Andy comes over to swap out the condiment bottles and glances at my open textbook. “You could save yourself the time and rent the biopic,” he says. “The one with Cate Blanchett and Joseph Fiennes at his physical peak.” He pauses. “You should watch it either way, really. Joseph Fiennes alone is worth it.”
“He is a dreamboat,” Sam agrees, walking up. I’m not sure if he’s joking or if he’s just secure enough to comment on another guy’s objective attractiveness. Maybe some of both. He leans over with his palm right on top of my textbook and grins, his face close to mine, his voice low when he speaks. “You’ve been studying for over an hour. I’m on break. Come take a walk with me.”
That’s all it takes. I abandon my books, grab my coat off the hook and follow Sam out the door. He offers his arm as we cross the icy parking lot, and I take it, and if I’m clutching the crook of his elbow a little too tightly, it’s only because I’m worried about slipping and cracking my head open on the pavement. Really.
I don’t know where we’re going, or if Sam even has a destination in mind—I let him take the lead, enjoying the closeness. After a minute I realize he’s heading for the lake. We pick our way through the snow to sit on top of a picnic table not far from the water. My ass is freezing and even huddling next to Sam doesn’t protect me from the cold wind whipping off the lake, but I’m willing to endure it as long as Sam keeps holding on to my arm like this.
“Can I ask you something?” he says. He’s looking straight into my eyes as he says it, and I can feel myself melting toward him. How did it take me so long to notice how cute he is? How did I spend so much of high school not noticing him at all? I was so busy mooning over Brendon Ryan. Brendon, who probably doesn’t even like me at all, and certainly doesn’t trust me. Brendon, who is taking Kristen to the dance, meaning he’s either a total idiot falling for her lies or more concerned with his image than anything. Either way, he’s not the guy I thought he was. It’s not his fault; it’s mine, for building up this fantasy version in my head, putting him on a pedestal, making assumptions about him the way I make assumptions about everyone, the same way people make assumptions about me now.
I am trying so hard not to be that person anymore. I am trying to be the kind of person who deserves to be looked at the way Sam is looking at me now, like I’m someone worth caring about, someone worth knowing. I want to prove that the risk he’s taken in reaching out to me isn’t for nothing, but I don’t know how to do that.
Sam is so earnest it hurts, and he’s staring at me with this kindness in his eyes, the kind you can’t fake—there’s an innate goodness in him, like deep within his soul or something, and you don’t even have to hear him speak to feel it. It just radiates.
“Do you know when you’re going to start talking again?” he asks. “I only ask because—well, I like to be on speaking terms with the girls I make a habit of kissing.” He leans forward so our foreheads touch for a moment before backing away with a smile.
I want to remind him that it isn’t a habit yet since we’ve only done it once, though it’s nice to see where his mind is at on that subject.
“I know you can’t answer me right now,” he says quickly, “and I know you have your reasons, however fuzzy they may be. I just think… I don’t know, maybe it’s time to start…moving on. I feel like this whole thing is wrapped up in all these ugly feelings, and it can’t be good, carrying all that around inside you. You know?”
I nod, because everything he’s said is true, but I don’t know how to explain to him that I’m holding on to this because it’s all I have. There are things I can’t put words to, and if I even try, I’ll screw it up, and I can’t afford to mess this up. This is too important. Sam is too important.
His eyes flicker over my face. “I really want to kiss you right now,” he blurts out. “If that’s okay.”
He leans toward me, slowly, inch by inch, leaving me plenty of time to move away from him. I don’t. Instead I close my eyes and hold my breath as I wait for his mouth to meet mine, the anticipation tingling all the way from my stomach to my throat. I can feel him coming closer, his breath warm against my cheek in contrast to the freezing air, making me shiver.
Just as his lips hover over my own, we’re interrupted by the telltale bloop of my cell phone; I push back from Sam and wiggle it out of my pocket. A new text message, from Dad, asking me to come home. He says it’s important. I pass the phone to Sam and reluctantly hop off the picnic table. I may be willing to risk possible hypothermia for a make-out session, but after all I’ve put my parents through, I’m trying to be a better daughter and actually do as they say. In a timely manner, no less.
Besides, if we pick up again now, I’ll just be thinking about my dad the whole time, and that’s too gross for words.
Sam groans his disappointment, but he’s grinning at the same time, so I know he’s not actually upset. He leaps off the table and tosses me my phone.
“Fate is a cruel mistress,” he laments.
He walks up to me, tipping his head down like he might kiss me again; my breath catches in my throat, aching for it so bad it makes me a little light-headed. I have to stop myself from saying his name or just wrapping my arms all the way around him, no matter how much I want to in this moment.
At the last second he draws back with a smirk and says, “Come on, I’ll walk you back.”
He starts off across the park without me, and I stand there for a moment on my own, swallowing down that dizziness and trying to regain the feeling in my numb feet.
What a tease.
