Speechless

  I kind of doubt they have that much combined brainpower between them, but it’s possible. If it is, and they try to get me back…I’ll deal with it then. I’m not worried. They don’t hold that power over me anymore.

  I’m feeling amazing, lighter and more free than I have in weeks, as Asha and I descend the stairs to get our jackets and leave for Rosie’s. I’m blocked from the door by Dad, who is armed with a digital camera. The flash blinds me as he snaps a picture.

  “Daaaaaaaaad.” I roll my eyes at him.

  “Indulge me,” he says.

  “It’s our official duty to embarrass you at every given opportunity,” Mom adds from behind him.

  They’re both thrilled that I’m talking again. I sat down at dinner Friday and spilled everything over tofurkey sandwiches (yes, we’ve upgraded again, to my combined delight and dismay): the fact that I’d broken the vow, my job at Rosie’s, my friendship with Asha and Sam, visiting Noah in the hospital, my plans to attend Winter Formal. I figured if I threw enough curveballs at them, they wouldn’t be able to freak out about each individual one.

  To my utter shock, they took all of it alarmingly well. I guess the fact that I’m speaking again was enough of a relief to overlook everything else.

  Asha throws her arm around me, and we pose for more pictures on the staircase, making ridiculous faces. Finally Dad’s satisfied and lets us go, but not without smacking kisses on top of my head until Mom pulls him off me.

  “All right, Frank, I think you’ve embarrassed her enough for one night,” she says with a laugh. “You girls look beautiful. I want you to have a good time, but be safe, okay? Oh, and Chelsea, check in with us if you’re going to be out past one.”

  “I will.”

  “I mean it. If it’s one minute past one and that phone doesn’t ring—”

  “I will, I promise!” I hug her quickly. “Love you guys.”

  “Have fun!” she calls as we scoot out the door to escape their smothering.

  Asha says, “Your parents are so cool,” as we load into the Beetle.

  I almost say smothering, but then think better of it. Asha’s right. My parents are pretty amazing, all things considered. I have nothing to complain about tonight.

  When we waltz into Rosie’s, Dex leans over the counter and whistles.

  “My, my,” he says, “look at you ladies.”

  Lou comes out with a tray of drinks and stops dead in her tracks. “Okay, seriously? You two look fucking fantastic.”

  “I have to agree.”

  I whirl around to see Sam behind me, grinning hugely. He’s decked out in this retro navy sports jacket with patches over the elbows. It’s totally dorky, but like most things, he pulls it off.

  “Sam the stud,” Asha teases.

  “You clean up nicely,” I tell him, biting back a smile.

  “Likewise.” He digs in his pocket and pulls out a small white box. “Here. For you.”

  I open the box. It’s a yellow rose corsage.

  “I’m no Marc Jacobs—” he starts, and when I raise my eyebrows, he says “—and yes, I may have done a search for ‘famous fashion designers’ earlier solely so I could make that reference and impress you—but I figured the yellow would look okay with green. It does, right?”

  “It’s perfect,” I assure him, sliding it over my wrist. I kiss him on the cheek and ignore Dex’s whistling behind us.

  “So where’s Andy?” asks Asha.

  “He said he’d meet us at the school. Some kind of a surprise?” Sam shrugs. “It’s Andy, so who knows what he’s up to.”

  “You know,” Lou says, leaning against the counter, “I don’t remember anything about my prom, except that I woke up the next morning on someone’s bathroom floor with a tiara in my hair, my shoes on backward and the words GLITTER WINNERS were written on the mirror in purple lipstick.”

  “And, kids, that’s the story of how Lou learned tripping on acid is bad,” Dex jokes. Lou smacks him with her empty tray.

  “I see Dex is on a roll,” I say to Sam. “I think that’s our cue to leave.”

  “I heard that!” Dex shouts, but then Lou wraps a hand around his neck and yanks him into a kiss, and he’s otherwise distracted from his indignation.

