoo
ps,” he says, voice dripping with sarcasm.

  Lowell gives one last glare and mumbles, “Fucking freak.”

  He hocks some spit at me. Thankfully his aim is terrible, and the spit only makes contact with the toe of my shoe. They both laugh like it’s the most hilarious thing ever and head into the building. Assholes.

  I gather the whiteboard off the pavement and rub the spit off my shoe in some snow, my body shaking from a combination of intense relief and the cold air. Angry tears build behind my eyes, but I blink them back, trying to shake the feeling off. But I can’t. This vow was supposed to be about making things less complicated, to stop myself from doing something stupid, to show everyone how much I don’t need them. It was about me deciding that if I can’t have their forgiveness or their respect, I won’t give them anything. All it’s done is made me an easy target.

  I’m going to get Derek and Lowell back for this. I haven’t figured out exactly how, yet, but I have plenty of time to plot my revenge. They’ll never see it coming, because they don’t expect me to fight back. Well, they have no idea who they’re dealing with. I’m Chelsea freaking Knot.

  * * *

  While Derek and Lowell may not have tired of giving me a hard time yet, the good news is Mrs. Finch seems to have resigned herself to my silence.

  After class, I stand at her desk, fully prepared for my customary sentencing. Instead of pulling out her detention slips, though, she has the study guide I turned in today in her hands.

  “This is very good work, Chelsea,” she tells me, and it’s enough to bowl me over. She tosses the guide onto a stack of papers and looks at me over the tops of her glasses. “I believe you read the novel. Truly a first.”