“Yeah, I got it,” I say. “Nothing happened.”
* * *
Except I know better. We both do. Warren and Joey are behind this. They have to be.
Kristen wants me to pretend like last night never happened. Like I should just push it out of my mind and ignore the fact that her boyfriend put a boy in the hospital. I drive home in a daze, trying to do just that. But no matter how loud I crank the radio, I can’t escape my thoughts, and they keep circling back to Noah. What the hell was Warren thinking? I know he was kind of drunk, and I know that he’s not the nicest guy under sober conditions, but still.
I promised Kristen I wouldn’t say anything. If I do, I’m going to be in so much trouble—a kind of trouble I can’t even fathom. My parents will kill me. Kristen will disown me. Everyone will hate me. Besides, why should I have to be the one to rat them out? There were other people at that party who heard my story about Noah, who saw Warren and Joey get mad and leave. They have to know. Or they will, soon enough, once word spreads about what happened. So why should the responsibility to tell fall on my shoulders?
All the rationalizing in the world isn’t making me feel better about this decision.
Mom’s doing dishes when I walk into the kitchen. Dad sits at the table, reading the newspaper. It’s so perfectly normal I want to cry. I lean against the doorway and watch them, swallowing against the crater-size lump lodged in my throat.
“How was your night, kiddo?” asks Dad.
I shrug one shoulder. “Fine,” I lie.
“You’re awfully quiet,” Mom says. She wrings the sponge and raises an eyebrow at me. “Did you get the milk?”
Oh, shit. I totally did not even remember she asked me to pick that up.
“Sorry,” I mumble, rubbing my forehead with one hand. My head is killing me. “I forgot about it.”
“Chelsea.” Mom sighs. “I ask you for one thing, and you can’t even—”