Speechless (24 page)

I’ve seen this behavior from Lowell before, the same way I’d seen it from Warren and Joey and even Kristen, tossing out homophobic slurs like they were nothing. And when it happened I did nothing. It barely even registered; it was like white noise. Sometimes I even laughed along for show. At least it wasn’t being said about me—and I know how embarrassed I would’ve been if it had, because that was how awful everyone I hung out with agreed being gay was. And I thought it was okay as long as I didn’t actively participate, that it was enough for me to secretly believe in my heart of hearts that there was absolutely nothing wrong with being gay even if I never dared say it out loud.

I thought it was enough, and it is so far from enough. I can’t change what I’ve done and what I haven’t done, but I can change what I do now. I can actually do something. Stand for something.

The boy at the vending machine is shifting from foot to foot, his face beet-red, but he doesn’t say anything. He turns to leave just as I come storming up.

I totally can do this. I can.

I
am
doing this.

“Who the
hell
do you think you are?”

The words rush out of me like a wind that can’t be contained, up, up, up, until they’re out, in the open, and I can’t take them back. My heart is beating like it wants to escape my body.

Lowell looks over at me, and for a moment he’s speechless. A very, very sweet moment, but unfortunately just that.

And then his lips curl into a smirk. “Is this about your stupid art thing? Because you can’t prove shit.”

“No,” I say, because even though I’m angry about that, what I’m seeing in front of me is making me
furious.
“No, this is about what you’re doing right now.”

“This isn’t your business, freak,” he snaps.

I step closer to him, and my fury must be radiating from every fiber of my being or something because he actually shrinks back a little. Not a lot, but enough.

“Seriously, what is your damage? Did your mom not hug you enough growing up? Is that it?” I shoot back. “In what universe do you think it’s at all okay to treat people the way you do? I’d really like to know.” I pause, but when Lowell opens his mouth again, I cut him off. “Actually, no. I don’t care how you justify this to yourself. No matter what, you’re pathetic. And vile.”

“What are you, Queen of the Fags? Their savior?” he snarls. He barks out a laugh. “Oh, I get it. You’re one of them, aren’t you?”

“I’m not gay, but the fact that you think anyone should be ashamed to be makes you a total fucking asshole,” I say. “Congratulations on being a miserable excuse for a human being, you ignorant scumbag.”

“Fuck you,” he says back. “You’re nothing but a—”

“No.” I hold up a finger warningly. “Do not even. I am done. I am
so
done. I swear to
God,
I am taking you down.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“You better believe it.”

Lowell rolls his eyes. “Please. You can’t touch me.”

“Wanna bet?” I snort. “Go ask Warren and Joey how that philosophy worked out for them.”

At this, Lowell’s face blanches, his scowl falling into a worried line. His eyes narrow like he’s wondering whether to take my threat seriously or not.

Behind me, the boy clears his throat nervously. “Can I go?” he asks.

“Get your snack first,” I say.

I keep my eyes locked on Lowell, unwavering, and after a moment he moves aside from the vending machine. And I know in that moment I’ve won.

The boy hesitates for a moment before hurriedly popping his quarters into the machine and grabbing his snack from the bottom. He scurries off without another word.

I shoot Lowell one last venomous look and turn to go. I walk down the hall, and I keep going, keep going until I’m all the way in my car. One of the narcs tries to flag me down as I floor it out of the student lot, but I ignore him and turn so fast onto the road my tires squeal against pavement.

* * *

I’m not good at standing up for myself. Shocking information, I know. I’ve
never
been good at it. I never had to be—the rare times someone decided to give me a hard time, I had Kristen, at my back, sticking up for me. I always appreciated that about her. Her fierce loyalty. I knew doing what I did, ratting out Warren and Joey, would put me on the other side of it. I knew
exactly
what it would cost.

I still did it anyway. And I’m glad. I really am. Because I was never happy before, and I never even realized it. I know now. You can be surrounded by people and still be lonely. You can be the most popular person in school, envied by every girl and wanted by every boy, and still feel completely worthless. The world can be laid at your feet and you can still not know what you want from it.

