Speechless(110)

                It’s easier to not care about looking like an idiot when no one                     else does. Dancing this way is like being twelve all over again, flailing around                     without abandon in my bedroom with Kristen to the radio, and by the time the                     song is over, I feel flushed and sort of giddy.

                “See? That wasn’t so bad,” Sam teases, drawing me into a                     sideways hug. It only lasts for a few seconds, but long enough for me to smell                     the cooking oil on his skin, to feel the comfortable warmth of his side and how                     perfectly I fit there.

                My heart slides into my throat, and when he lets me go, every                     nerve end tingles. That feeling doesn’t go away for the rest of the night.





                                      day eighteen

                The week goes by quickly, a blur of classes and the                     diner and homework. Mom and Dad are too preoccupied to even ask me why I don’t                     come home most nights until almost ten o’clock and reeking of cooking oil. Maybe                     I should be hurt by their lack of parental concern, but they have enough on                     their plate right now. Mom’s been pulling twelve-hour days at the floral shop,                     and Dad, in an effort to fill his sudden surplus of free time, has begun various                     fix-it projects around the house. He tinkers with our dishwasher until it stops                     making that funky noise during the rinse cycle, varnishes the coffee table in                     the garage and shovels the driveway and sidewalk in front of our house daily,                     even when it hasn’t snowed.

                Neither talk to me about Dad’s job (or lack thereof) situation                     again.

                I do my best to keep them from having anything else to worry                     about, at least when it comes to me. I pay attention in all my classes and to                     Asha during our lunch study breaks, and when Mr. Callihan hands me back my                     latest test, I’m shocked to see a B+ written at the top of the page. Seems like                     all this studying-until-my-eyes-bleed is actually paying off. And Mrs. Finch                     hasn’t issued any more detentions, so I can only assume she thinks I’m doing                     okay, too.

                Everything seems to be going well—or as well as things get for                     me these days—up until Thursday at lunch. I’m staked out at our usual spot in                     the library, chewing on my pen cap as I do my science reading, when Asha storms                     in and throws a newspaper right under my nose.