Speechless (5 page)

“Well.” He sighs. “You’re lucky I don’t grade on class participation.”

I take my usual seat next to Megan, who is diligently copying down the warm-up problems in her notebook, all of her attention focused on what she’s writing. She glances at me as I swing my backpack onto my desk, and then just as quickly averts her eyes again. I know she has to have heard what happened; everyone has. It even made the front page of the
Grand Lake Tribune.
Sure, the article didn’t include the dirty details or mention me by name, but too many people witnessed my scene in Kristen’s kitchen to keep my role in everything under wraps, and I’m sure Kristen didn’t hesitate to fill in the blanks with her own revisionist history designed to paint her in the most flattering light. And I know the gossip grapevine well enough to know how fast that story would’ve traveled.

Geometry goes okay, all things considered. Everyone acts like I’m invisible, which isn’t so surprising. All of my friends hate me now for turning in two of our own, and everyone else hated me already. The few who didn’t have no doubt heard the story and blame me for what happened to Noah. Mr. Callihan doesn’t call on me, but when the bell rings and I pack up my stuff, I can tell he’s watching.

Invisible is preferable to what I get in next period, American Lit. Mrs. Finch is far less accommodating of my voluntary silence. When I show her my note at the beginning of class, she sends me straight to the guidance counselor, Ms. Davidson.

The only time I’ve ever set foot in Ms. Davidson’s office was to fix my schedule—freshman year I’d picked French for my mandatory language credit without consulting Kristen, who’d chosen Spanish, so I went and convinced Ms. Davidson to let me switch over. Even though I’d been kind of excited about taking French, imagining that one day I would utilize it while showing my spring collection during Paris Fashion Week, it was more important to share as many classes with Kristen as possible. High school was now; my career in fashion design would come later, and there was always Rosetta Stone.

Ms. Davidson sits behind her desk and reads the note I provide,
hmm
-ing under her breath. She’s quiet for a while, longer than what’s necessary to read my explanation. Poor Ms. Davidson. I can tell she’s mentally reviewing all of her training and schooling to see if there’s something she’s learned that is applicable to my situation, some proper protocol for dealing with the voluntarily mute. I’m pretty sure they don’t make pamphlets for that.

“Chelsea,” she says finally, “what is it you hope to accomplish with this?”

I shrug one shoulder and stare up at the ceiling. Even if I could explain it to her, I don’t want to. She wouldn’t understand. I don’t know what the big deal is. No one wants to hear what I have to say anyway. Not Kristen, not my teachers. Not even my parents. After I explained to them what happened that night, they looked so completely let down by me I thought I would be crushed under the weight of their combined disappointment.

Running my mouth has hurt enough people already—the least I can do is shut up. Why can’t everyone see I’m doing the world a favor?

Ms. Davidson sets my note down on her desk and folds her hands on top of it. “Well, I can’t force you to talk to me,” she says. “But this kind of behavior is unhealthy and unacceptable. And unreasonable. You can’t shut out the world. Your teachers need to you to communicate.” She pauses. “I’ll have to speak to your parents about this. In the meantime, you should return to class.”

I can’t help but smile a little in triumph as she writes me a hall pass. I may not have won the war yet, but I’ve won this battle.

She hands over the pass and says, “If you ever want to talk, my door is always open.”

Yeah, that’ll happen.

Back in class, Mrs. Finch calls on me to answer some question about
Of Mice and Men
and symbolism or something. Not only do I not know the answer, but even if I did, she already knows I’m not going to say it out loud. So I sit there and look at her and do nothing.

“Chelsea,” she says warningly, and everyone in the class starts whispering, like,
ohmygodlookathersheissuchafreak
. Finally she sighs. “I’m issuing you a detention,” she informs me, and the murmurings grow louder.

I haven’t had detention since freshman year when I got caught cheating off Ashley Ziegler’s algebra exam. And Mondays are the days of meetings for the school paper, right after school—I’ve been a contributor since the start of this year. Mrs. Finch knows that; she’s the one who runs the meetings. She’s a stickler for attendance. Miss one meeting and you’re booted from the staff, unless you’re on your deathbed or something.