  * * *

  It seems the whole school has decided to attend Winter Formal this year. The parking lot is packed full, and we have to park in a far corner and walk over icy pavement. Asha and I clutch each other’s arms and try not to fall.

  “That’s what you get for wearing insane shoes,” Sam says, and then slides over an ice patch. Ha.

  Whatever. Impossibly high heels are designed for formals.

  Around us, everyone is heading toward the school the way Muslims travel toward Mecca (metaphor courtesy of me paying attention in Comparative World Religions for once, thank you very much). Everyone is dressed up, girls in glamorous snazzy dresses, boys in clean suits, all of them looking a little uncomfortable and out of sorts but also a little giddy. The girls are probably excited-slash-nervous at the prospect of intimate slow dances and the boys are probably excited-slash-nervous at the prospect of getting laid.

  I, for one, am only excited, not nervous. Or, okay, at least any nerves I have come from being around people who hate me, not about whether or not I’ll be having fun sexy times. I sneak a glance at Sam beside me and wonder if he’s worrying about that stuff—he doesn’t look like it, but really, who can tell with boys?

  His cell phone rings. He smiles as he pulls it from his pocket and looks at the caller ID.

  “Hey, man,” he answers, then pauses for a moment. “Okay. We’ll meet you there.” He snaps the phone shut and looks at Asha and me. “Andy says he’s waiting by an ‘old white dude statue.’ I assume he means the Covington one.”

  The Covingtons are the oldest money family in Grand Lake, and somewhere way back in the family line, Gerald E. Covington donated a ton of money to the school, so in return they erected a bronze statue in his honor, complete with a fountain, in front of the main entrance. It’s pretty ugly, but tonight the fountain is lit up, so it looks less ugly than usual.

  As we come closer, I spot Andy under the fountain lights. Not alone.

  With Noah.

  Asha shrieks and breaks into a run, insensible shoes be damned, and tackles Andy with a giant hug. Noah watches from his wheelchair. Someone cleaned him up, too—he still has the bandage, but instead of a hospital gown, he has on a nice button-down shirt and pressed slacks.

  “Holy crap!” Sam puts his hands over his mouth, apparently at a loss for words. Finally he looks to Andy and says, “How the hell did you pull this off, man?”

  “I pulled some major strings and got us a one-night pass. And Noah here has to be back before midnight or he’ll turn into a pumpkin.”

  “Pumpkin.” Noah laughs. “I want pumpkin pie. Can we get pie?”

  Andy says, “Maybe later.”

  Sam shakes his head. “Dude, you look totally high.” It’s true. Noah looks way out of it.

  He keeps smiling his loopy smile. “Only on life, Sam.”

  “And a fuckton of Vicodin,” adds Andy. “He’s on some hard-core painkillers right now.” He starts rolling Noah toward the school. “We’re going to sit on the sidelines and watch you kids live it up.”

  Living it up, indeed. The gym’s decorations are as mediocre as ever—leftover silver Christmas tinsel and plastic glittering snowflakes everywhere—but the place is
packed, reeking of sweat and cheap cologne and teenage hormones.

  “Smells like teen spirit,” Andy quips as he guides Noah to one of the empty side tables.

  Asha wastes no time in dragging me onto the floor. I had no idea the girl could dance like she does. My initial self-consciousness vanishes from the sheer, overpowering force of her shamelessness. A few minutes later Sam abandons Andy and Noah to join us; he dances like your typical boy, all minimal feet shuffling and head bobbing, but he looks like he’s enjoying himself, and that’s what really matters. Having fun. And I am. We get a few strange looks—I’m not sure if people are weirded out by Asha’s dress, or by the fact I’ve dared to show my face here—but I don’t really think about it. Who cares? Let people stare.

  After a few songs I take a quick break to use the bathroom, and when I come out, I see Brendon by the water fountain. He smiles when he sees me.

  “Hey, Chelsea,” he says.

  “Hey,” I say, and grin at the surprised look on his face.

