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.”
I let my gaze travel down to Asha’s feet; she’s wearing scuffed-up black ballet flats. Her feet must be freezing. Asha seems unperturbed by this, though.
“So I guess I’ll see you around,” she says cheerfully. “Good luck with the vow!”
She starts down the sidewalk, but I touch her arm and grab my whiteboard.
Want a ride home?
I can’t let her walk in those shoes. It’s just too pitiful.
“I have to go to work,” she says. “Over at Rosie’s. You’ve heard of it?”
I nod. Rosie’s is the little diner in the center of town, right on the strip by the lake. We don’t usually eat there—Kristen always thought of it as a magnet for the “undesirables,” which I guess is her word for anyone below her family’s tax bracket—but I pass by all the time.
I can drive you.
“Really?” She beams. “That’d be gr
eat!”
My car is my baby. It’s an old-school Volkswagen Beetle my parents gave me for my birthday two months ago. Dad took me to the used-car lot and did all the haggling; he’s big into cars, and everything I know I learned from him. By the time I was twelve, he’d taught me how to change a tire, switch out the oil, add more steering fluid, name all the engine parts. Stuff like that.
The first thing I did when I got the car was swing by Kristen’s house. She was totally unimpressed. “You got it in yellow?” she’d said, her mouth turned down with distaste. “It looks like a taxi.” She acted like it was the tackiest thing she’d ever laid eyes on. I went from feeling excited to wanting to crawl under a rock in five seconds flat.
I don’t know why I’m thinking about that right now.
We’re heading toward my parking spot when a voice calls out from behind us.
“Asha!”
It’s Sam. He’s on his skateboard, rolling in our direction, pushing off the pavement easily with one foot. Who skateboards in the winter? The parking lot is clear of snow, but it’s still odd. He skids to a stop a few feet away, surprise registering on his face when he notices me standing there.
Asha turns around and smiles. “Hi, Sam,” she says. “What’re you still doing here?”
“Library research. Thrilling stuff, I know,” he replies. His gaze flickers to mine and then back to Asha’s. “What about you?”
“Detention,” she says brightly. I can’t help but smile a little at her nonchalance.
Sam’s eyebrows shoot skyward. “Why, Asha, you little deviant. Guess I should go before your bad influence rubs off on me.”
He starts skating past us, until Asha reaches out and grabs his backpack handle, yanking him to a stop. He laughs and pops his board up with one foot. It’s kind of cool. I don’t know how to skateboard, or even use Rollerblades. My mom is paranoid because growing up, she knew a boy who had an in-line skating accident and hit his head on a rock and died, so she never let me learn. She doesn’t trust anything with wheels. It took weeks of convincing to even talk her into letting me take the training wheels off my bike.