Everyone knows that Chelsea Knot can’t keep a secret

Until now. Because the last secret she shared turned her into a social outcast—and nearly got someone killed.

Now Chelsea has taken a vow of silence—to learnto keep her mouth shut, and to stop hurting anyone else. And if she thinks keeping secrets is hard, not speaking up when she’s ignored, ridiculed and even attacked is worse.

But there’s strength in silence, and in the new friends who are, shockingly, coming her way— people she never noticed before; a boy she might even fall for. If only her new friends can forgive what she’s done. If only she can forgive herself.

Awards and praise for Hannah Harrington’s debut novel Saving June

A VOYA Perfect Ten title

Gold medalist in the Moonbean Children’s Book Awards for Young Adult Fiction—Mature Issues

“Saving June should become a movie someday—it even includes its own soundtrack.”

—VOYA

“Harper’s voice rings true, and readers looking for a mildly steamy romance (with more than a splash of alcohol, smoking and sex) won’t be disappointed.”

—Kirkus

“An incredible debut. Like the best of songs, it brings tears to your eyes and makes you smile. Like the best road trip stories, it takes you on a vivid journey that you don’t want to end.”

—Stephanie Kuehnert, author of Ballads of Suburbia

“With a powerful story, characters that truly come alive and a romance worth swooning over, Saving June is a fresh, fun and poignant book that I couldn’t tear myself away from.”

—Kody Keplinger, author of The DUFF

“Hannah Harrington weaves a fast-paced and heartfelt story about first loss and first loves. Readers will adore following a protagonist as real and raw as Harper Scott…a tender, funny and moving debut. I couldn’t put it down!”

—Courtney Summers, author of Cracked Up to Be and Some Girls Are

“Wow. This novel truly blew me away…a beautiful coming of age story.”

—Reading Lark blog

“We both absolutely loved this book. It was realistic, it was heart-wrenching.”

—Books to the Sky blog

Speechless

Hannah Harrington

www.miraink.co.uk

For Paula

Contents

In Which National Geographic Inadvertently Changes My Life

Six Hours Later

Three Days Later

Day One

Day Two

Day Three

Day Four

Day Five

Day Six

Day Seven

Day Eight

Day Nine

Day Twelve

Day Fifteen

Day Eighteen

Day Twenty

Day Twenty-One

Day Twenty-Four

Days Twenty-Eight & Twenty-Nine

Day Thirty-One

Day Thirty-Two

Day Thirty-Three

Day Thirty-Four

Day Thirty-Five

Acknowledgments

Speechless Reader Guide

Questions for Discussion

Q & A with Hannah Harrington

in which

national geographic

inadvertently changes

my life

Keeping secrets isn’t my specialty. It never has been, ever since kindergarten when I found out Becky Swanson had a crush on Tommy Barnes, and I managed to circulate that fact to the entire class, including Tommy himself, within our fifteen minute recess—a pretty impressive feat, in retrospect. That was ten years ago, and it still may hold the record for my personal best.

The secret I have right now is so, so much juicier than that. I’m just about ready to burst at the seams.

“Will you stop the teasing already?” Kristen says. We’re in her bedroom where I’m helping her decide on an outfit for tonight—a drawn-out process when your wardrobe is as massive as hers. “It’s annoying. Just tell me.”

Kristen is not a patient person. I realize I’ve been pushing it by alluding to my newfound information over the past twenty minutes without actually divulging anything. Of course I’m going to tell her; she’s my best friend, and I can’t keep it to myself much longer without truly pissing her off. A pissed-off Kristen is not a fun Kristen. Still, it’s rare for me to have the upper hand with her, so I can’t help but hold it over her head just a little.

“I don’t know,” I say innocently. “I’m not sure you can handle it....”

She turns around from where she’s digging through her closet and chucks a black leather sandal at me. I shield my face with both hands, laughing as the shoe bounces off one arm and onto the mattress. Kristen props a hand on her narrow hip and cocks her head at me, her glossy, shoulder-length blond hair swaying with the motion.

“You’re building this up way too much,” she says. She yanks out a shimmery red top from her closet before facing me again. “I bet whatever it is, it’s completely lame.”

“Well, in that case, I’ll keep it to myself.” When she glares at me, I just smile in return and say, “Don’t wear that. That baby-doll cut looks like something out of the maternity section.”

She hangs the top back up and comes over to the bed, flopping down on her stomach next to me. “Spill,” she whines, the previous iciness dissolving into borderline desperation. This is as close as Kristen ever gets to groveling. “Otherwise I’m uninviting you from the party.”

The threat can’t be real—Kristen knows I’ve been looking forward to her New Year’s Eve party for over a month now. She even helped concoct the cover story necessary to convince my mother to let me come over to her house despite the grounding I received after my parents saw my latest report card. Like I’m ever going to need geometry in real life anyway.

Even though Kristen can be…touchy, she wouldn’t uninvite me from the party over something like this—but I decide it’s better to cave already than to test her on it.

“Okay, okay,” I relent. “I’ll tell you.”

She breaks into a grin and scoots closer to me. I like having her attention like this; Kristen is easily bored, so when I do get her full focus, it makes me feel like I’m doing something right. She is, after all, one of—if not the—most popular girls in the sophomore class, if you keep track of that sort of thing, which I do. She’s used to people fawning all over her to get on her good side. I’ve been on her good side for almost two years now, and I intend to stay there.

I’d better make this good.

“So I met up with Megan today because she wanted me to help her pick out new shoes, right?” I start. “She also wanted to bitch to me about Owen, because he totally blew her off last weekend and they’ve been fighting a lot, and she’s wondering if she should break up with him.”

Kristen’s mouth tugs into a frown. “Um, yawn. I already know this.”

“I’m not done yet,” I assure her. “Anyway, so Megan brings along Tessa Schauer, which…whatever. She’s annoying, but I can deal. We shop for a while and everything’s fine, and then I remember I need to call my mom about picking stuff up from the dry cleaners, except I’m an idiot who didn’t charge my phone and the battery’s dead. I ask Tessa if I can borrow hers since she’s right there, and she hands it off and walks away. I call my mom, and then I’m about to give it back, but I decided to look through the pictures on the phone because I’m nosy like that, and…” I pause for a moment, just to draw out the anticipation.

“And…?” Kristen prompts. She’s totally hanging on to every word.

“And,” I say, “the first one I see? It’s of Tessa. With Owen. Looking very…shall we say…friendly.”

Her eyes widen. “How friendly?” she asks.

I dig my phone out of my pocket and toss it at her. “Look for yourself.”

I watch in amusement as she fumbles with my phone, scrolling through my text messages. “Shut up,” she gasps, looking back up at me. “You forwarded the pictures to yourself?”

“Duh.”

“Won’t Tessa know?”

I’m a little insulted by the question, to be honest. Of course I thought ahead. I’m not an amateur. “I deleted the sent texts,” I explain. “She’ll have no idea.”

“That is…” Kristen pauses, and then grins up at me. “Totally brilliant.”

I take the phone back and look at the screen, where the high-angled self-portrait of Tessa and Owen midkiss stares back at me. So tacky. Not just the picture, or how Owen’s mouth is open so wide I can actually see his tongue entering Tessa’s mouth (gross, gross, gross), but making out with your alleged best friend’s boyfriend behind her back? That’s just classless. I would never in a million years hook up with Kristen’s boyfriend, Warren Snyder, while she’s dating him. Okay, I would never hook up with him, period, because he’s a sleaze, but that’s beside the point. The point is, some things are sacred.