  “You’re speaking again,” he says. “When did this happen?”

  I shrug. “It’s a recent development.”

  “Uh-huh,” he says. “I saw you come in with Noah and Sam. Are you guys having a good time?”

  “More than I’d hoped for,” I tell him. I tilt my head at him. “Where’s Kristen?”

  “Around,” he says vaguely. He bites on his lower lip for a moment, like he’s considering what to say next. “You know, I almost thought about asking you, but—”

  I wave him off midsentence. “It’s good that you didn’t.”

  “It is?” He frowns.

  I could tell Brendon all the reasons why—that I’ve realized he doesn’t know me at all, and I don’t really know him, either, and that I don’t think he’s my type anyway. My type has brown hair and glasses and a crooked smile and a dorky sense of humor and can cook the best damn tuna melt I’ve ever tasted.

  I could tell Brendon all of these things, but some things are better left unsaid.

  Instead I just smile and say, “Good luck with the Snow Prince thing,” and waltz back into the gym.

  I find Asha and Sam on the floor again just as the music dies down. People groan with disappointment, and a spotlight appears on the front stage. Mr. Fenton hops up the steps and grabs the microphone, a stack of envelopes in hand.

  “Good evening,” he says. “I hope you’re all enjoying yourselves tonight.”

  Someone yells, “TURN THE MUSIC BACK ON, DICKFACE,” and people look around and laugh.

  Mr. Fenton ignores the disruption and clears his throat. “I know you all want to get back to your dancing, so I’ll make this quick. I have the pleasure of announcing your elected Winter Formal Court.” He doesn’t sound very pleased about it.

  “Oh, goody,” Asha mutters under her breath, and I grin at her.

  “What?” Sam teases. “You’re not quivering from the anticipation?”

  I’m not quivering, but I do want to hear this. First, Mr. Fenton calls out the freshmen Prince and Princess; a beaming brunette with boobs half spilling out of her tight strapless dress prances onto the stage, accompanied by a tall boy with a long face. Some junior from the dance committee hands out the awards: a tiara and roses for the girl, a crown and staff for the boy. When Mr. Fenton turns his back, the boy holds the staff between his legs and thrusts his hips in a seriously perverse juvenile display, and everyone cracks up.

  Oblivious, or maybe just wanting to get through this torturous exercise as quickly as possible, Mr. Fenton forges on. “Now, for the Snow Prince and Snow Princess for the sophomore class…”

  I know what that envelope’s going to say. Sam and my rendezvous to the hospital yesterday meant we skipped out on the voting at the end of the day, but it didn’t really matter—it wasn’t like two protest votes would make the difference.

  But that doesn’t mean my heart doesn’t twist a little with disappointment when Mr. Fenton rips open the envelope and says, “Your sophomore court is…Brendon Ryan for Snow Prince and Kristen Courteau for Snow Princess!”

  Big shock there.

  Everybody except Sam, Asha and I claps as the two of them make their way onto the stage, Kristen towing Brendon eagerly by the hand. Kristen looks radiant, of course, the beaded purple dress she’s poured herself into shining like diamonds under the lights, her smile glossy and perfect. She takes the rose bouquet in one arm and uses the other to adjust the tiara so it sits straight on top of her elegant up-do.

  Brendon accepts the crown and staff, holding it awkwardly at his side, but instead of standing next to Kristen, he steps forward and whispers something to Mr. Fenton. Mr. Fenton listens for a second and then shrugs, handing over the microphone.

  “Hello?” Brendon’s smooth voice echoes through the gym. People shift around, impatient for more music, but then the clamor quiets down. “Hi,” he says. “So, uh, I’m really honored that you guys in my class voted for me…but I think there’s someone here tonight who deserves this title way more than I do.”

  Asha and Sam both look at me like I should know what’s going on. I’m just as clueless as them, of course, so I half shrug and shake my head then turn my eyes back to Brendon. He’s looking out across the gym, over our heads.

