Speechless (2 page)

And if it’s important to Kristen, then it’s important to me.

“I’ll see what I can do,” I tell her, and by the way Kristen smiles at me, I know that was exactly what she wanted to hear.

six hours later

I don’t know how I’m going to talk myself out of this one.

My phone buzzes insistently in my hand, like it knows I’m trying to avoid it. A glance at the front screen confirms my impending doom: MOM flashes there like it’s mocking me. Crap.

Kristen nudges me in the rib cage with her elbow. “Who the hell is calling you?” she demands. “Everyone worth knowing is already
here.
”

It’s true; the party is in full swing, the room filled with half of Grand Lake High’s student body—well, the half that matters, anyway—and loud music. It’s no secret Kristen Courteau throws the best parties. Absentee parents, an older brother who has no problem supplying minors with alcohol, a big house with a top-notch stereo system—it’s everything a group of rowdy sixteen-year-olds could ask for.

On this couch I’m packed in tight like a sardine, stuck between Kristen and Brendon Ryan. Brendon Ryan, the last person I want knowing that my mother is calling to check up on me.

“It’s my mom,” I explain, leaning my head close to hers to be heard over the racket and praying that Brendon is too absorbed in downing his beer to pay attention. “She’ll be pissed if I don’t answer.”

“Then answer it,” Kristen says, like it’s that simple.

“And have her hear all
this?
” I shake my head. “She’ll kill me!”

“Fine, then
don’t
answer it.” Kristen rolls her eyes and knocks back the rest of her drink. Somehow she manages to look good doing even that. “I’m getting more beer,” she informs me, peeling herself off the couch and dancing her way across the room to the cooler and abandoning me to resolve this problem on my own. Sometimes Kristen can be such a bitch. If she wasn’t my best friend, I’d probably hate her.

Next to me, Brendon curls his hand over the cap of my shoulder and leans in close to my ear. Normally I’d be thrilled because a) Brendon Ryan is touching me, b) his near proximity means I can smell him, and c) BRENDON RYAN IS TOUCHING ME OH MY GOD (!!!), but I can’t even savor the moment because I’m too panicked. Also, tonight he reeks too much of beer and cloying cologne. This is a disappointment because I always assumed that a perfect creature such as Brendon would smell of spring rain and mountain breezes and other heavenly aromas.

“Hey,” he says, his breath warm against my ear, and oh, yeah, that’s enough to send my already racing pulse into overdrive. “I bet if you go down the hall it’ll be quieter.”

It’s a no-brainer suggestion, really, but in that moment, I feel like Brendon is a certified genius for coming up with it. Maybe it’s due to the fact that when I’m anywhere within a six-foot radius of Brendon I lose all ability to think coherently. Well, okay, the Jell-O shot I kicked back ten minutes ago probably isn’t helping matters.

“Yes,” I finally choke out once I realize I’ve spent the last several seconds staring into his brain-melty hazel eyes with my mouth hanging open like the love-struck idiot I am. “Good idea.”

I push myself off the couch, stumble past the cluster of barely clothed freshman girls writhing to some electro dance remix—nasty—and don’t stop until I’ve reached the end of the hallway. Of course, even down here I can feel vibrations from the stereo’s pulsating bass. My phone stopped ringing a while ago. Great. Now I need to come up with an excuse to explain why I didn’t answer Mom’s call right away. One that does not involve divulging that I’m at a New Year’s Eve party with a bunch of intoxicated minors.

It’s so stupid. One lousy grade and my parents act like it’s the end of the world. A D- in geometry is not going to ruin my entire life. But of course they don’t see it that way. The only reason I was allowed over to Kristen’s at all was under the pretense that we’d be babysitting her younger cousins. If Mom finds out what’s really going on, there’ll be hell to pay.

I open the hall closet and lock myself inside; at least the door blocks some of the sound from the raging party. My phone starts ringing again—Mom, of course. I push aside a broom handle and answer it with the most nonchalant hello I can muster.

“Chelsea,” she says, and by the way she says my name alone, I can perfectly picture the pinched expression on her face. “Why didn’t you pick up before?”

“Um…” I rack my brain for the first believable excuse. “My phone was at the bottom of my bag, and I couldn’t find it in time. You know my purse…it’s like a black hole.”

“Uh-huh,” she says. I can’t tell if she’s skeptical or if I’m just paranoid.