I guess this means I can say goodbye to my one extracurricular activity. Dammit. I open my mouth to protest, and then promptly shut it again. Whatever. I don’t
need
to work on the paper, even if I really like doing it. I’ll find something else to occupy my free time. I’m not letting her—or anyone else—get to me.

She signals for me to come up to her desk. I stand there, ramrod-straight, holding out my hand as I wait for her to write up the detention slip. Once she’s handed it to me, I take it and march back to my seat, leveling a defiant glare at everyone who stares. Of course, now that my weird silent freak status has been established, people don’t hold back. Whenever Mrs. Finch turns her back to the class, rubber erasers go flying, bouncing off my head and shoulders. I don’t have to turn around to know where the assault is coming from. Derek and Lowell are both on the basketball team, too. They were at the party. They know what happened.

When class ends, Lowell walks by and shoves the books and papers off my desk. I don’t know why someone wrote
RAT
on my locker when Lowell is the one who looks like a rodent. Beady eyes and pointy nose and thin mouth. The only reason anyone gives him the time of day is because he can shoot a stupid basketball and always knows where to score the best weed.

“Finally decided to keep your mouth shut, huh?” he says with that rodent smirk.

I shoot a quick glance to Mrs. Finch, but she’s sitting at her computer, clacking away on the keyboard, totally oblivious. Even if she was looking, she wouldn’t be able to tell anything out of the ordinary was going on. It would look like I was talking with friends, Lowell leaning his palm casually on my desk, Derek flanking my other side. I’m trapped.

“We all know your mouth’s only good for one thing,” Derek chimes in, “and it’s definitely not talking.”

I’m kind of taken aback, despite everything, because—because Derek was my friend. Yeah, Lowell’s always been a creep, but Derek’s always been a decent guy when he’s not hanging around getting high or drunk with Lowell and Warren and Joey. We run in the same circles. He’s the kind of guy who wouldn’t mind if I copied his homework or asked to borrow a pencil, someone I’d wave hello to when we crossed paths in the halls. I even helped set him up with Allie Dupree last year after I figured out he was crushing hard on her and he asked me to find out if the feeling was mutual.

And now he’s standing in front of me with the cruelest smile I’ve ever seen. Carelessly cruel, which is maybe why it hurts the way it does. I train my gaze straight ahead and sit statue still.

Lowell shoves his face in front of mine so I have no choice but to look at him. “I think Derek’s right,” he says, all mock serious and wide-eyed. “Hey, maybe at lunch, you can come by our table and suck my dick. Then Derek’s. Then everyone else’s. Think you owe that much to the team after costing us our two best players, don’t you?”

If I were speaking, I’d retort that the very idea makes me want to vomit, and inform them that contrary to popular belief, guys
do
talk, and from well-placed locker room sources, I am aware that neither have impressive dick sizes anyway. I’d watch that comment land and saunter away, secure with the knowledge I’d one-upped them both.

But I’m not speaking, and I’m not used to being on the receiving end of this kind of harassment, and after everything else—my locker, Kristen, the detention—I’m not equipped to fight back. It’s taking every ounce of resolve I have not to crumble under their sleazy smirks.

I will not cry. I will not cry. Dammit.

Derek and Lowell laugh, and I carefully stand up, collect my papers and shove everything in my bag. I don’t look back as I walk out, and I don’t stop walking until I’m in the bathroom, locked in the second stall. I sit on top of the toilet seat, drawing my bag onto my lap and wrapping my arms around it. My whole body shakes.

All I want to do is scream, but I can’t. I can’t. I made a promise to myself. Talking is what led to this mess in the first place. If I hadn’t said anything, no one would have found out Noah is gay, and Warren and Joey wouldn’t have beat him unconscious. If I hadn’t said anything to the cops, they wouldn’t have been expelled and arrested, and I’d still have all my friends. My biggest worry would be the state of my hair at this point in the morning, or what I should use as the topic of my next column in the school paper, not wondering how I will possibly survive the rest of this semester.

