“You could come,” Asha says, carefully neutral.
Come to the hospital? Yeah, right. I’d probably be kicked out on arrival. There is no way Noah wants me there.
I don’t answer. I just take out my sketchpad and doodle absently. Sam and I still have to figure out our project. The last time we talked about it, he mentioned maybe making the characters out of papier-mâché, but the wire netting Ms. Kinsey has doesn’t bend well enough for it to seem feasible. So now we’re back to square one.
I consider the possibilities. Maybe set the Peanuts characters in a classical painting style? Nah. Too complicated, and besides, we’re supposed to mimic the artist’s style, not reinterpret it. It needs to be straight-up comic strip style. But how to do it without being completely boring?
There was a really big roll of thick paper in one of Ms. Kinsey’s supply closets. What if…what if we recreated a big comic strip with it? That would be pretty cool. A magnified comic. I wonder if Sam will go for it.
I’m still mulling it over when Asha tucks away her knitting needles and says, “I have to go to my locker. I’ll meet you after the assembly?”
Assembly? What assembly? She walks away before I can ask what she’s talking about.
After lunch I haul ass to art, hoping Sam will be there early, too, but he comes in two seconds before the bell rings. He shoots me a brief smile as he sits down at our workstation. I want to tell him my idea, see what he thinks, but before I can find a way to explain it, Ms. Kinsey announces that we’re heading to the auditorium. So Asha’s right; there is an assembly.
We all file into the empty theater. Our seats are close to the stage, on the left end. Sam sits beside me, his wrist touching mine on the shared armrest, as more students pour in like a tidal wave through the two entrances, all of them talking to each other, laughing, excited to be out of class. It’s so loud. Was it always this loud, or does it just seem amplified, since I haven’t spoken in so long? God, it’s obnoxious.
Sam isn’t talking, though. He looks distracted. I want to ask him what’s up, but I left my whiteboard in the art room, and then it doesn’t matter anyway because the lights dim.
People whistle and whoop in the sudden darkness, shifting in their squeaky seats. Someone from the balcony sails a paper airplane toward the stage that makes it all the way to the third row. When the spotlight comes on, illuminating the single microphone stand center stage, the conversation and laughter fades into a hushed swell of whispers. The sound is like rustling insects.
Mr. Fenton, our assistant principal, walks onto the stage and takes the microphone. He spends a minute trying to quiet the audience, saying things like, “Quiet, please,” and clearing his throat as he paces a few steps back and forth.
Eventually everyone shuts up enough for him to get on with the program.
“Most of you are aware that recently there was a grievous incident involving a few of our students, one of whom is currently still hospitalized due to an act of violence instigated by a fellow classmate,” he says, voice booming out through the room. “Though this did not happen on school grounds, we felt it was important to take some time today to address what has transpired and reiterate our zero-tolerance policy toward any and all harassment, whether it be physical or verbal.”
Mr. Fenton goes on, something about counselors being available for support and unanswered questions, and the evils of discrimination and necessity of tolerance, but his words barely register with me. I have this dizzy, sinking stomach sensation, like being trapped in an elevator with the cables cut loose. Nothing but bottomless falling.
He says something else, a final word, and walks off, but I know that can’t be it, it can’t be over. Just as I’m wondering what’s next, Brendon Ryan emerges onto the stage.
This does nothing to help my stomach.
Brendon holds the microphone and looks out at the sea of faces with a somewhat nervous—though still as dazzling as ever—smile. “Hi. My name is Brendon Ryan,” he says, “and Mr. Fenton wanted me to talk to you a little about what I’ve been organizing lately. Starting this week, we’ll be forming our own Gay/Straight Alliance chapter at Grand Lake. Any student is welcome—whether you put the Gay or the Straight into the alliance. Or even if you fall somewhere in between.” This garners a few titters from the audience, and Brendon looks down and back up with another smile. “Ms. Kline has been kind enough to offer us use of her room—A214, it’s on the second floor—Tuesdays after school at three-fifteen. It’s really just a place for us to talk, to have open conversations about this stuff, you know, answer any questions, so what happened to Noah Beckett can be prevented from ever happening again.”
I swear he’s staring straight at me when he says this. I swear everyone is staring, all eyes on me, blaming, knowing. Everything I did; everything I didn’t do. This is like one of those recurring nightmares I have, where I’m naked in front of the whole school, and I’m supposed to ride a tricycle and juggle bananas at the same time, even though I don’t know how to do either. Except this is for real, not just a concoction of my stupid subconscious.
My legs act of their own volition, and suddenly I’m standing, squeezing my way out of the row, stumbling down the aisle toward the exit. It’s fight or flight, and my brain has apparently chosen flight.
No one stops me. Not as I bolt from the auditorium, Brendon’s voice ringing in my ears. Not as I run down the hall, push through the heavy doors and outside. It is, of course, only twenty-something degrees, and I have no jacket. I slump against the brick wall and hug myself, shivering in the cold.
“Chelsea!”
It’s Sam.