  “Noah Beckett is here tonight,” he continues, “and if he’ll accept it, I’d really like him to have my crown.”

  What. The. Hell. Is. Going. On?

  I twist around to find Andy and Noah. Andy’s staring at the stage, wide-eyed and gob smacked, while Noah just grins his doped-out smile. And then, snapping out of it, Andy stands and maneuvers the wheelchair to the front of the gym, the crowd parting to make a pathway. Brendon hops off the stage and places the crown on top of Noah’s head, hands him the stupid plastic shiny staff, and he says something, too, but the microphone is away from his mouth so I don’t hear. He squeezes Noah’s shoulder with a smile, and everyone is just staring.

  Everyone still stares, even after Mr. Fenton ends this weird little interlude by announcing the rest of the upperclassman court. Everyone still stares when the music kicks on again, a slow pop ballad, the dance reserved for the Court winners. Everyone stares as Andy slowly, slowly helps Noah stand.

  They don’t really dance—they just hold each other, swaying from side to side, Noah’s face buried in Andy’s chest, Andy holding him up, their arms encircled so tightly around each other.

  No one is looking at Kristen. But I am. I stare across the room at her, her rose bunch clutched in one limp hand, her mouth slack as she gawks at Andy and Noah, the Snow Princes, the belles of the ball, the center of attention. I wonder if she’s thinking what I am. How it seems so impossible that someone could look at them, see how plainly they care for each other, and find anything ugly or shameful or worthy of hatred in it, when all I see is something beautiful.

  I can’t tell. I hope she is. I hope that’s what she sees.

  * * *

  “Best. Winter. Formal. Ever.”

  This has to be at least the eighteenth time Asha has made this same declaration in the past hour.

  “It was your first Winter Formal,” I point out. I lean against the counter as Sam rummages around for an extra colander. We’re having some serious tuna melt cravings.

  “I don’t care. Nothing can top tonight’s.” Asha does a giddy twirl on her toes.

  I can’t disagree—we bailed not long after the announcements, because there was just no way things could get any better.
Plus, Noah’s curfew will be up soon, and he kept talking about wanting pie, so we figured we’d all head over to Rosie’s to unwind and celebrate.

  Rosie’s is empty at the moment; dinner hour has long ended, and it’ll be a while before the post-formal stragglers and hungry burnouts wander in. Andy feeds Noah forkfuls of Dex’s pumpkin pie in one of the booths, their heads bent close together as they talk between bites. Lou fiddles with the jukebox until it blasts “Love Shack,” and she and Dex and Asha do this funny synchronized dance all in a line.

  “I’ve still got the moves!” Dex crows and Lou bumps her hip against his while Asha dissolves into giggles.

  “Are you going to help, or am I expected to do all the grunt work?” Sam asks.

  I tear my eyes away from the group scene and face him. He looks so ridiculous in that diamond-patterned sports jacket, spatula in hand, and even so I want to just throw him in the supply closet and do all kinds of dirty things to him.

  We stayed at the formal long enough to have one slow dance together, my arms wound around his neck, his slid around my waist. It was amazing, the two of us like that, so close, spinning around and around under the swirling lights. Even if the music sucked, even if no one was looking, it didn’t matter because Sam was looking, like he couldn’t stop, like he couldn’t believe I was actually there with him, when really I was the one who should’ve been in disbelief.

  Now we stand next to each other in our fancy outfits and flip tuna melts on the grill. Mine turns out better than it did last time, and we make home fries to go with them, and then slide in across from Andy and Noah, eating off each other’s plates.

  When Sam kisses some ketchup off the corner of my mouth, Andy says, “Awww. As much as I’d like to stick around with you two lovebirds, Cinderella’s gotta get his ass back to bed.”

  Noah pouts. “Andy—”

  “Don’t you ‘Andy’ me. If we’re a second late, your mother will shove her foot so far up my ass I’ll be eating Crocs for a week.”