“She’s a shitty friend,” I tell Kristen. “I can’t believe she did that to Megan.” There’s no way Megan will forgive her when she finds out. She’s dated Owen for over a year, and Tessa’s been her best friend for longer than that. An entire friendship down the drain, all because Tessa couldn’t keep her hands off Owen. No boy is worth that. Not even Brendon Ryan, whom I would do a number of immoral and insane things for, and who is quite possibly the love of my life, even if he doesn’t know it yet. We’ve been caught in a wildly passionate, completely one-sided affair since freshman year.

“Tessa Schauer is a slutty bitch. I hope Megan kicks her ass,” Kristen says. “When are you going to tell her?”

“Tonight, probably.” Megan and Tessa will both be at the party, so I’ll have to find a way to corner Megan alone and break the news. Tessa will know it’s me, even if I erased my tracks, but whatever. Who cares? Snooping on someone’s phone is a far more minor offense than slutting around with your best friend’s boyfriend. No one will have sympathy for her.

Kristen rolls off the bed and stands in front of her full-length mirror, fiddling with the ends of her perfect hair. “You know, you could have some fun with this,” she muses.

I sit up. “How?”

“If you tell Tessa you know about her and Owen, I bet she’d do just about anything to keep you from sharing that with Megan.”

“Like blackmail?” I frown. “I don’t know…”

“I’m just saying,” Kristen says, “I know for a fact that she has a fake ID. She was attention-whoring like crazy, showing it off to everyone who would listen in Econ last week. Maybe you could convince her to hook up the two of us with our own.”

Interesting idea. Except—

“What would we do with a fake ID?” I ask. Buying booze is the obvious answer, but while Kristen might pass for twenty-one with the right push-up bra and a pair of heels, there’s no way I could. I am much less…developed than her.

“Well, I could go to Rave with Warren, for starters,” she says. “You only have to be eighteen to get in.”

Rave is this nightclub in Westfield, the next town over. Warren turned eighteen last month and went there to celebrate, and wouldn’t shut up about it for two weeks. I have to admit, it would be interesting to see what all the fuss is about.

And if it’s important to Kristen, then it’s important to me.

“I’ll see what I can do,” I tell her, and by the way Kristen smiles at me, I know that was exactly what she wanted to hear.

six hours later

I don’t know how I’m going to talk myself out of this one.

My phone buzzes insistently in my hand, like it knows I’m trying to avoid it. A glance at the front screen confirms my impending doom: MOM flashes there like it’s mocking me. Crap.

Kristen nudges me in the rib cage with her elbow. “Who the hell is calling you?” she demands. “Everyone worth knowing is already here.”

It’s true; the party is in full swing, the room filled with half of Grand Lake High’s student body—well, the half that matters, anyway—and loud music. It’s no secret Kristen Courteau throws the best parties. Absentee parents, an older brother who has no problem supplying minors with alcohol, a big house with a top-notch stereo system—it’s everything a group of rowdy sixteen-year-olds could ask for.

On this couch I’m packed in tight like a sardine, stuck between Kristen and Brendon Ryan. Brendon Ryan, the last person I want knowing that my mother is calling to check up on me.

“It’s my mom,” I explain, leaning my head close to hers to be heard over the racket and praying that Brendon is too absorbed in downing his beer to pay attention. “She’ll be pissed if I don’t answer.”

“Then answer it,” Kristen says, like it’s that simple.

“And have her hear all this?” I shake my head. “She’ll kill me!”

“Fine, then don’t answer it.” Kristen rolls her eyes and knocks back the rest of her drink. Somehow she manages to look good doing even that. “I’m getting more beer,” she informs me, peeling herself off the couch and dancing her way across the room to the cooler and abandoning me to resolve this problem on my own. Sometimes Kristen can be such a bitch. If she wasn’t my best friend, I’d probably hate her.

Next to me, Brendon curls his hand over the cap of my shoulder and leans in close to my ear. Normally I’d be thrilled because a) Brendon Ryan is touching me, b) his near proximity means I can smell him, and c) BRENDON RYAN IS TOUCHING ME OH MY GOD (!!!), but I can’t even savor the moment because I’m too panicked. Also, tonight he reeks too much of beer and cloying cologne. This is a disappointment because I always assumed that a perfect creature such as Brendon would smell of spring rain and mountain breezes and other heavenly aromas.

“Hey,” he says, his breath warm against my ear, and oh, yeah, that’s enough to send my already racing pulse into overdrive. “I bet if you go down the hall it’ll be quieter.”

It’s a no-brainer suggestion, really, but in that moment, I feel like Brendon is a certified genius for coming up with it. Maybe it’s due to the fact that when I’m anywhere within a six-foot radius of Brendon I lose all ability to think coherently. Well, okay, the Jell-O shot I kicked back ten minutes ago probably isn’t helping matters.

“Yes,” I finally choke out once I realize I’ve spent the last several seconds staring into his brain-melty hazel eyes with my mouth hanging open like the love-struck idiot I am. “Good idea.”

I push myself off the couch, stumble past the cluster of barely clothed freshman girls writhing to some electro dance remix—nasty—and don’t stop until I’ve reached the end of the hallway. Of course, even down here I can feel vibrations from the stereo’s pulsating bass. My phone stopped ringing a while ago. Great. Now I need to come up with an excuse to explain why I didn’t answer Mom’s call right away. One that does not involve divulging that I’m at a New Year’s Eve party with a bunch of intoxicated minors.

It’s so stupid. One lousy grade and my parents act like it’s the end of the world. A D- in geometry is not going to ruin my entire life. But of course they don’t see it that way. The only reason I was allowed over to Kristen’s at all was under the pretense that we’d be babysitting her younger cousins. If Mom finds out what’s really going on, there’ll be hell to pay.

I open the hall closet and lock myself inside; at least the door blocks some of the sound from the raging party. My phone starts ringing again—Mom, of course. I push aside a broom handle and answer it with the most nonchalant hello I can muster.

“Chelsea,” she says, and by the way she says my name alone, I can perfectly picture the pinched expression on her face. “Why didn’t you pick up before?”

“Um…” I rack my brain for the first believable excuse. “My phone was at the bottom of my bag, and I couldn’t find it in time. You know my purse…it’s like a black hole.”

“Uh-huh,” she says. I can’t tell if she’s skeptical or if I’m just paranoid.

I perch awkwardly on the edge of a cardboard box, keeping one eye on the door. “So, what’s up?”

“I just thought I’d ask if you could pick up a gallon of milk before you drive home tomorrow morning.” She pauses. “How is the babysitting going?”

“Fine,” I say, though of course as soon as the word leaves my mouth, something crashes in the hallway. I cringe and press a hand to my forehead. This is just perfect.

“What was that?”

I recover without missing a beat. “Oh, just one of the kids causing trouble,” I say. “Probably should’ve skipped the candy after dinner—sugar overload.” I let out a laugh and hope it doesn’t come out too forced. “Actually I should probably go help Kristen wrangle them before they destroy the house.”

“All right,” Mom says, so oblivious I feel kind of bad. But only for a second. Then I’m just relieved that she actually buys my story. “Just make sure to pick up the milk tomorrow.”

“Right. The milk. Got it.” I need to wrap up this call ASAP before someone gives me away. “I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

Mom says, “Have a good night, sweetie,” before hanging up. And I’m in the clear.