They always say misery loves company, but right now I kind of want to be miserable and alone, so I can wallow in my self-loathing properly.
“Chelsea,” he says again, out of breath, but I’m too ashamed to look at him.
So instead I watch as snowflakes cascade down and stick to my wild red hair. Irish red. Red like dried blood on pavement. Like Noah’s blood. Like—
“What’s wrong?” Sam says, and then, gently, “You can tell me.”
But I can’t. I don’t have my whiteboard.
That is so not what he meant and I know it. I’m not an idiot. Sometimes.
Hot tears well up in my eyes and trace tracks down my cheeks before I can stop them. I’m so tired of feeling like this, sick with guilt and constantly on the verge of panic attacks. And it’s like every time I start to feel remotely good about something, life says, “Oh, wait a minute, that’s not right,” and drop-kicks me back into You Are Made Of Epic Fail territory. It’s exhausting. I’m exhausted.
“Hey.” Sam steps forward, holds my wrist and pulls me off the wall, wraps his arms all the way around me. “Hey, come here. It’s okay. Shh. You’re okay.”
I bury my face in his chest, rubbing my wet cheeks against the worn fabric of his shirt. I can’t remember the last time anyone hugged me like this. Like they’d hold me as long as I needed. And I need it right now. I don’t try to pretend that I don’t. I dig my fingers into the back of his shoulders and cling to him, letting out choked sobs.
I cry and cry and cry until I can’t muster up the energy to cry anymore. Even then, I keep my face hidden in Sam’s shirtfront, sniffling and taking deep, hiccupy breaths as he strokes the top of my snow-covered hair. My throat is all thick and gross, every breath of freezing air like tiny needles piercing my lungs, and my hands are totally numb to the point where they could
snap off like twigs at the wrist.
None of that changes the fact I’d still rather be here than anywhere else in the world.
* * *
Once the crying has stopped, Sam offers to go back into the school and retrieve my messenger bag and jacket for me. Thank God. No way can I set foot in there again—at least not today. He lets me warm up in his car, a white Olds Cutlass with torn red leather interior. A few books rest on the passenger’s seat, and while he’s inside, I take a brief look at the book sleeves. I haven’t read any of them—they’re by authors I haven’t heard of, like Chuck Palahniuk (whose last name I’m sure I mangle trying to pronounce in my head) and David Sedaris—with some comic books stuck in between. After a minute, I put them down on the floor next to my feet and turn up the radio instead. The station is set to NPR; two people are arguing over the estate tax.
If a car says something about the person it belongs to, this means Sam is really into talk radio. And reading books written by dudes. And, if the wrappers on the floor and the half-a-pack in the glove compartment are any indication, eating Twizzlers. Which just so happen to be a guilty pleasure of mine.
Unfortunately Sam does not have any tissues anywhere in his car. I try to make do with some leftover fast-food napkins I find. Even then my eyes are still all puffy and red. I look awful, but at least I feel a little better. More calm. Kind of embarrassed, though, for slobbering all over Sam like that.
Eventually Sam comes back and tosses my coat and bag into my lap. I make an oomph sound in surprise and nearly choke on the piece of licorice I’m chewing.
He laughs as he buckles his seat belt. “You know, I think that’s the most sound I’ve ever heard from you.”
It’s more than a little bizarre that we have never had a real, two-way conversation. With both of us using our voices. I mean, I knew of him before the party, and I’m sure he knew of me. Most people do; it’s one of the benefits of being friends with people like Kristen Courteau, if you could call it that. People know who you are. So we knew of each other, but we never talked.
Usually there are narcs monitoring the student parking lot to stop delinquents from cutting class, but somehow, thankfully, not today. Sam turns the car out of the lot and drives toward the center of town. He hasn’t indicated where we’re going. After he let me go, all he said was, “I’ll get your stuff, we’re getting out of here,” and that’s all I wanted, to leave, so I wasn’t about to object.
“I’ll call Asha and let her know we took off,” he says now. “She can walk, and after we’re done, I’ll drive you back so you can pick up your car.”
Asha. Shit. I didn’t even think about her. But Sam doesn’t seem worried, and it isn’t a far walk, really. Fifteen minutes, tops. I’ll make it up to her later. Somehow.
I notice the cell phone in his hand. It reminds me how I’ve barely used mine at all since the vow. I take it from him, and he watches bemusedly as I program my number into his contacts list, and then his into mine.
“What’s the point of having my number?” he asks. “It’s not like I can call you.”
I open up a new text message screen on my phone and type in,
it’s called texting LOSER.
He grins. “Point duly noted.”
He eases around a bend that takes us to the long stretch of road along the lake. I squint out the window at a few figures in the distance. Ice fishers. In the summer, Dad likes to take me fishing at the docks by the yacht club. You can’t eat anything you get—they’re mostly skinny rainbow trout anyway—so all we do is catch and release, but he likes the sport of it, I guess. I like to sit on the planks, the warm wood digging into the backs of my knees, legs dangling, and cast my line over and over lazily, enjoying the sun.
