Speechless

  The art room is empty when I get there, save for Ms. Kinsey, who is erasing a chalk depiction of a pineapple off the board. This is the only room in the school equipped with an old-fashioned chalkboard; every other classroom has one of those glossy white dry-erase boards.

  “Good afternoon, Chelsea!” she chirps pleasantly. So pleasantly I’m actually startled. “It’s good to see you. How are you doing today?”

  Terrible. Horrible. Like I want to crawl under a rock and die.

  Ms. Kinsey flashes me one of her full-on, thousand kilowatt sunny smiles. She’s the first person today to look like she’s glad to see me, and I feel a sudden, unexpected surge of gratitude toward her.

  I smile a little and shrug, digging through my bag for my note. I can’t find it—though I do come across the detention slip and mentally berate Mrs. Finch for being such an uptight bitch. Finally I walk up to the blackboard and take a piece of chalk.

  I can’t talk.

  Ms. Kinsey frowns. “Oh, what’s the problem? Are you sick? Is it laryngitis?”

  I shake my head and write on the board again.

  I’ve taken a vow of silence.

  I turn to see her reaction. She reads what I’ve written and then looks at me again, smiling.

  “That’s very interesting,” she says, and she sounds like she actually does find it interesting, not like she’s mocking me. “What inspired this?”

  I pull the National Geographic article from my pocket and hand it to her. She unfolds it, eyes scanning the wrinkled page, before her face lights up like the Fourth of July.

  “Brilliant idea, Chelsea!” she exclaims. “I think it’s great that you’re on this voyage of self-discovery. If more people strove for spiritual enlightenment, the world would be a much better place for it.” She squeezes my shoulder with one chalky hand. Even though she’s totally off base (I’m not exactly sure what “striving for spiritual enlightenment” entails, really), after a day of no one being nice to me, I could just hug her anyway. Which is proof that I am totally losing it.

  Other students start filtering into the classroom. I hastily wipe off the board and make a beeline for one of the workstations. The good thing about art class is that it is devoid of jocks and most populars. I’m here only because it’s the easiest elective available, and it sure as hell beats Shop (such a misleading title!) or Personal Finance (my only interest in money is spending it, not budgeting it).

  If previous experience is any indication, the art freaks will be too consumed with fostering their existential angst and crafting abstract pieces out of coat hangers, Styrofoam, magazine cutouts and black paint (to symbolize their dark, tortured souls, of course) to heed me any attention. A few weeks ago I was comparing schedules with my friends and lamenting the fact that none of them had this class, but considering my new circumstances, I’m relieved. The tardy bell rings, and I think maybe, just maybe, I’ll finally be able to actually relax.

  And then Sam Weston walks into the room.

  My heart plummets to my feet, and for an awful moment I am convinced I am going to either pass out or throw up in front of everyone. I’ve been so preoccupied worrying about Kristen and the others that I hadn’t even thought to prepare myself for running into Sam. Sam, who I don’t know a lot about, but the one thing I do know is that he is best friends with Noah.

  He rubs a hand over his rumpled, wavy dark hair and scans the room from behind his black framed glasses, searching for a seat. I do the same, realizing with growing dread that the only space available is at my workstation. When he catches up to my realization, his gaze flicks to mine for a second, and I look away, silently willing him to sit somewhere else, anywhere else. It doesn’t work. My avoidance of eye contact doesn’t deter him from walking over and setting his backpack on the seat next to mine.

  Why? Why is this happening to me?

  Oh, right, because God hates me and wants me to suffer. Obviously.

  I’m careful to keep my eyes on my sketchpad as Ms. Kinsey explains our first assignment. We’re supposed to imitate another artist’s style. Awesome. Who am I supposed to attempt, Monet? Van Gogh? That’d be nothing short of a train wreck. Maybe the flower lady—what’s her name? Oh, right, Georgia O’Keefe. Yes, that’s exactly what I should do. Paint big flowers that look like vaginas. It’s not like I haven’t already alienated myself from the student body enough. Why not go for broke?

  It’s less nauseating to think about flowery vaginas than it is to focus on what I am so acutely aware of—Sam’s very, very near proximity. But as Ms. Kinsey drones on (and on, and on, and on), I can’t help but wonder if he’s going to try anything. At any moment he could make a nasty comment, tell me to fuck off and die, or do something worse, like mess with my stuff. Or with me. The art room has plenty of arsenal: scissors, permanent markers, superglue, X-Acto knives. Oh, God, I didn’t even think about X-Acto knives. I’m going to have to channel Jason Bourne now if I want to survive high school. Assess the situation! Know your exits! Everything is a weapon!

  If I’m lucky, Sam’ll just give me the cold shoulder like everyone else. Even though I don’t know him very well—or at all, really, aside from sharing a few choice classes over the years—he’s never come across as a particularly potent brand of douche bag. But then, neither did Derek, so what do I know about anything?

  When Sam’s elbow accidentally knocks against mine, I nearly jump out of my skin. So much for playing it cool. He glances at me with big blue eyes, clearly surprised by my crazy overreaction, but doesn’t say anything. I blush and try to return my attention to whatever Ms. Kinsey’s still discussing.