Or, almost. I wriggle out of the closet and shut the door behind me, yanking my skirt down and raking my hands through my hair. I spent two hours wrestling with a flat iron to make it straight, and it’s already getting all poofy and gross. Great. I try to smooth it down as best I can, cursing genetics for the millionth time in my life for not gifting me with thin, silky hair like Kristen’s.

“Chelsea?”

I whip around to see Tessa Schauer standing there, peering at me with raised, overly plucked eyebrows. Usually when Tessa looks at me it’s for approval, or else a little fearful, but right now there’s just mild curiosity written across her face.

I don’t like it.

“What?” I snap, and she cringes just the slightest bit. That’s better.

All the bronzer in the world can’t hide her sudden blush. “I was just wondering what you were doing in the closet,” she says.

“None of your business.” No way am I letting Tessa know I’m the kind of loser who needs permission from her parents to do anything. As far as she’s concerned, I do whatever I want, whenever I want.

“Jeez, no need to bite my head off,” she says. “It was just a question.”

“That’s funny, because I have a question for you,” I say. “What’s it like to stab your best friend in the back?”

“What are you talking about?” she scoffs, but I can see the guilt flicker in her eyes. She’s not that smooth.

“I know about you and Owen,” I tell her. Tessa’s eyes go wide, and I take a step closer. “Did you really think you could keep it a secret?”

She backs up, flustered. “I don’t know what you mean,” she lies. “Are you drunk?”

“Don’t play dumb with me,” I retort. “What do you think Megan’s going to say when she finds out? Her boyfriend and her best friend. Talk about a knife in the back.”

Finally Tessa drops the innocent act, her jaw tensing with anger. “She won’t believe you.”

“Pictures don’t lie,” I point out.

Realization dawns on her face. “You snooped on my phone.”

I smirk at her. “You should be more careful with your indiscretions,” I say, and pull my phone from my pocket. “What was the point of pictures anyway? Were you going to post them to your Facebook and let Megan find out that way? Maybe I should save you the time and just forward them to her right now....” My thumb hovers over the keypad.

Tessa dives for my phone, but I snatch it back out of reach. Does she seriously think she can wrestle it from me? She really is a low-class bitch.

Now her anger gives way to panic. “Please, don’t tell her,” she begs. “It was so stupid of me, I know, but he said he was going to dump her anyway, and it was just a few times, and…” Her voice wavers. “Please, you can’t tell her—”

“Chill out,” I snap, just so she’ll stop this sniveling display of desperation. The secondhand embarrassment is killing me. “You look so pathetic right now.”

“I know you don’t like me, Chelsea,” she says, wiping away a stray tear from under one eye. “But please, don’t do this. Megan’s my best friend.”

“Maybe you should’ve thought about that before you stuck your tongue down her boyfriend’s throat.”

Tessa flinches. “You can’t tell her,” she says again. “You can’t.”

“Okay,” I say.

“‘Okay’?” she echoes. Cautious optimism creeps into her voice. “So you won’t say anything?”

“As long as you do something for me.”

* * *

By the time I return to the living room, Kristen’s over in the corner, wrapped around Warren. I don’t have to look around to know there’s more than one girl in this room staring in envy. Warren’s a senior, star of the basketball team, tall with broad shoulders and just enough stubble to make him look older and more mature than he is. And Kristen is—well, Kristen. Blonde, blue-eyed, curvy in all the right places and skinny in all the others, so pretty it hurts. Standing next to her is always a blow to the self-esteem.

I’ll never know exactly why Kristen made me her project, but she did. All through middle school I’d been intimidated by her from a safe distance, until eighth grade, when the seating assignment for biology designated us as lab partners. Not only did Kristen acknowledge my existence, but somehow over the course of the year, she started inviting me over to her house and to the mall, passing me notes between classes, saving me a spot at her lunch table, and before I knew it we were friends. Not just friends, but best friends.

Being Kristen’s best friend has its benefits—everyone knowing your name, invites to just about every social gathering (or at least all the ones worth attending), and a built-in social circle. The same social circle that includes Brendon Ryan, who could easily be my soul mate. That is, if I could get him to notice me.

I turn my head and there he is, refilling his cup of beer at the table with Natalie Thomas glued to his side. Ugh, I can’t stand Natalie. She used to be Kristen’s best friend, before I came along; she’d never say it to my face, but I know she secretly resents me for that. She’s such a hanger-on, one with a notorious habit of flirting with all the guys within a five-mile radius—regardless of whether they have girlfriends or not.

Tonight she’s donned this bright neon-green glittery dress that would cause irreversible retinal damage to look at directly, and it comes down only to the very tops of her thighs. So, so trashy. She makes me want to vom.

Brendon Ryan is too good for her. Brendon Ryan is classy. He wears preppy polo shirts and button-downs with sweaters over them and styles his dark blond hair perfectly so it looks messy, but in a purposeful way. He’s student council president and always raises his hand in class before speaking, and instead of chewing gum he prefers mints, which he carries around in this tiny tin case. I’ve been in love with him ever since the first week of freshman year when he turned around in the seat in front of me in homeroom and offered me one, flashing that dazzling smile of his. Everything about Brendon oozes effortless cool. Unlike all the try-hard jocks Kristen and I tend to associate with.

If Natalie thinks she has her sights set on Brendon, she has another think coming.

I march right up there and position myself between the two of them. It’s a tight squeeze, but one I manage to pull off by pretending I am in dire need of more pretzels.

“Hi!” I say to Brendon.

“Hi,” he says, smiling. “How’d that phone call go?”

“I managed to pull it off. Thanks to you.”

Natalie leans over to me as I pop a handful of pretzels into my mouth. “You’re really pigging out there, aren’t you?” she comments. “Try and leave some for the rest of us.”

“I see someone left the gates open,” I mutter under my breath. I study her botched blond dye job, as tacky as the rest of her look, and add, “Wow, Natalie, I didn’t know brassy roots were in this season. Is trailer-trash chic back in style?”

Natalie scowls at me in return. “I’m surprised you have an opinion,” she says. “Aren’t you supposed to just be Kristen’s little mouthpiece? Enjoy it while you can—she’ll throw you away like she does everyone else soon enough.”

“Hmm, shouldn’t you be stocking up on more hooker heels?” I shoot back. I let my eyes travel down to the ones she has on and smirk. “Leopard print? Keeping it classy, I see.”

She glares and makes an annoyed sound in the back of her throat, but it does the trick—she spins around and stalks off, wobbling. Whether that’s due to her drunkenness or the height of her stupid heels, I can’t be sure.

Brendon looks at me, miffed. “That was kind of rude.”

“Me or her?” I ask.

“Both, actually.”

“She started it,” I reply. “Besides, maybe I’d be nicer to her if she dressed a little better.” It would also help if she stayed away from Brendon and didn’t get her slutty germs all over him. Natalie is the kind of girl who can give you an STD from eye contact alone.

“I think she dresses just fine.”

Warren’s voice from behind me makes me jump a little, and I whirl to see him standing there with Kristen and his friend Joey Morgan. Kristen smacks him hard on the shoulder, and Warren in turn grabs her in a greedy kiss, which she readily reciprocates. Gross. Those two are always slobbering all over each other. Get a room already.

“I don’t know, man,” Brendon says. “Personally I prefer something left to the imagination.”

He winks at me, and the surge of butterflies in my stomach is so strong I think I may throw up right there. I need something to calm my nerves. The most obvious remedy is more alcohol. They don’t call it liquid courage for nothing.

