Speechless(116)

                He appears out of nowhere and puts a hand on Sam’s tense                     shoulder.

                “Don’t be stupid,” he says, his voice warm-honey smooth and,                     somehow, infuriatingly calm. “It’s not worth it, man.”

                Sam hesitates, and before the sensibility of Brendon’s words                     can sink in, one of the Spanish teachers pops his head into the hall. He takes                     in the scene—Sam with his fists knotted in Lowell’s shirt, the obscene graffiti                     on the locker—and frowns. Maybe, I think, this means someone in charge is                     actually going to notice the crap that’s been drawn on my locker and do                     something about it.

                “You two.” He points to Sam and Lowell. “In here. Now. I’m                     writing you up.”

                Sam reluctantly releases Lowell’s shirtfront. Lowell sneers and                     storms into the classroom without looking back, leaving Sam and Brendon to stare                     at each other, and then at me.

                What, am I supposed to be impressed by this display of                     unleashed teenage testosterone? Because I am so not. I’m just pissed. Sam has no                     business getting in the middle of things with Lowell and me. All he’s done is                     make it worse, because there is no way Lowell won’t find a way to get me back                     for this, even though it wasn’t my fault.

                And what am I supposed to do when Sam isn’t there to swoop in                     and save me from the big bad wolf?

                Of course he wasn’t thinking about that. He doesn’t understand how this is all a balancing act. Yes,                     someday I am going to pay Lowell and Derek both back for the way they’ve treated                     me, and it will be a very sweet revenge indeed, but I can’t afford to be                     reckless about it like Sam just was.

                “I’ll see you later,” he says to me, but I just give him a cold                     look in return.

                When he’s gone, Brendon puts a hand on my arm and says, “Are                     you okay?”

                Touching. He’s actually touching me. Acknowledging my                     existence. This is new. Even through the fabric of my sweater, I can feel the                     warmth of his skin. But it’s not like before. No butterflies. I feel like I                     should be more excited about this.