“Hey, when are you gonna make my scarf?” Sam asks Asha.
“You still have to pick out the colors,” she says. “I was thinking red and blue.”
“Nah. Too Captain America for me. I’m more of a—”
“—Batman? Black and gold?”
“Green Lantern, maybe. Green and silver.”
I sit back and listen to them debating superhero colors. They don’t seem to be bothered by me being there. Not even Sam. If he’s unhappy with my presence, he doesn’t let on.
I wonder if he knows how Noah is. If he’s any better. No one’s told me, and even if I was talking, I wouldn’t ask. Even though I’m dying to know. It just…it doesn’t seem like it’s my place. Or maybe I’m just scared to find out if he’s not doing well. That would make things even worse for me than they already are. If the vitriol aimed at me is already this bad, I can’t imagine what it’ll be like if Noah doesn’t recover.
I look past Asha and Sam and toward my car. Weird…it looks like there’s something on my windshield.
I let them continue with their bantering and walk up to the car, and that’s when I see it. Someone’s thrown eggs all over the front window, the yolk running down onto the hood in a sticky yellow mess. I walk around only to find the word BITCH spelled out in shaving cream all over the back. It’s like I’ve been sucker-punched. My bag drops to the ground at my feet.
“Chelsea? What’s wr—” Asha’s voice cuts short as she comes up beside me, eyes widening.
“God.” Sam stops cold, skateboard in both hands, and shakes his head. “Who would do this?”
I’m not sure why he’s so shocked. I don’t bother pointing out that the suspect list would include probably half the student body—including him. I can come up with twenty names off the top of my head. It’d be easier to narrow down who wouldn’t do this.
“Come on,” Asha says gently. She puts a hand on my arm. “I’ll help you clean it off.”
Sam sets down his backpack, takes off his jacket and unzips the hoodie underneath it. “Here,” he says, handing me both. “Use this. I’ll check and see if there’s any other damage.”
He checks all the tires while Asha uses his hoodie to wipe off the shaving cream. I grab my squeegee from the backseat and scrape the eggs off the windshield. It takes a while because they’re all crusted and frozen and gross.
“Why don’t you pop the hood?” Sam asks.
I go into the driver’s seat and push the release, then go back outside and lift the hood all the way. Sam comes up beside me to peer at the engine. His arms stick out of his black T-shirt, pale and skinny. He’s shivering.
“Doesn’t look like they messed with anything else,” he says. “You okay to drive?”
I nod, close the hood and hand him back his coat. He slips into it and turns up the sheepskin collar. My whiteboard is still in my hands; I write on it and show him.
Thanks.
A weird look passes over his face, like he doesn’t know how to take my gratitude. “Don’t mention it,” he says. He turns to Asha, who is pinching the shaving cream-covered hoodie by the tips of her fingers. “Hey, just so you know, I’m covering Andy’s shift tonight.”
They work together? Well, that explains their friendship.
Asha frowns. “Is he sick or something?”
“No,” he says. “He texted me to say he’s supposed to stop by the hospital. Noah woke up last night.”
My heart jumps into my throat. Noah woke up? Sam shoots me a meaningful look, and my fingers curl tighter around the whiteboard. I don’t know if he wants me to feel relieved or guilty. I’m both, really. But it also makes me feel even more foolish. If Noah’s going to be totally fine, what was even the point of saying anything? If I’d waited, he could’ve just pointed the finger at Warren and Joey himself, assuming he doesn’t have amnesia or something, and spared me all of this.
“That’s great,” Asha gushes, bouncing on her heels. “I was going to knit him a hat, but I don’t know what size his head is, so I’m working on a scarf instead.”
“I’m sure he’ll love it,” Sam says with a grin. He starts to take his hoodie from her, but I hold up a finger to stop him.
Let me wash it for you.
He looks surprised. “Um. Okay. If you want.”
I do want to. I want to wash his hoodie, and tell him to tell Noah—well, I don’t know what I’d say to Noah if I had the chance.
Pretty sure I won’t have to worry about that. No way is Noah going to ever want to see me face-to-face. On second thought, maybe I should cross my fingers for that amnesia.
* * *
I drive Asha to the diner, and she spends the whole time talking. About her knitting. About how she waits tables and Sam is a cook, and this cool guy named Dex owns the joint, and she really likes the job. About how she earned so many tardies for first period health class because her father makes her walk her little brother Karthik to the middle school every morning, and he is always running late.
She won’t shut up, but I can’t really be annoyed because I’m pretty sure she’s just trying to distract me. I appreciate the sentiment. I’m still a little rattled from what whoever did to my car. I keep wondering how far this will go. Messing with my locker, messing with my car, verbal intimidation—what’s next? Cutting my brakes? Roughing me up in the parking lot? I don’t think anything that extreme will happen, but obviously the past week has, if nothing else, shown that I severely underestimated what it’s like to be on the receiving end of Kristen & Co.’s bullshit.