Two Jell-O shots later and I’m thinking about what Natalie said—about me being Kristen’s mouthpiece. I know that’s how I’m seen, and if I’m being honest with myself, it’s kind of true. It’s no secret that Kristen is the ringleader of our social group. The real thing that’s bugging me is what she said about me being tossed aside. Being Kristen’s friend is a balancing act, yes, but it’s one I’ve pulled off for a few years; if she wanted to get rid of me, she would’ve by now.

I don’t know why Natalie’s stupid comment is annoying me so much. After all, it’s Natalie; her opinion doesn’t matter.

Brendon hands me another shot, and I notice his outstretched arm is a perfect golden tan.

“God, you’re tan,” I tell him, running my fingers over his wrist and marveling at the deep red-brown shade. His skin feels hot to the touch, and the butterflies in my stomach flutter again.

“Yeah.” He laughs. “I spent Christmas in Miami with my grandparents.”

“Oooh, nice!” I look at my own arm and cringe. “I’m so pasty,” I moan, and Kristen laughs.

“You’re such a ginger,” she says. She lowers her voice like she’s confiding a secret. “Still, it could be worse. So I’m in the locker room before P.E. the other day, right? Steph Lidell comes in and starts changing right next to me, and she takes off her sweater, and I am, like, blinded by orange.”

This isn’t news to me. Steph sits in front of me in Geometry, and whenever she passes back papers, I get a full view of her streaky orange hands. Still, I know better than to point out that it’s totally old news. Kristen doesn’t like being one-upped when she’s telling a story.

“It’s already bad enough that she has that fried, bleached-out hair, but a gross spray tan? Really?” Kristen shakes her head sadly. “It was horrible. I mean, she’s like seven feet tall! So she’s just this giant orange giraffe who smells bad. Like some weird combination of mustard and sweat or something. Seriously, I almost passed out.” She laughs, then sighs and adds, “I swear, it was tragic.”

“Seriously tragic,” I agree, tipping the Jell-O shot back until it slides down my throat, weirdly warm and cold at the same time. These things are like ninety percent vodka. As it hits my stomach, I shake my head hard and grimace.

Joey claps me so hard on the back I nearly choke. “You drunk yet, Chelsea?”

Yes, actually, I am. More than a little. I turn around to face Joey, and the room spins around me. Maybe that last shot wasn’t such a good idea. I’m really feeling it now.

Joey slides his hand up and hangs his arm loosely over my shoulders. I hope he doesn’t think we’re hooking up tonight. I’ve made out with him a few times, but never actually enjoyed it. Kristen keeps pushing me toward him, though, with the hope that if I start dating Warren’s best friend we can all go out on double dates. I might be on board with this plan if I found Joey even remotely attractive, but to me he’s just another beefy, boneheaded jock. He’s definitely no Brendon Ryan. The fact that he’s pulling me in under his sweaty armpit makes me want to puke.

No, wait, that’s the alcohol.

“Um…” I shrug out from under Joey’s grip. “I think I’m gonna—” I stop and clutch one hand over my swirling stomach.

My nausea must show in my face because Kristen laughs and says, “Oh, my God, if you puke on my carpet I’m going to be so pissed!”

Brendon looks at me, concerned. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I insist. My stomach, however, does not agree. “I just need to… Bathroom. Bathroom would be good.”

I bolt out of the room, shove past two juniors molesting each other on the staircase and take the steps two at a time. When I reach the top, I see a line of bored-looking girls outside the bathroom. Yeah, I don’t know if I can wait that long. I’m definitely not willing to take the risk.

There’s another bathroom in the guest room, I know, and Kristen won’t mind if I use it. I rush to the end of the hallway and throw open the door without a second thought. Before I take more than a step in, I’m stopped in my tracks by what I see. Someone else is already in here.

Two someones.

I’ve never seen guys together. Not like this. The two boys are entangled, one lying on top of the other, panting hard. The dark-haired boy on top has his hand in the hair of the blond boy underneath him. The telltale sound of jeans being unzipped makes me gasp; the blond boy must hear it, because his head jerks up and his eyes meet mine, and I realize I know him. It’s Noah Beckett. We’re not friends, exactly, but we’re in the same grade. I sat next to him in Spanish last year. He used to let me borrow his pencils, and now he’s making out with some guy I don’t recognize in my best friend’s guest room.

Suddenly my nausea is the last thing on my mind.

I’m still processing the sight in front of me when Noah sits up, looking panicked. Instinct kicks in and I back out hastily, knocking my shoulder hard against the door frame. Noah calls after me, but I ignore him, stumble down the hallway and down the stairs, where I lean against the banister, trying to catch my breath.

Noah Beckett is gay? I never would’ve guessed. To me he was always just the kid who rides around on his skateboard in the school parking lot. I think he’s on the soccer team or something. He’s the kind of affable guy who hangs out with a lot of different groups and gets along with just about everyone. Who blends in with the crowd. I’ve never really noticed him before.

Well, I don’t think I’ll have a recognition problem now.

“Feeling better?”

Brendon approaches me with a cautious smile, like he’s afraid I’ll hurl all over his shoes at any given moment. Not a total impossibility. At this rate, I’m pretty sure my hand on the banister is the only thing keeping me upright.

“Uh—” Why is it that I always sound like such an idiot around Brendon? Seriously, I am incapable of forming a complete sentence in his presence, even when I’m stone-cold sober. It’s kind of pathetic. Okay, a lot pathetic. I breathe out and try to focus. “Where’s Kristen?”

“In the kitchen, I think,” he says. His brow furrows. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” I say, “I just—I need to talk to her.”

I find her in the kitchen surrounded by half of the basketball team. The guys are all rummaging through her cabinets looking for snacks. Kristen’s lucky her parents are out of town; this place is going to be a disaster area come tomorrow morning. I’ll probably have to help her clean it up, too. Somehow I’m the one who always ends up cleaning out the vomit-ridden toilet bowls.

“Kristen!” I say, louder than I mean to. Everyone’s head swivels around to look at me as I wobble up to her on unsteady legs. Balance is a tricky concept at the moment.

Kristen looks up at me over her cup of beer, one part amused, one part embarrassed. “God, Chelsea, you’re a hot mess.” Which is pretty lame of her, because her cheeks are apple-red and her eyes are just glassy enough to let me know she’s only a fraction less drunk off her ass than I am.

I ignore the insult and grab her arm urgently. “Kristen,” I say again, “you’re not going to believe what I just saw.”

This catches her attention, and everyone else’s. Warren closes the refrigerator door and looks over at us, and Brendon comes up next to me. Joey hops off of the counter and crosses his arms. Everybody’s gone quiet, wondering what I’m going to say. And really, this is the best gossip I’ve heard all year. Considering the year is less than an hour from being officially over, that’s saying something.

I don’t know what I expected to happen when I told everyone. I guess I thought it’d be a funny story, or at least a memorable one. It’d be the kind of thing where later, every so often someone could bring it up by saying, “Hey, remember when Chelsea walked in on Noah and that random guy macking on each other?” And that’d be the point where I’d jump in and give my firsthand account, and everyone would be both amused and scandalized, and maybe Brendon would be bowled over by my charismatic storytelling skills and declare his undying love for me on the spot. Or something.

I didn’t realize Kristen would have the reaction she does—which is less laughing and more one of extreme disgust, like I just told her that her guest room has a cockroach infestation. Once I spill the details, she gives a full-body shudder, mouth hanging open with a mixture of shock and revulsion.