I perch awkwardly on the edge of a cardboard box, keeping one eye on the door. “So, what’s up?”

“I just thought I’d ask if you could pick up a gallon of milk before you drive home tomorrow morning.” She pauses. “How is the babysitting going?”

“Fine,” I say, though of course as soon as the word leaves my mouth, something crashes in the hallway. I cringe and press a hand to my forehead. This is just perfect.

“What was that?”

I recover without missing a beat. “Oh, just one of the kids causing trouble,” I say. “Probably should’ve skipped the candy after dinner—sugar overload.” I let out a laugh and hope it doesn’t come out too forced. “Actually I should probably go help Kristen wrangle them before they destroy the house.”

“All right,” Mom says, so oblivious I feel kind of bad. But only for a second. Then I’m just relieved that she actually buys my story. “Just make sure to pick up the milk tomorrow.”

“Right. The milk. Got it.” I need to wrap up this call ASAP before someone gives me away. “I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

Mom says, “Have a good night, sweetie,” before hanging up. And I’m in the clear.

Or, almost. I wriggle out of the closet and shut the door behind me, yanking my skirt down and raking my hands through my hair. I spent two hours wrestling with a flat iron to make it straight, and it’s already getting all poofy and gross. Great. I try to smooth it down as best I can, cursing genetics for the millionth time in my life for not gifting me with thin, silky hair like Kristen’s.

“Chelsea?”

I whip around to see Tessa Schauer standing there, peering at me with raised, overly plucked eyebrows. Usually when Tessa looks at me it’s for approval, or else a little fearful, but right now there’s just mild curiosity written across her face.

I don’t like it.

“What?” I snap, and she cringes just the slightest bit. That’s better.

All the bronzer in the world can’t hide her sudden blush. “I was just wondering what you were doing in the closet,” she says.

“None of your business.” No way am I letting Tessa know I’m the kind of loser who needs permission from her parents to do anything. As far as she’s concerned, I do whatever I want, whenever I want.

“Jeez, no need to bite my head off,” she says. “It was just a question.”

“That’s funny, because I have a question for
you,
” I say. “What’s it like to stab your best friend in the back?”

“What are you talking about?” she scoffs, but I can see the guilt flicker in her eyes. She’s not that smooth.

“I know about you and Owen,” I tell her. Tessa’s eyes go wide, and I take a step closer. “Did you really think you could keep it a secret?”

She backs up, flustered. “I don’t know what you mean,” she lies. “Are you drunk?”

“Don’t play dumb with me,” I retort. “What do you think Megan’s going to say when she finds out? Her boyfriend and her best friend. Talk about a knife in the back.”

Finally Tessa drops the innocent act, her jaw tensing with anger. “She won’t believe you.”

“Pictures don’t lie,” I point out.

Realization dawns on her face. “You snooped on my phone.”

I smirk at her. “You should be more careful with your indiscretions,” I say, and pull my phone from my pocket. “What was the point of pictures anyway? Were you going to post them to your Facebook and let Megan find out that way? Maybe I should save you the time and just forward them to her right now....” My thumb hovers over the keypad.

Tessa dives for my phone, but I snatch it back out of reach. Does she seriously think she can wrestle it from me? She really is a low-class bitch.

Now her anger gives way to panic. “Please, don’t tell her,” she begs. “It was so stupid of me, I know, but he said he was going to dump her anyway, and it was just a few times, and…” Her voice wavers. “Please, you can’t tell her—”

“Chill out,” I snap, just so she’ll stop this sniveling display of desperation. The secondhand embarrassment is killing me. “You look so pathetic right now.”

“I know you don’t like me, Chelsea,” she says, wiping away a stray tear from under one eye. “But please, don’t do this. Megan’s my best friend.”

“Maybe you should’ve thought about that before you stuck your tongue down her boyfriend’s throat.”

Tessa flinches. “You can’t tell her,” she says again. “You
can’t.
”

“Okay,” I say.

“‘Okay’?” she echoes. Cautious optimism creeps into her voice. “So you won’t say anything?”

“As long as you do something for me.”

* * *

By the time I return to the living room, Kristen’s over in the corner, wrapped around Warren. I don’t have to look around to know there’s more than one girl in this room staring in envy. Warren’s a senior, star of the basketball team, tall with broad shoulders and just enough stubble to make him look older and more mature than he is. And Kristen is—well, Kristen. Blonde, blue-eyed, curvy in all the right places and skinny in all the others, so pretty it hurts. Standing next to her is always a blow to the self-esteem.

