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