“Oh, my God. Oh, my God! Ew!” she exclaims, appalled. “He got fag all over my sheets!” She says it like being gay is a highly contagious epidemic or something. My stomach drops, and I open my mouth to say something.

Before I can, Derek Connelly, the team’s small forward, laughs. “That dude?” he says. “Seriously?”

Warren stalks over to us, one fist clamped tight around a bottle of beer and the other clenched at his side. “Whatthefuck?” he slurs. Redness creeps up his neck and flushes his whole face. “That fucking— I swear— I’m gonna—” He doesn’t finish the thought, but somehow I don’t think the rest of that sentence would be “give him a hug.” Warren is about as affectionate as he is articulate.

“Seriously. What. The. Fuck,” Joey echoes, useless as always.

“Who was he even with?” Kristen asks me.

“I… I don’t know,” I say uneasily. “I don’t think the other guy goes to our school.” This conversation is not going the way I imagined it would.

“Who the fuck does he think he is?” Warren growls. He wipes the sweat off his upper lip with the side of his fist. “All right, where’s the fag? I’m gonna go talk to him.”

“Fucking right,” Joey agrees.

The two of them push their way out of the kitchen and head for the staircase. I trail after them and manage to catch up halfway through the living room, nearly bowling over five people in the process.

“You guys, don’t.” I reach out, snagging Warren’s shoulder.

Except because I’m so trashed, I stumble and almost fall down. Joey and a few other people see and laugh. Brendon, though. Brendon isn’t laughing.

“Look,” I say, “they’re leaving anyway. Just leave them alone, okay?”

I point to where I can spot Noah’s shock of white-blond hair. He hurries to the front door, red-faced, with a cute black-haired boy behind him. The black-haired boy seems to be dragging his feet, intent on going at a leisurely pace, his fingers wrapped around Noah’s wrist as they move through the throng of people packed at the bottom of the staircase. Noah stops and says something to him, the words impossible to make out over the music and the conversation. The boy says something back, and Noah frowns, tugging the boy’s hand, and they disappear through the door together.

The irony is that if I hadn’t been drinking, I probably wouldn’t have spoken up at all—not right there in front of anyone; I would’ve waited until it was just Kristen and me alone. And I definitely wouldn’t have touched Warren—he’s not the kind of guy you pal around with.

Of course, if I hadn’t been drinking, I wouldn’t have needed to find a bathroom so badly and I wouldn’t have seen what I did.

Warren shakes me off with a scowl, and I fall sideways into Kristen, who laughs and props me up against the wall.

“You’re sooooo drunk,” she says. “Oh, my God.”

“They’re fucking holding hands? Shit.” Warren spits into his plastic red cup—so many kinds of gross—before he nods at Joey and says, “You coming?”

And Joey says, “Fuck, yeah,” because Joey is an idiot.

“You guys.” I push myself off the wall. “You guys, seriously. Don’t. Just leave it, okay? Okay?”

“Don’t worry,” says Warren, “all we’re gonna do is teach them a little lesson.” But his smile is all wrong, twisted, and there’s something else in his voice, too, warning me not to push it.

And so I don’t. Because it’s easier. It’s easier to let them go.

* * *

My plans to have Brendon sweep me off my feet at the stroke of midnight are thwarted when my nausea catches up to me, and I instead ring in the New Year vomiting my guts out in the bathroom. I must pass out sometime after that, because I wake up the next morning curled around the base of the toilet the same way you’d curl yourself around another person. Kristen didn’t even think to wake me up and help me into the bedroom, and now I have a sore hip and a crick in my neck. Not to mention a severe case of dry mouth.

I use the counter to pull myself to my feet then turn on the tap. As I scoop the cold water with both hands and splash it over my face, I try to piece together exactly what happened last night. I remember Warren and Joey taking off, but everything after that is a little fuzzy. It’s kind of freaking me out; I’ve never gotten that drunk before. Never to the point where I can’t remember what happened the next day.

Things start to come back to me when I rub my face dry with the thick terry-cloth towel hanging on the rack. Kristen cajoling me into one more shot even though I was already falling-down drunk; jumping up on her coffee table to dance until I fell off and landed on some freshman girl; Brendon—oh, God. Brendon. I’m pretty sure I totally threw myself at him in the most embarrassing manner possible.

“Yup, you totally did,” Kristen informs me cheerfully after I’ve managed to stumble down to the kitchen and collapse in the nearest chair. She sets a mug of water and two Advil in front of me—which for Kristen is as considerate as she gets. “You kept rubbing up on him and babbling about how hot his box of mints is. He was so weirded out. It was pretty hilarious.”

“I’m sure,” I mutter. It would’ve been nice if Kristen had intervened to spare me the humiliation, but I guess she was too busy getting a kick out of the situation.

She picks up the empty beer bottles littered on the table and takes them to the sink. “Cheer up,” she tells me. “At least you weren’t abandoned by your supposed boyfriend.”

An unsettled feeling twists in my gut. “He didn’t come back last night?”

“No,” she scoffs. “Fucking jerk. Probably went off to hotbox his truck with Joey. I swear—” She’s cut off by her phone on the counter ringing. She grabs it with a sigh. “That’s probably him. He better grovel.”

While she takes the call I swallow the Advil, downing all of the water in the mug in a few long gulps. My head is totally throbbing. I feel like death warmed over. No, scratch that. Like death left out on the counter for two days and then reheated in the microwave for thirty seconds. That’s exactly how I feel.

There’s an issue of National Geographic lying half-open on the table. I pick it up and leaf through it idly. I’m not a big recreational-reader type, other than celebrity gossip blogs and Us Weekly, but Kristen’s a talker, and I’m sure she’ll be arguing with Warren for a while before he gives in and promises to buy her something shiny in exchange for bailing. The magazine is open to a striking photo of an old Buddhist monk swathed in a yellow robe kneeling in prayer. Below the picture is a profile on the monk, who’d taken a vow of silence and hadn’t spoken a word in sixty years. I guess the idea was that by not speaking and staying in a constant state of contemplation, it made him closer to God, or enlightenment, or whatever.

I’m too preoccupied skimming the article and nursing my hangover to eavesdrop on Kristen’s conversation, but then she lets out an especially sharp “What?” that makes me snap to attention. When I look at her, she’s speechless, eyes wide and mouth hanging open. But she turns her back to me and lowers her voice so I can’t hear whatever it is she says next. It isn’t until she hangs up the phone and drops into the seat next to me, the shocked expression etched into her features, that I get an answer out of her.

“What’s going on?” I demand.

She drags her eyes off the phone in her hand and meets my gaze. “Noah Beckett is in the hospital,” she tells me.

“Wait, are you serious?” Kristen just nods, and my mouth goes dry again. I wrap my hands around my empty mug and ask, “What the hell happened?”

“He was in the parking lot of the Quality Mart, and he…he got beat up really bad,” she says. She pauses for a long time. “I guess he’s unconscious.”

My heart kind of stops, thinking about Noah like that. Who would do that to him? And then I realize.

I don’t want to ask the question because I’m so afraid I already know the answer, but I have to. “Did Warren and Joey do it?”

Kristen doesn’t say anything, but she doesn’t have to. The look on her face says it all.

“Oh, my God,” I breathe, slumping back in my chair. “Oh, my God.” I cover my mouth with one hand. “I thought they were just going to talk to him!”

“You can’t say anything.” Kristen’s tone has a careful edge to it.