* * *
There’s a black sedan I don’t recognize parked in my usual spot in the driveway when I get home. The sight of it sets off alarm bells in my head, and the ominous feeling only grows stronger as I slide up to the curb instead and make the perilous trek across our icy driveway. I shoulder through the front door and drop my bag by the foot of the staircase, kicking the door shut behind me and listening for voices. There’s bits and pieces of muted conversation drifting in from the living room—I can’t make out full sentences, but I catch words and phrases, like charges and police statement and testimony.
I ignore the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach and poke my head into the living room. There’s a man in a navy suit sitting next to Mom on the couch, a manila folder spread open on the coffee table, on top of a brown leather briefcase. They’re engrossed in conversation, Dad standing off to the side with a coffee mug in his hands that he keeps stirring without drinking.
Dad’s the first one to notice my entrance. He stops moving his spoon and says, “Chelsea,” and I try to glean as much as I can from the tone of his voice, but it doesn’t give much away. It’s serious, but not death-of-a-valued-family-member serious.
When he says my name, Mom and the suited guy both stop speaking and swivel their heads to look at me. The man stands first, stepping toward me with a smile I think is meant to be reassuring and his hand outstretched. I look at him for a long moment before warily reaching out to shake his hand.
“You must be Chelsea,” he says warmly. When he smiles, his whole faces crinkles, and I notice that his hair is streaked with silvery-gray. It gives him a dignified air. “It’s nice to finally meet you. I’m Terry Goldman.”
“Mr. Goldman is our lawyer,” Mom explains, rising to her feet and twisting her hands. “We thought it’d be a good idea for him to meet with you.”
Mr. Goldman relinquishes my hand and turns to her. “Why don’t I speak t
o Chelsea privately?”
Mom hesitates. “Is that necessary?” she asks.
“I think it’s a good idea,” Dad says from his place by the wall. He walks over to Mom and touches a hand to her back. “Come on. We’ll wait in the kitchen.”
Mr. Goldman waits until they’ve cleared the room to sit back down on the couch. He gestures to the spot next to him, and I slowly shrug out of my jacket and sit down. I don’t know what exactly this is all about, but I don’t have a good feeling about any of it.
“Here,” he says, handing me a yellow legal pad and a pen. Off of my confused look, he adds, “If you have any questions for me, you can write them down. Your parents told me about your…social experiment. They say you’ve gone over a month without speaking. That’s a pretty impressive feat.” He chuckles. “I have two daughters. They’re older than you, but I remember them at your age. Could talk your ear off. Still can, really, but back then, there were times I would’ve paid for just one day of blessed quiet.”
There’s something disarming about his tone, an easy warmth that puts me a little at ease despite myself. I glance over at the open manila folder and the papers inside it. I can’t read them from here, but they look like some sort of legal documents.
Mr. Goldman’s gaze follows mine, and he seems to get what I’m thinking. “That’s a copy of your police statement,” he tells me. “The one you gave when you reported what happened the night of Noah Beckett’s assault. Would you like to see it?”
He picks up the paper and extends it toward me, but I shake my head. I don’t need to read it; I remember what I said. I don’t want to relive that.
“All right,” Mr. Goldman says agreeably, setting the paper back down on the stack. “Do you remember what you said in your statement?”
I nod, not sure where he’s going with this. I uncap the pen and scribble on the legal pad.
Are they pressing charges against me?
“No,” he says. “They felt after their investigation that your story lined up. I just wanted to go over it with you, because there is a chance you’ll be needed to testify.”
A chance?
“Warren Snyder and Joey Morgan both pled not guilty at the hearing, but that’s typical for most initial pleas, even in the case of a confession,” Mr. Goldman explains. He says this all very matter-of-factly, and I appreciate how he’s speaking to me like I’m an adult instead of a little kid. “The evidence is pretty damning, and this isn’t a case that will look good in front of a jury, so I wouldn’t be surprised if their lawyers hammer out a plea deal behind closed doors and come to a settlement before this ever goes to trial. In that case, your testimony would not be necessary. However, you should be prepared in case it is required.”
I lean back against the couch cushion and silently pray for the option that renders my involvement unnecessary. And the one that punishes Warren and Joey as they deserve. Maybe it’s selfish but I want the best of both worlds.
“Your parents are good people,” Mr. Goldman goes on. “They’re doing their best to shield you from this, and as a father myself, I can appreciate that. But I believe it’s important for you to understand what’s going on. I think you’re old enough.”
I hate knowing I’ve burdened my parents with this mess, that I’ve disappointed them. It’s hard to remember sometimes that I did the right thing. Sometimes it feels like it wasn’t the right thing at all, but then I remember Andy and Asha and Sam and the way they look whenever Noah’s name is mentioned, and the disturbing, hard glint in Warren’s eyes right before he walked out the door that night, and it reminds me that my mistake was not in speaking out.
