Speechless

  As it jumps into the chorus, everyone does the dance—hands on the hips, knees in tight, pelvic thrusts. I lean on the broom handle and giggle at their antics, and Sam laughs back at me, swoops over and grabs me by the hand.

  “Come on,” he says over the music, “don’t just stand there!”

  I hesitate, but then he bumps his hip into mine, and I prop the broom against the wall and join in on the dance, awkwardly at first and then looser and looser. I know I must look like an idiot doing this stupid dance with an apron on and sans any makeup and my hair yanked back in a ponytail, but I suppose there’s little point in pretending I have any shame after half the school has seen a picture of me practically passed out on the bathroom floor. Sam must’ve seen the picture, too, I’m sure, but he hasn’t mentioned it and he isn’t looking at me any differently. So I guess it’s not the end of the world.

  It’s easier to not care about looking like an idiot when no one else does. Dancing this way is like being twelve all over again, flailing around without abandon in my bedroom with Kristen to the radio, and by the time the song is over, I feel flushed and sort of giddy.

  “See? That wasn’t so bad,” Sam teases, drawing me into a sideways hug. It only lasts for a few seconds, but long enough for me to smell the cooking oil on his skin, to feel the comfortable warmth of his side and how perfectly I fit there.

  My heart slides into my throat, and when he lets me go, every nerve end tingles. That feeling doesn’t go away for the rest of the night.

  day eighteen

  The week goes by quickly, a blur of classes and the diner and homework. Mom and Dad are too preoccupied to even ask me why I don’t come home most nights until almost ten o’clock and reeking of cooking oil. Maybe I should be hurt by their lack of parental concern, but they have enough on their plate right now. Mom’s been pulling twelve-hour days at the floral shop, and Dad, in an effort to fill his sudden surplus of free time, has begun various fix-it projects around the house. He tinkers with our dishwasher until it stops making that funky noise during the rinse cycle, varnishes the coffee table in the garage and shovels the driveway and sidewalk in front of our house daily, even when it hasn’t snowed.

  Neither talk to me about Dad’s job (or lack thereof) situation again.

  I do my best to keep them from having anything else to worry about, at least when it comes to me. I pay attention in all my classes and to Asha during our lunch study breaks, and when Mr. Callihan hands me back my latest test, I’m shocked to see a B+ written at the top of the page. Seems like all this studying-until-my-eyes-bleed is actually paying off. And Mrs. Finch hasn’t issued any more detentions, so I can only assume she thinks I’m doing okay, too.

  Everything seems to be going well—or as well as things get for me these days—up until Thursday at lunch. I’m staked out at our usual spot in the library, chewing on my pen cap as I do my science reading, when Asha storms in and throws a newspaper right under my nose.

  I look down to see Kristen’s face staring up at me in black and white. Her expression is sad. Pensive. Two emotions I have never associated with her.

  GRAND LAKE TEEN SPEAKS OUT AGAINST GAY STUDENT ATTACK, the headline boldly proclaims to the immediate right of her perfectly posed headshot. My heart sinks.

  “It’s exactly as bad as it looks,” Asha says, flinging herself into the chair across from me. As I read the article, I begin to understand why she sounds so appalled.

  Most of the interview’s content is to be expected. Kristen never thought her boyfriend was capable of such violence. Kristen would have thrown herself in front of the car if she knew what they were going to do. Kristen was absolutely devastated when she heard what happened to her friend Noah Beckett (friend? FRIEND?!). Kristen has a gay cousin. (That part is news to me.) Et cetera.

  Oh, but here’s the real gem: apparently Kristen cannot believe someone would be so insensitive as to publicly out a gay student.

  “Have you seen her posters?” Asha asks.

  How could I miss them? They’re all over the school, purple and pink and sky-blue poster boards with the words KRISTEN COURTEAU FOR SNOW PRINCESS written in bright pink marker complete with glitter and intricate paper snowflakes framing copies of her sophomore portrait in the middle. She’s kicked off a campaign run for Winter Formal Snow Princess and given an exclusive interview to the Grand Lake Tribune defending her integrity—by pointing one perfectly manicured accusatory finger straight at me—all in the same week. What excellent timing.

  That conniving two-faced bitch. She’d make a wonderful PR person to celebrities someday, spinning scandals into gold.

  To top it off, at the very end of the article there’s a mention of Brendon and his formation of the new Gay/Straight Alliance club. It quotes him as saying, “It’s very important to embrace any student interested in these issues. That’s the only way to open minds, by letting them ask tough questions in a safe space.”

  I find it really strange that Brendon of all people has stepped up as spokesperson for the sexually oppressed of Grand Lake High. Not that I’m against him championing gay rights—I’m glad someone’s doing it—it’s just unexpected. Though, in a twisted way, also rather brilliant. After all, what better way to disarm bullshit opposition about foisting the “homosexual agenda” on the student body than by recruiting the all-American, wholesome, pretty-faced, straight-as-an-arrow Golden Boy as the face of the cause?