“But—”

“I mean it,” she says, more emphatically this time. “I’m not kidding. If anyone asks, nothing happened. You don’t know anything. Got it?”

I stare down at the open magazine, but the words there are a jumbled mess. I can’t wrap my mind around this. I’m an expert at finding out secrets, but keeping them—especially a secret of this magnitude—is something else.

“Yeah, I got it,” I say. “Nothing happened.”

* * *

Except I know better. We both do. Warren and Joey are behind this. They have to be.

Kristen wants me to pretend like last night never happened. Like I should just push it out of my mind and ignore the fact that her boyfriend put a boy in the hospital. I drive home in a daze, trying to do just that. But no matter how loud I crank the radio, I can’t escape my thoughts, and they keep circling back to Noah. What the hell was Warren thinking? I know he was kind of drunk, and I know that he’s not the nicest guy under sober conditions, but still.

I promised Kristen I wouldn’t say anything. If I do, I’m going to be in so much trouble—a kind of trouble I can’t even fathom. My parents will kill me. Kristen will disown me. Everyone will hate me. Besides, why should I have to be the one to rat them out? There were other people at that party who heard my story about Noah, who saw Warren and Joey get mad and leave. They have to know. Or they will, soon enough, once word spreads about what happened. So why should the responsibility to tell fall on my shoulders?

All the rationalizing in the world isn’t making me feel better about this decision.

Mom’s doing dishes when I walk into the kitchen. Dad sits at the table, reading the newspaper. It’s so perfectly normal I want to cry. I lean against the doorway and watch them, swallowing against the crater-size lump lodged in my throat.

“How was your night, kiddo?” asks Dad.

I shrug one shoulder. “Fine,” I lie.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Mom says. She wrings the sponge and raises an eyebrow at me. “Did you get the milk?”

Oh, shit. I totally did not even remember she asked me to pick that up.

“Sorry,” I mumble, rubbing my forehead with one hand. My head is killing me. “I forgot about it.”

“Chelsea.” Mom sighs. “I ask you for one thing, and you can’t even—”

“I forgot, okay?” I snap. “God. I said I was sorry.”

Dad shakes out his newspaper and lays it flat on the table. “Don’t worry about it,” he says, standing up and coming over to me. He plants a kiss on the top of my head, and I hold my breath, hoping the three mouthwash rinses and obscene amount of Kristen’s perfume I doused myself with are enough to mask any lingering smell of alcohol.

It must be, because he doesn’t comment on it. “I can make a grocery run,” he offers. Always the peacemaker.

Mom sighs again, louder this time, and I take it as my cue to slink upstairs without further interrogation. I shut the door and toss my purse onto my bed. The issue of National Geographic comes tumbling out—I snuck it in my bag before I left Kristen’s. I couldn’t ask to borrow it because she’d think I was a freak, but I really did want to finish reading that article about the monk.

I flop down on my bed and fumble through the pages until I find it. Being silent for sixty years—I can’t fathom it. Hell, I can’t fathom being silent for sixty days. Even sixty minutes would be tough. This monk guy, his silence is used to better himself. My silence about Noah—it’s the opposite. It’s because I’m a coward.

I don’t want to think about this anymore, but even when I pull a pillow over my head and squeeze my eyes shut, I’m consumed with the memory of Noah’s eyes, the way they’d been filled with shock when I opened that bedroom door, and then panic as he realized what I’d caught him doing. And with whom. I wonder if that’s the same look he had when Warren and Joey kicked the shit out of him in that parking lot.

When I found Noah—them—on the bed together, Noah’s mouth had opened like he was going to say something, but I’d turned and hightailed it back downstairs as quickly as possible. Maybe he was going to say “Wait,” maybe he was going to ask me not to say anything about what I’d seen. Or maybe he wasn’t going to say anything at all, realizing that kind of request was futile, even if I was there to hear it.

After all, everyone knows Chelsea Knot doesn’t know how to keep her mouth shut.

I go to pull another pillow over my head, but my hand instead curls around my ratty stuffed dog, Nelly. It’s pretty lame to sleep with a stuffed animal when you’re sixteen, but I never could bring myself to get rid of her when I finally became too old for toys. Dad gave her to me when I was seven years old and had to get my tonsils out. I hug Nelly tight to my chest, smoothing out her matted gray cotton fur with one hand.

Yeah, I can do this. I can play dumb like Kristen said. No one has to hear it from me. I can stay quiet, even if no one else steps forward. Even if it means Warren and Joey get away with this. Even if Noah never wakes up.

What if he doesn’t? And what if no one points the finger at Warren and Joey? If that happens, can I really live with myself?

I already know the answer to that. I lie there for a while with Nelly tucked under my chin, trying in vain to come up with other options, some way out of this that leaves me unscathed, but they all circle around to the same conclusion. Kristen’ll be furious with me, I know it, but…but she’ll understand. She has to understand. I can’t not say anything.

The walk downstairs is like trudging down the Green Mile. Mom and Dad are in the living room, cozied up on the couch watching television.

“Mom?” I say, voice shaking. “Dad?”

They both twist around to look at me, and their expressions of content transform into identical looks of worry. It’d almost be funny if it were any other situation.

Dad mutes the television. “What is it, honey?” he asks.

I take a deep breath. It’s now or never.

“I have to tell you something.”

Three Days Later

day one

RAT.

The word is scratched across my locker in fat black marker for everyone to see, lettered in abrupt, messy slashes, like whoever wrote it didn’t even pause, didn’t have to think twice about what they were doing. I can feel the eyes of everyone in the hall boring into my back; hear their titters behind me, providing the soundtrack to my humiliation. Blood rushes up to my face and turns my pale skin as red as my hair. The familiar hot prick of tears stings behind my eyes, waiting for their cue to spill over.

Well. This semester is gonna suck.

I stand there and stare at the new label I’ve been branded with, forcing myself to suck in deep breaths through my nose in the vain hope it will help subside the urge to burst into tears. I can’t say anything. The article, folded neatly and tucked in my front pocket, is a constant reminder.

In an effort to keep myself from crying, I start reciting times tables in my head, except I suck at multiplication and lose track by the time I get to four times six. Okay. We’ll go with the prompt: rat. List all animals that start with the letter R. Rabbits, raccoons, roaches, rhinos, rams, ringworms, roosters, rottweilers (do dog breeds count?), reindeer…oh, and can’t forget red hawks—like the Grand Lake High Red Hawk. Our school mascot. Is there even such a thing as a red hawk? I’m dubious. If there is, I’ve never seen one in Michigan. Whatever. The Red Hawks, our basketball team, are definitely animals, and I’m making up the rules, so I say it counts.

This little game does the trick, and once I’m confident in my ability to stave off the tears, I calmly spin my combination into the lock and pop it open. My geometry book is right where it should be, on the top shelf, so I slide it into my backpack and shut the door. Everyone is looking at me, waiting for my reaction. They probably think I’m about to collapse into sobs and have a meltdown of epic proportions. Part of me is dying to do just that, but I know it’s exactly what they want; they’re hungry for it. That is, after all, the goal of a public shaming. Everyone loves kicking the popular girl the second she’s been knocked off the pedestal.

No way am I giving them the satisfaction. These are the same people who two weeks ago envied me and clamored for my attention, and now I’m supposed to, what? Get on my knees and beg for their forgiveness? Embrace the role of whipping girl they’ve designated for me? That is so not happening. Their opinion of me never mattered before, and it’s not going to matter now. Nothing has changed. I’m still the same Chelsea Knot. Bow down, bitches.