Snowflakes hit the window and melt, trailing down in tiny rivulets. Summer feels so far away. All there is now is cold and snow, snow and cold.
We end up at Rosie’s. Not such a surprise. Sam turns off the engine and says, “Tuna melts.”
I raise my eyebrows at him.
“I said I’d teach you how to make them,” he continues. “So let’s do it.”
No one’s around when we walk in, except for Dex and Lou, mopping floors and cleaning off tables.
As soon as Lou sees me, she drops her rag. “Oh, sweetie, what happened?”
I must really look like a mess. I shrug and swipe self-consciously at my eyes.
“Do I need to kick someone’s ass?” Dex asks. He points the mop handle straight out, wielding it like a weapon. I crack a small, teary smile.
“Just a rough day,” Sam says. “You know how it goes.”
Lou drags me into the bathroom and helps me clean up, dabbing under my eyes with a damp paper towel, her fingers lightly guiding my chin. When I’m this close, I can see how clear and smooth her skin is. Like a model’s. I should ask what product she uses.
“You know, you have killer eyes. Very expressive,” she says.
She’s only saying that to cheer me up, I know, but I’m still flattered. Lou has wide-set violet eyes, so light they’re almost translucent. Not like mine, which are a muddy-green, or maybe brown, never settling on one shade.
“You get away with this no-talking thing. All you have to do is look at someone, and it’s all right there.” She waves a hand in the general vicinity of my eye area.
I don’t know if I like the idea of that. Having everything I’m feeling written right on my face. It makes me feel too exposed.
“So Dex wants to repaint,” she goes on, like it’s the natural flow of the conversation. “He gets like this sometimes. Last summer he did a surfer theme—he put surfboards up on the wall, and these glass bowls with shells on every table, like this is Southern California or something. Tacky as all get-out.”
I laugh at the thought of it, and she smiles a little, surprised, maybe. I haven’t really laughed around her. Or anyone. It hasn’t been intentional; I just haven’t had any reason. Laughing isn’t the same as talking, really, so I’m safe. It’s not like anyone’s going to call foul. I make up the rules here.
“Now he wants purple,” she scoffs. “Jesus Christ, I mean, purple? Ugh. I’m trying to talk him out of it. I’d ask you to help, but that wouldn’t really work, huh?” She quirks a grin at me and tosses the paper towel wad into the trash can.
I’m feeling a lot better when I join Sam at the grill. He’s already laid out all the ingredients. He shows me how to drain the tuna using a colander (which, thanks to yesterday, I now know the location of), then mix it with other ingredients, sprinkle on cheese and pepper and green onions and this stuff he explains is called crème fraîche, which is sort of like mayonnaise but, he claims, tastes better. After that’s done, he stuffs the pita bread with the tuna and some avocado slices, butters the bread and slaps it on the grill.
He lays out the whole process as he goes. It sounds more complicated than it looks. When he’s finished his, I do one of my own. Even under his instruction, it ends up less than perfect—one side is a little burned, and the other a little undercooked, and I used too much crème fraîche.
“Still, not bad for a first try,” Sam tells me after he’s tried some of mine. “Next time it’ll be better.”
I smile around a bite of tuna melt, more than a little pleased to hear there will, in fact, be a next time.
* * *
The good news is that when Asha rolls in two hours later, she doesn’t seem to mind that we ditched her. Well, not ditched. Ditc
hed makes it sound like it was purposeful. Bailed is the more appropriate word choice.
Either way, she’s as bubbly as ever, humming along to the corner jukebox that blasts Otis Redding while she rolls the silverware. I help her sort the forks and salad forks and spoons and teaspoons and knives, and she shows me how to wrap them neatly into cloth napkin bundles.
“My family inherited a set of antique silverware from my grandmother,” she tells me. Like most things with Asha, it comes out of the blue. “It’s all from India. And there’s this teapot—it’s really ancient and beautiful. I love it. My mom used to make tea with it all the time.”
I stop sorting the forks and give her a questioning look.
“Oh, she’s not dead or anything,” she explains hastily. “She just…” Asha shrugs a little, looking down. “She’s sick a lot. She doesn’t do much these days.”
I’m glad I have an excuse not to speak, because I don’t know what to say to that. I don’t think Asha expects anything, though, because the next thing I know she’s chattering away about her knitting projects.
Once we’re done with the silverware, I join Sam and Dex in the kitchen so I can sweep the floor. Apparently Andy has the night off. I feel kind of bad for being so relieved—but I’ve had a really, really bad day, and it’s like God is cutting me a break for once. Maybe I should start going to church. Earn some points from the Big Man.
“I’d rather have a new milkshake machine than a new coffeemaker,” Sam says to Dex. They’re in the middle of a discussion about kitchen renovations. “If people want fancy frou-frou coffee, there are other places in town. No one else does milkshakes.”
“Hmm.” Dex rubs his chin with one hand. “I don’t know. What do you think, Chelsea?”
Sam has a point; Rosie’s isn’t a Starbucks. People don’t come here for the gourmet coffee. I point the mop handle toward Sam and nod at Dex.