  Maybe Brendon’s gay. It’s something I never would’ve considered before, but hey, stranger things have happened. It’d be a relief, actually, if he was—that would at the very least explain why he wasn’t interested when I threw myself at him. My first instinct is to consider the ways I could confirm or deny my theory—asking around the school, seeing if anyone knows—but then I stop myself short. No. I have had enough of outing people for a lifetime.

  Asha slides the paper to her side of the table and scowls at it. “What a bitch.”

  I glance up, surprised. I’ve never heard Asha swear.

  “I should knit her a muzzle,” she mutters under her breath, and then I start giggling and can’t stop.

  Asha’s eyes widen and she starts giggling, too. We both laugh so hard we almost fall off our chairs, until the librarian shushes us with a deadly glare. I set my head down on the table and cover it with my arm, wheezing, my shoulders still shaking with silent laughter.

  “We’re going to that dance,” Asha declares, once she’s calmed down.

  I lift my head off the table and shake it wildly. Has she lost her mind? No. No way. I am so not going to Winter Formal.

  “Yes, we are,” she insists. “The Wannabe Ice Princess is not going to get away with this. Not without a fight.”

  It’s Snow Princess, not Ice, but I don’t bother correcting her. Ice Princess is more fitting for Kristen anyway.

  * * *

  Anyone can run for Winter Formal royalty. You just have to sign up in the office on a clipboard they later give to the dance committee, which arranges the voting via Scantron ballots. The freshmen, sophomores and juniors are all given prince or princess titles, the titles queen and king reserved for seniors only. The senior queen and king get a bouquet of white roses and a gift certificate to the local movie theater while everyone else gets cheap flower bunches and flimsy crowns and tiaras.

  It’s all lame, if you ask me. I don’t see the point. Still, some people get really into this stuff. Like Kristen. But Kristen likes the idea of anything that
allows her to be the center of attention. Last year she lost out to Trish Gillepsie, one of the cheerleaders. Which is funny because at our school, cheerleader is not synonymous with popular—but Trish allegedly gave head to half the basketball team, and all the footballers, and even a few guys on the chess team, in order to make it happen.

  Or that’s the story I heard. And maybe the same story I told a few people. Okay, a lot of people. Everyone and anyone who would listen, basically.

  Kristen was positively fuming when she lost out on the crown. I’m sure she’s coveting that tiara like crazy this year. I don’t know why, it’s just a stupid piece of plastic, but when Kristen wants something, she usually finds a way to get it. No matter who she has to destroy in the process.

  I’m sort of irrationally pissed that she’s running at all, even though I’m not surprised. Sam agrees, evidently, because on our way to the art room—he’s gotten in the habit of meeting me at my locker so we can walk together—he stops in front of one of her shimmery glitter posters and grimaces.

  “I can’t believe people care about this stuff,” he says. “And seriously, who would even vote for her?”

  A lot of people would. Even now. Especially now. All the guys who want to sleep with her and all the girls who want to be her friend will fill in her bubble on the ballot. If anything, she has more of an advantage this year, by having two open slots for a new boyfriend and a new best friend. Also, people are stupid. You can never underestimate that factor.

  Too bad Asha can’t run against her. Asha’s a year younger, still a freshman, so it wouldn’t work. And Trish overthrowing her isn’t an option, since this year her parents sent her to St. Juliet’s, the Catholic school, after they caught her sexing up the starting varsity linebacker in their bedroom over summer.

  I really shouldn’t be giving this so much thought. I’m not going to the stupid dance anyway. Let Kristen have her stupid tiara if it makes her feel important. It shouldn’t matter to me.

  But it does. A little. More than a little.

  It just feels unfair that Kristen has gotten through all of this so unscathed. I lost everything and she gets to run for fucking Snow Princess. It’s such bullshit. High school, the world. All of it.

  Sam bumps my shoulder with his. “Come on, we’re gonna be late.”

  We spend the hour in art working on our project. Once Sam understood what I was trying to convey through my written notes, he was totally on board with the giant comic strip idea. Except now we’re just doing a mural of all the different Peanuts characters. I sketch the outlines of most of them, since, not to brag, I am a way better artist than Sam; the only one he can draw with any accuracy is Snoopy. I already have most of my part done. All I have to do is finish Schroeder and his piano.

  With five minutes left of class, I sit back on my knees and survey our combined work. It won’t be long before the outlining is done and we can start painting. That’ll be the easy part. Sam’s about to roll up the paper when Ms. Kinsey flutters over.

  “This looks fantastic!” she says, except since she’s Ms. Kinsey, she doesn’t just say it, she exclaims. Gushes. Like always. “You two work very well together.”

  I glance over at Sam and—is he blushing? He totally is. Either he’s embarrassed by the praise, or embarrassed by the last comment. He looks over at me, rubs his hair with a small smile. I swear I would bet good money that it’s the latter.

  And I really don’t know how to feel about that.

  * * *

  On the other hand, I do know how I feel about the latest graffiti on my locker.

  Disgusted.