I stride down the hall with my chin tipped up defiantly, ignoring the pressing stares. As I come up to the corner, at the edge of my vision I see Kristen huddled with a few other girls. I can’t help but slow down and sneak a glance. Since school started up again, she’s studiously avoided me, and I stopped trying to call after leaving her a week’s worth of pleading voice mails that went unanswered. I’ve tried telling myself that it’s only time she needs, that maybe the shock of her boyfriend’s arrest hasn’t worn off yet, and once it does, she won’t hate me for doing what I did. She’ll understand. We’re best friends.

When I approach, she looks the way she always does: immaculately put together, with every strand of her glossy blond hair perfectly in place, her makeup flawlessly applied. She’s wearing this creamy cable-knit sweater matched with a black skirt, more modest than her usual wardrobe, and when she sees me, I catch her midsmile. Her expression is almost demure. For a brief, shining second I think it’s going to be okay. She’s going to be on my side.

But then her face changes as she sees me. God, that look. She’s staring at me like I’m a bug she’d squash under her heel if it wouldn’t make such a mess.

She levels an icy glare at me as I pass and sneers. “What are you looking at, bitch?”

And that’s it. The final judgment. She might as well have stamped SCUM on my forehead.

The other girls around her giggle nervously, Tessa and Natalie among them. Now that I’m out of the picture, the pecking order has changed. They’ll all be vying for my old rank. I wonder which one of them will be bestowed the honor.

What everyone else thinks doesn’t matter, but what Kristen thinks does. I can’t pretend otherwise. I knew she’d be mad, but I also thought she wouldn’t throw so many years of friendship out the window. But that look on her face…my slim hope that her anger wouldn’t last dissipates, crushed to dust in some imaginary fist.

Tears, again. I fight them down and hurry around the corner without a word. At least I know where Kristen and I stand for good. Kristen, my supposed best friend. Former, now, I guess. What was I thinking? Warren is her boyfriend. I told the cops what he and Joey said at the party, after they found out about Noah from me. What they said about teaching him a lesson. And now they’ve both been arrested. It doesn’t matter if it was the right thing to do or not. Of course she hates me.

I should’ve expected this. I really did expect it, on some level. I just didn’t realize it was going to be so hard.

* * *

Mr. Callihan gives me a funny look when I hand him the note before class.

“A vow of silence?” he says dryly.

I nod, fiddling with the strap of my bag. Mr. Callihan has never liked me much, but that’s okay because I don’t like geometry, either. It’s my worst subject, and the most boring. I typically sit in the back next to Megan and talk to her as much as I can before Mr. Callihan threatens me with detention. My hope is he’ll be so keen on the prospect of me shutting up during his lectures that he won’t ask a million questions about why I’m keeping quiet. The last thing I want to do is try to explain. It’s why I came prepared with the note.

“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.

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.

Mom probably wouldn’t be on my back so much if I’d just owned up and confessed my true motivations behind the vow, but instead I’m passing it off to my parents as an experiment. It’s just the easier explanation, and I know if I was honest, she’d take it as some personal parental failure even though it has nothing to do with her. I can tell she doesn’t believe me, though, by the way she’s staring like I’ll crack under the pressure of her intent gaze if she just waits long enough.

I sigh loud enough to get my father’s attention and roll my eyes, just to garner some jeez, this isn’t a big deal, must be Mom’s time of the month again, huh? solidarity. It works like a charm. He cracks a small smile at me.

“Isn’t sighing almost the same as speaking?” he teases.

I scribble on the whiteboard Ms. Kinsey gave me—the one I’ve resolved to cart around with me at all times—and show it to him. My vow, my rules.

He chuckles. “Fair enough.”

“Frank,” Mom says warningly. She hates when he humors me. She’s not big on humor in general, really. She’s into managing a floral shop, which is what she does for a living. And being a florist is very serious business in her world. God forbid you don’t discuss the art of flower arrangements with the utmost reverence.

“I don’t see the big problem,” Dad replies. “I think it’s important to nurture creativity, and if this is how Chelsea decides to…express herself, then we should be supportive.”

I smile at him to show I appreciate his principled stand, even though I was banking on it all along. See, Dad has this stiff office job where he wears a suit and sits in the most depressing cubicle ever for eight hours a day and tries to sell office chairs over the phone to people who don’t want to buy anything in this economy anyway. He’s got to hate it. I’ve seen pictures of him when he was my age; he rocked long hair and wore these crazy sunglasses and played drums in a band. There’s even this cassette tape of their recordings he keeps in his closet. I listened to it once, but it was all endless jamming that can only sound genius if you’re seriously stoned. All of the lyrics revolved around a) getting high and b) sticking it to The Man. He’s still a hippie at heart, and as someone who went from fighting The Man to working for him, I’m sure he secretly thinks my vow is “rad” or whatever slang word he thinks is hip.

“‘Expressing herself’? How? By not expressing herself at all?” Mom harrumphs and drops her forkful of tofurkey. I swear I’m the only kid not on television who is actually subjected to the evils of tofu on a regular basis. My mother’s been having a two-year-long love affair with organic foods. It’s tragic. For me, I mean. “That’s it. I’m scheduling an appointment with Dr. Gebhart tomorrow,” she declares.

“Irene, come on. It’s just a harmless social experiment,” Dad says. “It’s a phase. She’ll get over it soon enough. Why not let her have a little fun?”

“This isn’t her ‘having fun.’ It certainly isn’t healthy behavior,” she insists.

I really hate how they’re talking about me like I’m not in the room. I pick up the board and write, I’m sitting right here you know.

Ooh, on second thought, maybe not a smart move. Because now that Mom is looking at me, she’s really looking at me.

“If you choose not to act like an adult,” she says with a cool stare, “you do not get to partake in adult conversations.”

And you know, that’s the last straw. There’s only so much condescension one girl can take in a day before reaching her breaking point.

I slam my chair back from the table so hard all the dishes rattle, and then storm up the stairs to my room, making sure to stomp as hard as I can on each step. It’s very six-years-old of me, I realize, and probably won’t help my “please stop treating me like a damn child” case, but I’m too pissed and upset to care. God, everything just sucks today.

As I go to shut my door, I hear Mom and Dad downstairs, arguing. I listen just long enough to hear my name thrown around before flinging myself dramatically onto the bed and staring at the ceiling. When I was thirteen, Dad painted it dark blue and stuck on those glow-in-the-dark plastic stars, so when all the lights are off, it’s like being in a planetarium. A pretty crappy imitation of a planetarium, but whatever. I count each one and list something that is pissing me off: Lowell. Derek. Mrs. Finch. Tofu. My mom. Jell-O shots. Warren. Joey. Whoever invented markers. The list of everything I hate at this very moment could fill an entire galaxy.

I can’t help but wonder what Kristen is doing right now. And how she is, really. Is she upset? Is she worried about Warren? Has she cried? Is she thinking about me? Or was I ever really only a placeholder, someone completely disposable, like Natalie said?

I’m not great at a lot, but I’m good at being Kristen’s friend. Or, I was, until I messed it all up for myself on a stupid whim. I liked it, being in her orbit. Girls wanted to be us. Guys wanted to date us. Even those who hated us wanted a look. I loved that, loved that I mattered, that people were jealous. I loved turning heads. It didn’t matter if most of them were looking at Kristen; I was in their line of vision, and that totally counted for something. Being on the radar at all. It made me more than average. It was everything to me.

I don’t know who I am without Kristen. I don’t know if I want to find out.