Not talking leaves me a lot of time alone with my thoughts and ever-growing paranoia. I’ve never been like this. So inside my own head.
As we near the lake, Asha directs me down the street to the diner on the corner. I pull up against the curb and put my car in Park. Rosie’s doesn’t look like much from the outside, just a small, cozy gray building with a red neon sign out front, the E flickering on and off intermittently.
“Thanks for the ride,” she says as she unbuckles her seat belt.
I take my board from where it’s resting on the seat divider.
Anytime.
“Well, my sentence is up, so I guess you’ll be on your own tomorrow.”
I can handle it.
She pushes her hair behind her ears and smiles. “I’m sure you can.”
I wait until Asha runs up to the entrance, and she turns to wave before disappearing inside the doors. I wave back, and then sit there, idling, lost in thought. I’m in no hurry to go home. It’ll just mean sitting around, stuffing my face with tofu while Mom threatens to have me committed or something, and then dragging myself to bed, where I’ll toss and turn, staring at my alarm clock and dreading school.
Maybe I’ll do my homework for once. Actually look at the Steinbeck reading Mrs. Finch assigned. What a novel concept.
When I go to pull back onto the street, I notice she left the newspaper sitting on the passenger’s seat. The comics section stares up at me, and suddenly I’m hit with the idea.
I totally know what our art project is going to be.
day three
“Charles Schulz?” Sam says. “Really?”
We’re the only ones in art class actually discussing the project, I’m pretty sure. There was an awkward moment at the start of class when I pulled out his hoodie, freshly cleaned and smelling like Mountain Spring detergent. He just mumbled thanks and dived into talking about the project. Everyone else around us is
talking and laughing and throwing shit at each other. Stay classy, Grand Lake.
I roll my eyes and snatch his sketchpad out of his hands.
Skeptical is not a good look for you.
He grabs it back. “I’m just saying—” he starts to say then stops. “You know what? It’s too weird having a conversation with no one. It makes me feel a little like the schizophrenic dude outside the Save-U-More who yells at the ice freezer. So I’m just going to continue this discussion via note-writing, okay?”
do comic strips even count as art?
Of course they do. Don’t be so prejudiced. Art encompasses more than old oil paintings and stupid abstracts. Open your mind!! Be creative!!
you sound like ms. kinsey.
Ms. Kinsey would never call abstracts stupid. Besides I choose to take that as a compliment.
you would. so—charles schulz? really?
Broken record much? Come on, it would be fun!!!! Different!!!! EXCITING!!!!!
your abuse of exclamation marks and capslock is not really selling me on this.
I need to express my enthusiasm somehow.
try using your words.
I am. Just not with my voice.
is it hard? not talking?
Yes. No. Sometimes. Not really. Except for the early onset of carpal tunnel. Like now. Owwwww. L Going 2 use shrthnd frm nw on k?
k. so y no talking? isn’t writing the same thing?
No. I have to think about what I write b4 I put it on paper. I don’t want 2 say the wrong thing. No 1 wants to hear it n e way. Me + talking = BAD NEWS.
Sam pauses for a long time, twirling the pen around in his hand.
saw noah last night. he’s going to be o.k.
I look at him and then back down at the page. Part of me is glad he’s sharing this information with me, but part of me wants to know why. Is he trying to make me feel better, and if so, why the hell would he do that? He has every reason in the world to hate me. The pen hovers over the pad as I try to figure out what to say next.
Charles Schulz. We’re totally doing it. OK?
o.k. you win.
* * *
The most awkward part of my day comes after my second-to-last class. And that’s really saying something, since there is so much awkwardness spread out throughout the day—from avoiding Kristen and all the jocks in the hall, to finding a safe haven at lunch, to dealing with the ritual embarrassment of Mrs. Finch doling out my daily detention slip. Yup, lucky me received another one today, all shiny and pink. I’m convinced she gets a twisted satisfaction out of dispensing these punishments. My best defense is to act like I don’t give two shits.
I’m also crazy worried about my car. I almost didn’t drive to school today, but I was afraid my parents might notice and ask questions. Mom would totally flip out and ship me off to a boarding school or something; Dad would probably inflict bodily harm on the perpetrators, less so in honor of my dignity and more for the sacrilege of damaging a vehicle. Especially one he paid for.
Even if I told my parents about the locker vandalism and the car defacement, and they told the school, it wouldn’t help anything. They wouldn’t catch whoever did it, and it would only add fuel to the fire. I’ve accepted the fact that I’m going to have to suck it up for however long it takes people to get over this, even if that means spending the next three years watching my back. I can only hope I don’t develop a crippling ulcer or die of a heart attack from all the stress in the meantime.
The sad thing is I thought this was going to be my year. Getting my license, having a car of my own, partying it up with Kristen and Warren and Derek, hanging out every weekend and going to dances and prom and living the high life, as it were. Maybe landing a boyfriend of my own for once instead of being Kristen and Warren’s third wheel.
