Speechless(165)

                I do feel like I’ve figured some stuff out. Not everything. Not                     even close. But the not-figured-out stuff feels less scary now. Manageable. It’s                     like someone opened my eyes and suddenly I’m seeing everything all new—like when                     Asha explained to me how to solve for x, and                     something just clicked, and from that point on I wasn’t just looking at a mess                     of numbers and letters but actual equations with actual solutions. Even if I                     still couldn’t solve every single one.

                “Maybe,” I say, and apparently that’s enough for her, because                     she nods and takes the whiteboard from me.

                “Glad to hear it.” The smile she gives kills me with its                     kindness. “It’s good to be uncertain, Chelsea. It’s a big world. There’s always                     more to learn.”

                “Ms. Kinsey, I didn’t just come here to give you back the                     whiteboard,” I say. “I need your help with something. It’s kind of a…sensitive                     issue.”

                “Oh?” She looks more concerned now. “Well, I’ll do whatever I                     can. What is it?”

                “I need to leave an anonymous tip.”

                * * *

                When Sam comes up to my locker before art period and                     says, “Let’s cut,” I’m annoyed.

                Not at him. I was already annoyed before he came up to me. I’m                     annoyed because there was a typo on page two of the essay I handed in to Mrs.                     Finch, but I didn’t have time to dash to the library and reprint it. I’m annoyed                     because there are some kids down the hall erupting into the school song with                     plastic mini megaphones in preparation for this afternoon’s pep rally. I’m                     annoyed because I have no idea if the plan has worked yet, or if it will work                         at all, or if it’ll somehow backfire and the not                     knowing is making me all itchy and anxious.

                “The narcs,” I point out, but Sam grins and shakes his                     head.

                “I’m parked in the teacher lot,” he explains.

                “You’re not supposed to do that.”