  This time I know exactly who the culprit is, because Lowell is still topping off the finishing touches as Sam and I turn down the hall. I get a glimpse of a stick figure girl and some poorly drawn genitalia and that’s really all I need to see.

  Sam says, “What the hell?” His voice is loud enough to make people stop and stare.

  I don’t want him to make a scene. And I don’t want him getting involved. I grab the crook of his elbow and shake my head firmly, silently plead for him to let it go, but he ignores me.

  “Knock it off,” he says to Lowell, who throws him a bored look over his shoulder.

  “Hey, I might not be an art freak like you two, but I think it’s pretty good so far,” Lowell says. He turns his back to Sam again, taking his own sweet time with his artwork.

  Too much time for Sam’s taste, apparently, because he pushes Lowell against the lockers. The sound of his back ramming into the metal makes a tinny thud, and heads everywhere turn to see what’s happening.

  Lowell just laughs. “Oooh, you got me, I’m so scared.”

  “Maybe you should be.”

  What does Sam think he’s doing?

  “What are you gonna do, make out with me? Sorry, I’m not into dudes. And what would your little girlfriend think?”

  “Shut up,” Sam says, voice rising. “Just shut the hell up.”

  “Fuck you. We both know you’re not going to do anything, fag.” Lowell pushes him off and starts to walk away, then throws over his shoulder, “Say hi to Noah for me.”

  Sam grabs the back of Lowell’s shirt collar and slams him into the lockers again, harder than before. Way harder. This time Lowell actually flinches a little.

  “You don’t get to say his name,” Sam growls. “Not now. Not ever. You hear me, you ignorant, piece-of-shit Neanderthal?”

  Lowell wriggles under his grasp. “Dude, let go.”

  “Not until you answer me,” Sam replies, shoving him back again.

  Some guy down the hall randomly yells, “Oh, snaaa-aaap!”

  And I, of course, can only stand there, watching along with everyone else. Passive as always. All of us.

  Except for Brendon.

  He appears out of nowhere and puts a hand on Sam’s tense shoulder.

  “Don’t be stupid,” he says, his voice warm-honey smooth and, somehow, infuriatingly calm. “It’s not worth it, man.”

  Sam hesitates, and before the sensibility of Brendon’s words can sink in, one of the Spanish teachers pops his head into the hall. He takes in the scene—Sam with his fists knotted in Lowell’s shirt, the obscene graffiti on the locker—and frowns. Maybe, I think, this means someone in charge is actually going to notice the crap that’s been drawn on my locker and do something about it.

  “You two.” He points to Sam and Lowell. “In here. Now. I’m writing you up.”

  Sam reluctantly releases Lowell’s shirtfront. Lowell sneers and storms into the classroom without looking back, leaving Sam and Brendon to stare at each other, and then at me.

  What, am I supposed to be impressed by this display of unleashed teenage testosterone? Because I am so not. I’m just pissed. Sam has no business getting in the middle of things with Lowell and me. All he’s done is make it worse, because there is no way Lowell won’t find a way to get me back for this, even though it wasn’t my fault.

  And what am I supposed to do when Sam isn’t there to swoop in and save me from the big bad wolf?

  Of course he wasn’t thinking about that. He doesn’t understand how this is all a balancing act. Yes, someday I am going to pay Lowell and Derek both back for the way they’ve treated me, and it will be a very sweet revenge indeed, but I can’t afford to be reckless about it like Sam just was.

  “I’ll see you later,” he says to me, but I just give him a cold look in return.

  When he’s gone, Bren
don puts a hand on my arm and says, “Are you okay?”

  Touching. He’s actually touching me. Acknowledging my existence. This is new. Even through the fabric of my sweater, I can feel the warmth of his skin. But it’s not like before. No butterflies. I feel like I should be more excited about this.

  I nod and wonder what’s changed.

  “How’s the whole vow of silence thing going?” he asks.

  I shrug, and then I take out my whiteboard and write, How’s GSA?

  “It’s a lot of work,” he says, “but I think it’ll be worth it. My older sister, Dana, is actually the one who suggested starting it to me. She didn’t come out until college, but she told me she always wished there’d been something like that for her in high school.” He stops for a second, mouth turning down. “Were you…thinking of coming to a meeting?”

  I shake my head. I’m not stupid. I know where I’m not wanted.

  “Good,” he says, relaxing. “I mean, I wouldn’t stop you, of course, but I just think—I think it might be uncomfortable if you did. For everyone.”

  I realize Brendon’s probably right, but the implication still stings. I guess this shows how much he really thinks of me.

  I look down at where he’s touching me. He’s wearing this button-down shirt and a sweater over it, as preppy and clean-cut as ever. The sleeves are rolled up enough to show off his forearms. They look strong, muscular, not at all like Sam’s. And even now, in the middle of winter, his skin is all golden tan. He told me he spent Christmas vacation in Miami, and I acted jealous at the time, but really, I thought it was kind of ridiculous. I mean, Christmas is like the one time of the year where it’s nice to have snow on the ground. Christmas without snow is like the Fourth of July without fireworks and barbecues, or wearing leggings as pants. Just wrong.