Speechless(148)

                Mr. Goldman returns while I’m still skimming the last page of                     Kristen’s report, but he doesn’t seem to mind that I’ve dug through his papers.                     Still, I set it back down and pick up the legal pad again.

                Are they pressing charges against Kristen Courteau?

                I feel like even I, current social pariah, would’ve heard this                     news if it were true, but I want to make sure.

                “No, they’re not,” he says, and I’m struck with a sharp sense                     of relief, one I don’t fully understand considering the current state of                     Kristen’s and my friendship and everything she’s done to me over the past month.                     Mr. Goldman starts to pack up his briefcase, popping open the brass snaps and                     shuffling papers back into the manila folder. “Ms. Courteau is in the same boat                     as you.”

                Huh. Funny how after everything, all the bad feelings and                     severed ties, Kristen and I are still connected.

                Mr. Goldman shakes Mom’s hand and Dad’s hand and then mine                     before he leaves, and that makes me feel adult, too. Even though it sucks that                     it’s under these circumstances, I still kind of like the feeling, like I’m                     worthy of being interacted with as a grown-up. Mom turns the lock before leaning                     hard with her back against the door, eyes closed; she looks so tired and                     stressed out and when she looks at me again, it makes my stomach hurt.

                But she smiles—still tired and somewhat exasperated, but a real                     one. “You’ve given me so many gray hairs, Chelsea,” she says, and Dad laughs and                     walks over to her, rubbing her shoulder with one hand.

                “Gray looks good on you,” he assures her. He presses a kiss to                     the top of her hair.

                They could be mad. They could be yelling at me for what I’ve                     put them through—God knows I deserve it—but they’re not, and Mr. Goldman is                     right, they’re good people and they’re trying the best they can, and I’m                     suddenly so overwhelmed with gratitude for having them behind me through all                     this that I catapult myself into them both, flinging my arms around them in a                     tight hug.

                “Whoa.” Dad laughs, his arm reaching around my back. “What’s                     this about?”