I’m reminded of this as I walk out of my last class and see the big blue banner advertising the upcoming Winter Formal stretched across the wall. And Brendon standing underneath it, bent over the drinking fountain. I stop dead in my tracks, disrupting the chaotic flow of traffic and causing some upperclassman with the body of a cinderblock to bump into my back.
“Watch it,” he mutters, pushing past.
Whatever. The guy has this weird faux-hawk/mullet thing going on, so I just can’t take him seriously.
You know who has perfect hair? Brendon.
I really need to get over this swoony phase. I need to move on and accept that it is never going to happen. I blew it. He hates me. We are never going to date. He is never going to walk down the hall holding my hand, or ask me to the prom, or kiss my neck, or anything. He won’t even look at me! And, not to brag, but I am something to look at, dammit. I’m not gorgeous like Kristen, but I’ve been known to turn a head or two in my time.
These days the only heads I turn are the ones who want to glare at me.
Brendon wipes his mouth off with the back of his hand, turns around and—oh. Eye contact! Eye contact! Houston, we have visual!!
Oh, God, what do I do now? Think, dammit, think! Suddenly, inexplicably, I’m raising my hand in a wave. Brendon, frozen in place, looks at me like a deer caught in the headlights of a semi barreling forward at one hundred miles per hour. So then we’re both just standing there, six feet apart, gawking at each other like idiots.
The warning bell rings, loud and shrill. We both jump, startled out of this weird transfixed staring contest. Brendon’s face burns bright red, and he hesitates, looking like maybe he wants to say something. But he doesn’t. Instead he hurries off and merges into the stream of stragglers rushing for last period, disappearing down the hall in the opposite direction.
God, he must hate me for embarrassing him with my come-ons at the party. I’ve been so preoccupied dealing with the repercussions of ratting out Warren and Joey that it’s easy to forget everything else that happened. To him I’ll always be the ditzy alcoholic slutbag who tried to jump his bones that one time.
Even if I could explain myself, what would there be to say?
* * *
Last year I went to every school-sanctioned dance, except for the senior prom, of course, which isn’t held in the gymnasium anyway but at the one nice hotel Grand Lake has in midtown. But as for the rest—Homecoming, Spring Fling, End-of-Year—you name it and I was there. Well, at least for part of it, anyway, since usually about an hour after arrival Warren would inevitably get bored and want to leave, and since he was our ride, that meant we all had to go. So we’d all pile into his truck and head over to Kristen’s.
The dances themselves are lame. Student Council is in charge of organizing them, and all they do is throw up some streamers in the gym and pay some of the tech kids to DJ. Really it’s just an elaborate excuse for all the guys and girls to grind on each other to that month’s Top Forty until it gets so obscene the chaperones intervene.
What I like about the formals most is looking for new dresses. That search for the perfect one. I like scouring through celebrity gossip magazines and blogs and taking cues from what the stars are wearing to premieres and award ceremonies. Of course no way can I shell out for Vera Wang or Oscar de la Renta or Chanel, but I’ve learned that if you look hard enough you can find cheaper alternatives. I sort of have this dream of one day writing for one of those magazines, being the person who critiques celebrity fashion; Mrs. Finch even let me publish a few Fashion Dos and Don’ts columns in the Grand Lake High Gazette. I’ve never told anyone about that career goal, though, not even Kristen—she got all pi
ssed when I wrote about frosted lipstick being a fashion “Don’t,” since she loves it, and then told me someone who wears gold shimmery eye shadow isn’t one to talk. I still don’t understand what’s so wrong with gold eye shadow, but I threw it out anyway.
By the time I get home from school, all I want to do is zone out, so I go upstairs and sit in the middle of my bed with my laptop, opening all of the celebrity blogs I read religiously. I scroll through a set of photos of Kate Hudson wearing this dress that reminds me a little of the one I bought for this year’s Homecoming, a low-cut silver number plated with tiny glittery sequins. It was flashy and over-the-top and made me look not unlike a disco ball, but it was the kind of dress you wear to have fun in, to stand out, to say, hey, take a look at me, and people did.
Of course, it was effectively ruined when we went to Kristen’s after and Joey pushed me into her dirty swimming pool. Ass.
For the Winter Formal, I’d go with something less outlandish and more elegant. Probably a solid dark color, with maybe a few rhinestones on the collar, or sequins down by the hem, but nothing extreme. Something classic.
If I was going, that is. Which I’m not. Obviously. I don’t have a death wish.
I’m just about done reading the comments section when I notice one new email sitting in my in-box. I switch to the window, fully expecting a piece of spam touting penis enlargements or Russian mail-order brides, and instead see a message from Kristen waiting for me. My heart picks up speed in my chest like I just downed a shot of Red Bull. Could it be? Is she reaching out to me to make an apology, or an offer of amends? There’s no subject line to tip me off on what it could possibly say, so I hold my breath and click on it.