And I’m glad because it means I’m different from Kristen, different from Warren and Joey and Lowell and Derek and all of the rest. It means that even then, I knew right from wrong, knew what was really, truly important, knew what I could lose and still, I was willing to give it all up if it meant Noah had some justice. Even if Noah wasn’t a friend. Even if Warren and Joey were.

It means I’m not heartless. I’m a decent person. I am.

The second Lou sees my face she fixes me a cup of hot cocoa and tells me to sit down. She doesn’t ask any questions, just leaves me alone at the counter to drink and calm down a little while she and Phyllis clear tables. It’s weird to be here early like this, without Asha or Sam in tow. I go through five cups of cocoa before Andy shows up. He’s always the first—Westfield High gets out twenty minutes before Grand Lake.

He cocks his head at me as he ties on his apron. “You’re early,” he says. He glances at the clock. “Looks like I have a few minutes before my shift. Gonna go have a smoke.”

I stay seated for a minute, gathering my nerve. Before I can talk myself out of what I’m about to do, I push off the stool and follow him into the back alley. He’s leaned up against the wall, midsmoke.

I take a deep breath. And let it go.

“I need your help.”

* * *

“You’re sure that’s enough brown sugar?”

Andy gives me a strange look.

I cross my arms and stare back, impatient. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Sorry,” he says, turning his gaze down into the bowl he’s stirring. “I’m just not used to…you. Talking. Out loud. It’s sort of blowing my mind at the moment.”

Honestly, it’s blowing mine a little, too. My voice sounds weird to my own ears. It’s been—what? Four weeks? Four weeks and not a single word. Not
one.
Pretty impressive.

When I spoke, Andy actually dropped his cigarette out of sheer surprise. Once the initial shock wore off, he just told me to follow him into the kitchen, where he handed me off ingredients and told me how much to measure. He said I could talk to him while we made a batch of Dex’s famous brownies, because his best conversations are held while he’s baking. Apparently it helps him focus or something. It doesn’t exactly make sense to me, but I’m going with it.

“So,” Andy says, “does this mean you’re done with the vow for good?”

“I don’t know what it means. I haven’t thought that far ahead.” I pick an egg up out of the carton and examine it for cracks, then set it back in its spot. “You’re only the second—okay, technically third—let’s call it second-and-a-half—person I’ve…you know. Spoken actual words to.”

He pretends to pout. “I’m disappointed I’m not your first.”

If I didn’t know firsthand exactly and completely how gay he is, I might be offended at the innuendo. As it stands, I just roll my eyes.

“I didn’t exactly plan it, okay?” I say. “I…kind of went off on this homophobic jerk.”

“Really?” Andy perks up at this. “I want to hear this.”

“It’s sort of a blur, to be honest, but I’m pretty sure the words
pathetic,
vile
and
total fucking asshole
were all used during my tirade.”

“Delicious!” He cackles. “What I would have given to witness that showdown. But may I ask, what exactly set this off?”

“I caught him picking on this gay kid,” I explain. “Or, I think the kid is gay. Maybe. I probably shouldn’t assume. Anyway, I just—I couldn’t just watch it happen and not say anything.”

“Ah, yes. Where would we poor gays be without straight white girls sticking up for us?” Andy drawls, rummaging through a cupboard until he finds the vanilla extract. He closes it and faces me again, noticing my frown. “I’m kidding. Mostly. I get it. It was a noble gesture on your part. Brava. But none of this explains why you need to talk to me.”

I hold up the cup of brown sugar, examining it. “Seriously, are you
sure
you need this much?”

Andy snatches the cup from my hand and puts it on the counter. “First of all,” he says, “while I freely admit my culinary skills may pale in comparison to Sam’s, I learned this brownie recipe from the master—and by master I mean Dex—and I will not be insulted in my kitchen.”

“You know, it’s not really
your
kitchen, technically speaking—”

“
Secondly,
if you don’t spit out whatever you need to say to me, I’m going to kick you out of
my
kitchen because I’m quickly becoming bored with this conversation. Or lack thereof. And bored of you in general. The speaking novelty is wearing off fast into annoying territory.”

“The guy I yelled at—his name is Lowell—we kind of used to be friends, before…well, everything, and he’s on the basketball team, so he was pissed about me narcing on Warren and Joey. He’s been messing with me for the past month. And he destroyed the art project Sam and I were working on. I can’t prove it, but I know he did,” I say. “And I really, really want to get back at him. I just don’t know how.”