  “…and four weeks from now we’ll have the presentations,” she says.

  Oh, right, the project. I’m looking forward to it so much I could just shoot myself in the face in anticipation. Ms. Kinsey beams brightly at me, and I struggle to look less outwardly like I feel, which at the moment is borderline suicidal.

  “So why don’t you go ahead and partner up, and you can start deciding who you want to choose as your subject.”

  Wait. Partners? What?

  Please, please, please tell me I heard that wrong.

  I didn’t. Everyone in the classroom shuffles around, making the migration to other workstations, meeting up with the partners they arranged via silent hand signals and elbow nudging during Ms. Kinsey’s ramble. Everyone except me, of course. And, oddly enough, Sam. I notice he hasn’t moved from his spot. Doesn’t he have friends?

  I try to remember who I’ve seen him with in the past. Noah, mostly. And I know they hung out with a lot of groups, but I can’t think of any specific one—they’re not art freaks, or super academics, or straight edge, or burnouts. I’ve seen them both skateboarding, but they don’t hang out with the skaters, either. Definitely not the jocks, even though Noah plays soccer. They just…floated from group to group. Somehow they still managed to be friends with practically everyone. Cool but still accessible. Which is the reason Noah was allowed to come to the party in the first place.

  I chance a glance at Sam as he drums his fingers on the countertop. He sees me watching and stops abruptly.

  “Uh…” he starts to say. He looks everywhere else before he settles his gaze on me, and then he does the hair rubbing thing again, like it’s a nervous tic. “It looks like everyone else paired off. Guess that leaves us.”

  Sam doesn’t look happy about it, but he isn’t looking at me like he wants to stab me in the face with his pencil, either,
which isn’t something I can claim with the least bit of confidence for anyone else in this class. If he can handle this, so can I.

  He flicks open his sketchbook to a fresh page. I notice there are a bunch of other drawings on the ones before it, but he flips past them too fast for me to see what they are.

  “I don’t know if you had any ideas,” he says, “but I was thinking maybe something more modern. Like Salvador Dali.” He writes the name down on the pad.

  I’m not really crazy about the idea of recreating dreamscapes with melting clock faces—that is way beyond my skill level—so I make an apathetic face at the suggestion.

  Sam notices my unenthused expression and mutters, “Or not,” crossing out the name sharply. He drops the pen onto the sketchpad and looks me straight in the eye. “You know, I realize this isn’t exactly a dream collaboration for either of us, but it’d be nice if you’d contribute a little something more than a judgmental glare.”

  I’m considering how to respond to this without actually responding when Ms. Kinsey flutters over to our station. She looks over Sam’s shoulder at our blank page of brainstorms.

  “Need any help?” she asks.

  We both shake our heads.

  “Think we can handle it,” he tells her, but he doesn’t sound like he believes it.

  “I just want you to know,” she says to me, “that I am very much willing to work around your spiritual commitment. All I ask is that you find another way to participate if you aren’t going to speak. Use your imagination! Be creative!”

  From the way she says it, I can only assume she’s expecting me to break into an interpretive dance for our presentation. Which is just not going to happen in this lifetime. Or any other.

  I give her a thumbs-up that far overstates my enthusiasm for her suggestion, and Sam looks at me with raised eyebrows.

  “‘Spiritual commitment’?” he echoes, bemused.

  “You didn’t tell him?” Ms. Kinsey says. “Well, of course you didn’t tell him!” She laughs at her own joke, turning to Sam with a big smile. “Chelsea here has taken an oath of silence.”

  “You’ve—what?” He gapes at me like a floundering fish, processing this piece of information, and then turns to Ms. Kinsey. “How am I supposed to do a project with someone who won’t talk?”

  “There are many forms of communication,” she says airily. “I know you’ll find a way to make it work while still respecting her spiritual beliefs.” She pats him on the shoulder, sauntering off as he stares after her with an annoyed look.

  I grab the pen from him, scratch out a sentence on the clean sheet and hold up the pad.

  I’m silent, not stupid.

  “Yeah, okay, if you say so.” He snatches back the notebook. “Let’s just get this over with.”

  We spend the rest of the period going back and forth, trying to brainstorm artists, Sam voicing his ideas and me writing down mine. He doesn’t once stray from the topic at hand, and I’m certainly not about to bring Noah’s name into the conversation. Sam was right; we just need to plow through this and get it done.

  Eventually we settle on Jackson Pollack (my idea). I think it’s a solid choice—Sam likes modern art, and I like the idea of doing something easy like indiscriminately slashing paint across a canvas. But when at the end of class we go to inform Ms. Kinsey of our selection, she tells us someone else in the class has beaten us to the punch.

  “I’m sorry,” she says with a frown, glancing down at her notebook, “but it looks like you’ll have to come up with someone else.” The bell rings, and she smiles again. “Oh, by the way, Chelsea, would you stay for a moment? I have something for you.”

  I nod, surprised, and Sam looks at me and shrugs.

  “We’ll talk about the project later,” he says. He rolls his eyes. “Or, I guess, not talk. Whatever.”