I’m interrupted from my thoughts by a knock at the door. Obviously I don’t answer, so it opens on its own. I twist around to see Dad in the doorway.

He hovers for a minute and then clears his throat. “Hey, kid. Can I come in?”

I nod. He walks across the room and sits at the foot of the bed, pushing my feet to one side for room. I lie there and look at him. His shoulders have this tired slump to them, and there are tired lines around his eyes. He looks old. Drained. It makes me wonder how he ever had the energy to do things like paint my ceiling.

“How was school?” he asks softly.

I shrug, pulling my sleeves over my hands. I’m not going to burden him with my problems. This is my hill to climb alone.

“Don’t worry about your mother. I talked her down from siccing Dr. Gebhart on you. You have to understand, she’s just worried,” he says. He puts his hand on my shoe and squeezes. “And I worry, too. Things have been stressful lately. For all of us.”

Is Noah’s father doing the same thing right now, sitting by his bedside and offering comfort? Did he even know his son was gay before I said anything? Does it matter to him?

I fish the whiteboard from the floor where I’d dropped it.

Would you care if I was gay? I write.

Dad blinks a few times. “Are you? Is that what this—?”

I tap the board again with my marker tip. I want to hear his answer first.

“No,” he says quickly. “Of course not. Who you love…that isn’t important. It doesn’t change who you are, or how much we love you. Nothing could change that.”

I knew that’s what he’d say. Still, it feels nice to hear it regardless.

I erase the board and write, I’m not gay. But I’m glad it wouldn’t matter.

He looks at it and smiles a little. “We just want you to be happy. You know that, right?”

Yeah. Yeah, I know.

I nod, and he drops a kiss on my forehead, sets his palm flat on the top of my head for a moment before he starts to leave. “Stay sweet,” he says on his way out, the same thing he always says to me. He hesitates, lingering at the doorway. “What happened to that boy… You did the right thing, Chelsea.”

I feel like such an idiot. I don’t even care if I did the right thing—it doesn’t feel like the right thing. It feels like I screwed myself over. One stupid moment of fleeting conscience and I’ve lost all I care about. Maybe I could try groveling for forgiveness, hope it would get me back into everyone’s good graces, but the thought of it alone is nauseating. Natalie might think I’m just Kristen’s little minion, but I’m not.

I don’t know exactly what I am, but I’m more than that. I know that much.

day two

The next day, Mrs. Finch issues me another pretty pink detention slip. She also keeps me after class because I clearly have not been berated by her enough. I wait until the rest of the students have cleared the room before I reluctantly walk over to her desk.

“Chelsea, I obviously can’t force you to participate in class,” she says, “but for every day you refuse to contribute, I can—and will—give you a detention.” She pauses to press her lips together for a moment. “Do you understand?”

I stare at her stony-faced.

She sighs with a curt nod. “Very well, then.”

If Mrs. Finch thinks the threat of detention is enough to deter me, she really doesn’t understand the scope of my stubborn streak.

No Brendon in detention this time, but the Indian girl from yesterday is there again. I sign in and sit down next to her. Today she has a single orange on her desk, but she isn’t looking at it. Instead she’s knitting something out of teal and purple yarn while reading a folded up newspaper. The only other person I know who knits is my grandma Doris. But this girl is good at it; she moves the needles in smooth, quick motions, in and out, in and out, not even looking down at her work as she reads. It’s oddly fascinating to watch.

I pull out my geometry assignment and get to work. Or I plan to, anyway, except five and a half problems in, the numbers start blurring together. I end up doodling spirals all over the page while I stare into space. I don’t mind detention, really. It’s boring, yeah, but it’s not like I have anything better to do. There could be way worse punishments. Mrs. Finch can suck it.

The girl next to me shifts in her seat, the chair legs scraping against the floor, and I glance up just in time to see the orange roll off her desk and toward mine. I put my foot out to stop it, then bend down, pick it up and extend it back to the girl.

“Thank you,” she says brightly. She takes it from me and peers at my open textbook. “Hmm. Asymptotes are so depressing.”

I stare at her, trying to figure out if she’s actually serious. She looks like she is.

“The curve goes toward the line, you know, and they get closer and closer, but they never get to touch,” she explains. She shrugs. “It’s just sad, is all.” She holds out the fruit. “You want my orange?”

I shake my head. The detention teacher shoots us a stern glare from behind her book.

“I’m Asha,” the girl hisses out of the side of her mouth, when the teacher’s buried her nose back in her trashy romance novel.

I look back down at my textbook, pretending to be absorbed in the nonsensical formulas and graphs displayed before me, but I can feel her gaze on me, like she’s expecting a response. I consider ignoring her; it’s what I would’ve done before. Normally I wouldn’t bother with some geeky freshman loser dressed in the most unfortunate fuzzy purple sweater I’ve ever seen in my life. I don’t associate with freaks.

Except this particular freak won’t stop staring at me, and it’s a chore to act like I’m concentrating on this math homework, so I write I’m Chelsea on the whiteboard and slide it to the corner of the desk so she can see. Maybe now she’ll leave me alone.

Asha nods knowingly. “I know. I’ve heard of you,” she whispers.

Oh, great. Is she going to give me a hard time, too? Even the freaks hate me.

She rummages through her backpack and tears a blank page from one of her notebooks. She scribbles something down and then passes the sheet of paper to me.

You’re the girl taking the vow of silence, right?

News travels fast.

I hand the paper back and start returning to my homework, except Asha keeps writing, and a minute later she pokes me in the shoulder with the corner of the page. I take it back, assuming that she’s written a profanity-laden attack on my character, but when I look down, that’s not what I see. And she doesn’t look mad or mocking—there’s something weirdly sincere about her.

Since she doesn’t appear hostile, I decide to humor her. What can it hurt?

I hear things. People say a lot in front of me because they don’t think I’m listening.

What else have you heard? Don’t answer that. So what are you in for?

I punched a teacher in the face.

Seriously?

No, but it sounds cooler than having a bunch of tardies.

Point taken.

Hey, your answer to problem number four is wrong. To find the domain you need to set the denominator to zero.

Wow. I was not even close.

Not really, no.

It goes on like this for a while, until the teacher glances at the clock and says, “All right, you’re all excused.”

Everyone clears out of the room like it’s on fire. Asha is the only one who takes her time packing away her knitting needles, zipping up her bag and tucking the newspaper under her arm. Now that we’re both standing up, I can tell exactly how short she is. I mean, I’m no giant, but I tower over her by a good three or four inches. Her sleek black hair sways back and forth as she walks in front of me out the door. I wonder how she deals with it—it must take forever to wash, and even longer to brush. I have enough trouble keeping my own tamed, and mine only goes a little past my shoulders. It’s flaming red and wavy, and no matter how much product I use, it always ends up looking wild and tousled within an hour of drying. Ridiculous.

Asha and I head in the same direction, and we end up walking side by side through the parking lot together. Outside the weather is clear and cold. There’s snow blanketed on the grass; it’ll be there for another two months, at least. Michigan winters are like that. Last year there was a blizzard in April, bad enough to close the schools. Usually I’m eager for all the snow to melt, for spring to start and the birds to sing and the flowers to bloom, all that jazz, but today I’m glad for this miserable weather. It suits my perfectly miserable mood.

“I love winter,” Asha announces out of the blue, winding her scarf tight around her neck. “I get to wear all of the stuff I knit. I need to buy some new boots, though. My old ones fell apart.”

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