“And you think I can help with this…why, exactly?”

“I don’t know. You seem more diabolical than anyone else here.”

Andy puts his hand over his heart and smiles at me like I’ve just granted him a wonderful compliment. “That’s sweet of you,” he says. He hums low in his throat, thoughtful, as he dumps the sugar into the bowl along with two teaspoons of vanilla extract, beginning to mix it together with everything else already in there. “We could make pot brownies, you somehow smuggle them into his locker along with a few ounces, he eats the brownies and gets high as a kite, teachers notice him staring at his hand for an hour during class and conduct a locker search on suspicion of drug possession, and boom. Instant payback.”

“Um,” I say, “that’s a great plan and all, but I was thinking something a little more…I don’t know, morally sound? And less illegal? Besides, he’s such a pothead anyway that I hardly need to go out of my way to plant anything on him.”

“Well, that’s no fun,” he sighs. He keeps mixing, his face scrunched in thought. “Wait, he’s a stoner and he’s on the basketball team? Noah had to do mandatory drug tests during soccer season last year. Don’t they do the same for basketball?”

“They do, but the team somehow always find out about it beforehand,” I explain. “With just enough time to bribe or threaten some freshman into pissing into a cup they can smuggle in.” No one outside the select few are
supposed
to know of this practice, but Warren, meathead that he is, is the kind of drunk who will blurt out anything if he’s liquored up enough.

“Maybe you can work that angle,” Andy says. “Just rat him out or something.”

“Maybe,” I say uncertainly. “But I need to be careful. What I need is for Lowell to fall on his own sword without getting my hands dirty.”

“I stand by the pot brownies plan,” he says. “Feel free to take artistic license with that idea, by the way. Maybe you can work it into something that fits your newfound ethical code.”

Artistic license. I’m struck with a sudden thought. No, not just a thought. A plan. Oh, my God. “Oh, my God.”

“Oh, my God, what?”

“You gave me the perfect idea.”

Andy beams. “You’re going with the pot brownies?”

“Not that,” I say, “but something else. Something so much better. This is legit.”

I divulge my plan to Andy, and at the end of it, he offers his hand in a high five, which I gladly indulge. After he’s battered up the brownie mix, poured it into a glass pan and set it in the oven, he turns to me and says, “I can’t lie. I’m sort of flattered.”

“Flattered?”

“That I was your second-and-a-half.” He smiles, just a little. “That you came to me for this.”

“Oh, really?” I say, skeptical. “Because if
I
remember correctly, not too long ago you called me—and I quote—‘pathetic.’”

“I was talking about the vow. Not you,” he says evenly.

I shrug, not sure if I believe that, but still wanting to. “Anyway. It made sense. I knew you’d get it. I’m not sure Sam would…you know. Approve. He’s not the vengeance type.”

“I don’t think Sam is as sanctimonious as you think.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“I’m not slamming him. What I mean is, he’s a fucking human being, you know?” he says. “He’s just as pissed about what happened. And Noah… Noah is his best friend. Yeah, so maybe he could’ve handled some things better.” He falls silent for a long moment. “We all could’ve handled things better.”

Isn’t that the truth.

* * *

I take off from Rosie’s before Sam or Asha can get there, Eminem blasting at full volume. I sing to all of the lyrics as I drive toward home. I could’ve waited for them before I left. I could’ve just stayed at Rosie’s and picked up a shift for tonight. But I didn’t want to. I don’t want to think about what I’m going to say to Asha, or to Sam, God,
Sam,
because things are different now. I’m talking again. But not just
again
—because I’ve
never
talked with Asha, or Sam, or Dex or Lou. Not for
real.

I go home and straight to my bedroom, where I lie on my bed, clutching a pillow to my chest. I stare at my ceiling and practice what to say to Sam when I see him.

“Hello, Sam,” I say to the plastic star in my direct line of vision. “This is what my voice sounds like, Sam. Sam, I hope you don’t think I’m a total freak, even though I can’t stop thinking about your stupid sexy face, Sam.” I say his name, over and over, testing it out. “Sam. Sam. Sam.”