No, my mistake was staying silent for too long.
* * *
Mr. Goldman doesn’t stay long after that. He asks me some questions about my police statement, to make sure that everything I said was truthful. It was. Lying to my teachers, my friends, my parents is one thing, but lying to the cops never even occurred to me; I was too freaked out by everything to even consider that an option. I knew as soon as I took that first step—telling my parents what happened—that there was no turning back.
When Mr. Goldman goes to use the bathroom, I steal through the papers in the manila folder, curious as to what else there is. My most interesting find is a copy of Kristen’s statement. I’m expecting nothing but blatant lies, but to my utter shock, everything in her account is truthful to what I recall. There’s no attempt on her end at protecting Warren or Joey. She was even honest about coercing me to keep my mouth shut, though she claims Warren only implied what he’d done over the phone, and that when she put the pieces together, he threatened her if she said a word.
This revelation makes me sit up a little straighter. I don’t know if it’s true—maybe Kristen only wanted to cover her own ass—but I can actually believe it. Warren’s clearly not the most stable human being around. Kristen makes it sound like she was scared of what he might do to her if she told, something she never let on to me—and if that’s really what happened, it makes me wonder how messed up Kristen is that she would still feel any twisted loyalty to him after that. Maybe their relationship was never what I thought it was.
Mr. Goldman returns while I’m still skimming the last page of Kristen’s report, but he doesn’t seem to mind that I’ve dug through his papers. Still, I set it back down and pick up the legal pad again.
Are they pressing charges against Kristen Courteau?
I feel like even I, current social pariah, would’ve heard this news if it were true, but I want to make sure.
“No, they’re not,” he says, and I’m struck with a sharp sense of relief, one I don’t fully understand considering the current state of Kristen’s and my friendship and everything she’s done to me over the past month. Mr. Goldman starts to pack up his briefcase, popping open the brass snaps and shuffling papers back into the manila folder. “Ms. Courteau is in the same boat as you.”
Huh. Funny how after everything, all the bad feelings and severed ties, Kristen and I are still connected.
Mr. Goldman shakes Mom’s hand and Dad’s hand and then mine before he leaves, and that makes me feel adult, too. Even though it sucks that it’s under these circumstances, I still kind of like the feeling, like I’m worthy of being interacted with as a grown-up. Mom turns the lock before leaning hard with her back against the door, eyes closed; she looks so tired and stressed out and when she looks at me again, it makes my stomach hurt.
But she smiles—still tired and somewhat exasperated, but a real one. “You’ve given me so many gray hairs, Chelsea,” she says, and Dad laughs and walks over to her, rubbing her shoulder with one hand.
“Gray looks good on you,” he assures her. He presses a kiss to the top of her hair.
They could be mad. They could be yelling at me for what I’ve put them through—God knows I deserve it—but they’re not, and Mr. Goldman is right, they’re good people and they’re trying the best they can, and I’m suddenly so overwhelmed with gratitude for having them behind me through all this that I catapult myself into them both, flinging my arms around them in a tight hug.
“Whoa.” Dad laughs, his arm reaching around my back. “What’s this about?”
I feel Mom’s hand on the back of my head, gently stroking my hair. The unruly red hair I inherited from her. “I know, honey,” she murmurs. “I know. We love you, too.”
day thirty-two
When I was five years old, my parents took me to Disney World. I
rode the teacups a million times, got Mickey Mouse’s autograph, saw the fireworks show at the palace, and it was the best week of my life. I came home sunburned and tired and happier than I’d ever been, and bounced into my room with armfuls of new stuffed animals I’d refused to pack in the suitcase, wanting to check on my hamster, Freddy, and show him my souvenirs.
Except when I peeked into his cage, Freddy was balled up in a corner. Not moving. Dead.
I still remember how fast my five-year-old self went from feeling at the top of the world to crushed in two seconds flat. I guess that’s the thing about riding on cloud nine—it can’t last forever. And that particular fall was hard and fast.
Much like the one I’m experiencing now, in the art room.
I’m the first to discover it. Our art piece, ripped to shreds. Sad scraps of Lucy and Charlie Brown and Snoopy scattered carelessly over the floor. I’d come in especially early, just to take a final, admiring look, only to find this. All of that work, gone. Torn apart like it was nothing. Like it was there just to be destroyed.
No one else is in the room yet; I can hear the echo of clanging lockers and voices talking over each other in the halls. I don’t know how much time passes before Ms. Kinsey walks in and finds me there. When she lays eyes on the paper massacre, she audibly gasps. “Oh, Chelsea—”
She goes to put a hand on my shoulder, but I move away. My throat aches with the effort it’s taking not to cry. This shouldn’t matter so much. It’s just a stupid project. Just a stupid grade.
No. It’s more than that.
“I was only gone for a minute,” she says, distraught. “I was making a phone call… I didn’t see anyone… Maybe—maybe it was an accident?”