I’ll never know exactly why Kristen made me her project, but she did. All through middle school I’d been intimidated by her from a safe distance, until eighth grade, when the seating assignment for biology designated us as lab partners. Not only did Kristen acknowledge my existence, but somehow over the course of the year, she started inviting me over to her house and to the mall, passing me notes between classes, saving me a spot at her lunch table, and before I knew it we were friends. Not just friends, but best friends.

Being Kristen’s best friend has its benefits—everyone knowing your name, invites to just about every social gathering (or at least all the ones worth attending), and a built-in social circle. The same social circle that includes Brendon Ryan, who could easily be my soul mate. That is, if I could get him to notice me.

I turn my head and there he is, refilling his cup of beer at the table with Natalie Thomas glued to his side. Ugh, I can’t stand Natalie. She used to be Kristen’s best friend, before I came along; she’d never say it to my face, but I know she secretly resents me for that. She’s such a hanger-on, one with a notorious habit of flirting with all the guys within a five-mile radius—regardless of whether they have girlfriends or not.

Tonight she’s donned this bright neon-green glittery dress that would cause irreversible retinal damage to look at directly, and it comes down only to the very tops of her thighs. So, so trashy. She makes me want to vom.

Brendon Ryan is too good for her. Brendon Ryan is classy. He wears preppy polo shirts and button-downs with sweaters over them and styles his dark blond hair perfectly so it looks messy, but in a purposeful way. He’s student council president and always raises his hand in class before speaking, and instead of chewing gum he prefers mints, which he carries around in this tiny tin case. I’ve been in love with him ever since the first week of freshman year when he turned around in the seat in front of me in homeroom and offered me one, flashing that dazzling smile of his. Everything about Brendon oozes effortless cool. Unlike all the try-hard jocks Kristen and I tend to associate with.

If Natalie thinks she has her sights set on Brendon, she has another think coming.

I march right up there and position myself between the two of them. It’s a tight squeeze, but one I manage to pull off by pretending I am in dire need of more pretzels.

“Hi!” I say to Brendon.

“Hi,” he says, smiling. “How’d that phone call go?”

“I managed to pull it off. Thanks to you.”

Natalie leans over to me as I pop a handful of pretzels into my mouth. “You’re really pigging out there, aren’t you?” she comments. “Try and leave some for the rest of us.”

“I see someone left the gates open,” I mutter under my breath. I study her botched blond dye job, as tacky as the rest of her look, and add, “Wow, Natalie, I didn’t know brassy roots were in this season. Is trailer-trash chic back in style?”

Natalie scowls at me in return. “I’m surprised you have an opinion,” she says. “Aren’t you supposed to just be Kristen’s little mouthpiece? Enjoy it while you can—she’ll throw you away like she does everyone else soon enough.”

“Hmm, shouldn’t you be stocking up on more hooker heels?” I shoot back. I let my eyes travel down to the ones she has on and smirk. “Leopard print? Keeping it classy, I see.”

She glares and makes an annoyed sound in the back of her throat, but it does the trick—she spins around and stalks off, wobbling. Whether that’s due to her drunkenness or the height of her stupid heels, I can’t be sure.

Brendon looks at me, miffed. “That was kind of rude.”

“Me or her?” I ask.

“Both, actually.”

“She started it,” I reply. “Besides, maybe I’d be nicer to her if she dressed a little better.” It would also help if she stayed away from Brendon and didn’t get her slutty germs all over him. Natalie is the kind of girl who can give you an STD from eye contact alone.

“I think she dresses just fine.”

Warren’s voice from behind me makes me jump a little, and I whirl to see him standing there with Kristen and his friend Joey Morgan. Kristen smacks him hard on the shoulder, and Warren in turn grabs her in a greedy kiss, which she readily reciprocates. Gross. Those two are always slobbering all over each other. Get a room already.

“I don’t know, man,” Brendon says. “Personally I prefer something left to the imagination.”

He winks at me, and the surge of butterflies in my stomach is so strong I think I may throw up right there. I need something to calm my nerves. The most obvious remedy is more alcohol. They don’t call it liquid courage for nothing.