  After everyone has shuffled out of the room, Ms. Kinsey goes to one of the supply cabinets and pulls out a small whiteboard and a dry-erase marker. She hands both to me and says, “I was thinking this might solve some of your communication hurdles.”

  I’m touched by the gesture. I uncap the marker and write Thank you on the board.

  “You’re very welcome, Chelsea,” she says. “But keep in mind I’m not technically allowed to just give school supplies away, especially with the art budget being what it is. So consider it a loan.” She smiles, reaching out to squeeze my shoulder. “Until you find your voice again.”

  * * *

  I’m almost late to detention because I’m too busy scrubbing the vandalism off my locker. All I have is a wet paper towel and hand soap, and the marker’s dried already, so it’s slow going. After some time I’ve rubbed it off enough so that there are only a few black smears left. Not perfect, but it’ll have to do.

  When I get to the detention room to sign in, I immediately spot Brendon Ryan sitting in the front row. I’m surprised by his presence—Brendon is hardly the detention type. All the teachers adore him, just like the rest of the world. He looks just as startled when he meets my eye, blinking a few times before his mouth twitches into a half smile. He’s probably amused by the memory of how I acted on New Year’s Eve, the pinnacle of pathetic drunken desperation. Still, I can’t help it; my heart flips in my chest at the sight of him, the way it has for the past year, the way it has as long as I’ve been stupidly in love with him and his stupid face.

  The problem, of course, is that Brendon’s face isn’t stupid at all. It’s gorgeous. Like the sort of Abercrombie model, statuesque perfection that would leave Michelangelo in tears. I want to lick his high-set cheekbones. I want to run my hands over his chest to see if it’s as hard as it looks. I don’t even want to make out with him—I mean, I do, obviously, of course, but really I’d settle for just tracing his perfect lips with my finger. Or running my hands through his gorgeous blond hair over and over for hours. Or—

  Okay, this could go on, but I’m actually starting to creep myself out, and the point remains. Brendon is gorgeous, and even more so because he doesn’t seem to notice exactly how good-looking he is. Maybe he just doesn’t care. He’s that fucking cool.

  I tear my eyes off him and hastily duck into a seat on the other side of the room, way in the back row, next to a short, petite Indian girl with long, black hair that falls all the way to her waist. There’s a lone apple sitting in the middle of her desk. I watch as she stares at it intently for almost a full minute, then reaches out and rotates it about forty-five degrees to her right. A minute later, after some more staring, she spins the apple slightly again.

  What a freak.

  I turn my attention back to Brendon. My enormous crush on him might’ve meant something a few weeks ago. Actually things had been going well in that arena—up until Kristen’s party. I could tell he wanted to kiss me that night. Um, before I ran upstairs to puke, that is, and instead stumbled into Kristen’s guest room. Before I decided to out Noah to everyone within earshot. Brendon’s body language was clear as day. He was totally into me.

  Probably.

  It doesn’t matter now. He’s just like everyone else; I might as well not exist, unless someone needs a spitball/eraser/pencil/food/sexual harassment target.

  That doesn’t stop me from spending all of detention staring at the back of his dumb/gorgeous blond head, willing him to turn around and smile at me, which is one of my most absurd fantasies. Right up there with owning a pet unicorn or marrying Prince Harry. It’s just never going to happen. I don’t
know why I’m torturing myself like this. I’m such a masochist.

  I take out a notebook and a pen and doodle the outlines of models, drawing different dresses—some of them angular with low necklines, others with big, swooping skirts. My mind and eyes keep wandering back to Brendon, though, and soon enough my outfit doodles turn into me doodling a trail of broken hearts along the margin. When I realize what I’m doing, I stop myself and scratch the hearts out so hard my pen tip almost tears through the paper, my display of aggression causing the girl next to me to glance over. I ignore her and rip the page clean out of the notebook, crumple it in my fist and shove it into my backpack.

  There are only two and a half years left of high school. I can make it alone. Once I graduate, I’ll never have to see any of these losers ever again. I will find a way to move to a new, big city where no one knows who I am or what I’ve done, leave all this behind me, and become the fashion designer I’ve always dreamed of being. I’ll be able to block Kristen and Noah and this entire mess from memory.

  Until then, I will just show up and shut up and grit my teeth and get through this. Whatever it takes.

  * * *

  “She needs to see a doctor,” my mother says at dinner.

  Of course that’s what she says. Therapy is my mother’s solution to everything. I’m sure she thinks there’d be peace in the Middle East if every country were forced to sit down on a stiff leather couch with a box of Kleenex and talk about their feeeeelings.

  Actually…has anyone tried that yet?

  Ever since my mother got home from work, she’s been hounding me. Ms. Davidson made good on her threat and apparently spoke to her about my insubordination issues. She also recommended counseling. I’m not crazy; I’m perceptive. What comes out of my mouth is the root of my problems, so the solution is for nothing to come out. Ms. Davidson said I couldn’t shut out the world, but my question is, why can’t I do just that? It’s what the world wants. It’s the only way to keep myself out of trouble.