I close my eyes and take deep breaths as the door swings open and two girls come in, chatting away about a Spanish grade, unaware of my presence.

“Hey, did you hear about Chelsea Knot?” one of the girls suddenly says. I recognize that voice; it’s Allie Dupree, Derek’s girlfriend. I hold my breath and listen hard.

“No,” the other girl says. “What about her?”

“Derek’s in one of her classes, and I guess she’s refusing to talk. Like, at all,” Allie explains. “She’s like a mute or something now.”

“She probably just thinks she’s too good to speak to anyone,” the other girl says.

“Wow, you really don’t like her.”

“Chelsea Knot is a total bitch.” The words ring a little louder than they normally would, bouncing off the tile floor and walls. “She’s the one who told everyone that time I got my period and stained my jeans. It was mortifying.”

I vaguely recall this incident, but cannot for the life of me remember the name of the girl. My stomach twists and I try to push the feeling down. It’s not my fault the girl made the mistake of wearing white jeans that week. Besides, it was
funny.
Can’t she take a joke?

“She’s so stuck-up, always acting like she’s better than everyone else in this school,” the girl whose name I don’t remember continues.

“Except for Kristen Courteau,” Allie points out. “Any farther up Kristen’s ass and she’d be able to see her tonsils.”

“Poor Kristen,” the other girl coos. “I can’t believe all that happened at her house.”

They continue talking, but their voices fade as they exit the bathroom, the door swinging closed behind them. I release a long, shuddery breath, willing my heart to stop beating so fast in my chest. Part of me wants to race after them and tell the two of them off, but the larger part of me is rooted to the spot, unable to move, and relieved they didn’t realize I was in here the whole time.

I guess I should get used to this feeling of being invisible. Almost everyone’s acting like I don’t exist at all, and the people who’ve acknowledged me—well, I wish they hadn’t. For once in my life, I wish everyone would just forget about me.

* * *

Ms. Kinsey is totally that cliché free-spirit art teacher you’re always seeing in movies. You know, with the crazy long curly hair and hippie skirts and Birkenstocks, and when it’s warm, she takes us outside to sit on the grass and sketch trees and shit. Last year a rumor went around that she’s a lesbian. I didn’t believe it until this one time Kristen and I went to the dollar theater across town and saw her there, holding hands with this really tall, willowy woman with short hair. Kristen thought it was both hilarious and gross, and spent an entire week cracking lesbian jokes at Ms. Kinsey’s expense.

Ms. Kinsey is a freak show, but she’s not so bad compared to my other teachers. I mean, she’s totally ridiculous and over-the-top, but even though she’s been teaching at Grand Lake for a long time, she’s not jaded and bitter like most of the veterans. And she’s always nice to me, even after I almost started a fire with the kiln last year in Intro to Ceramics. I’m not great with pottery, but I do enjoy drawing; I spend enough time sketching out different outfit ideas in my free time to pull out a halfway decent rendering of a flower vase or a bowl of fruit when necessary. Of course, Ms. Kinsey grades on such a wide curve that my actual skill doesn’t matter anyway. If I could ace Ceramics with my lopsided candle holders, I can no doubt pass General Art Studies. I can tolerate Ms. Kinsey’s obnoxious hippie persona in exchange for an easy grade.

I duck into the art room early, not wanting to linger in the halls and risk running into Kristen or Derek or Lowell or anyone else interested in making my life a living hell. It’s a long list. Going to the cafeteria for lunch was like being behind enemy lines. Everywhere I turned, there was someone glaring or pointing and whispering. I ended up sitting at the table where the Special Ed kids eat, and even they ignored me. Talk about humiliating.

Art is one of my only new classes. Last semester I had Keyboarding, a subject so tedious the only reason I didn’t kill myself to spare me the agony of Mr. Newkirk’s monotone was that I had Kristen to talk to. Thankfully she’s not taking art. No one I am—was—friends with is, as far as I know. At least I hope.

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.