Speechless(171)

                I’m embarrassed to be drawn into this conversation, like I’m                     intruding on some private moment. I hold my hands behind my back and look to                     Sam.

                “This is Chelsea Knot,” he introduces.

                “Oh. You’re Chelsea?” Noah’s mom pauses, and in that pause, a                     million horrible scenarios race through my mind: she knows who I am, and she’s                     going to yell at me, right there. Or start bawling. Or tell me what a horrible                     human being I am for what I did to her son.

                She steps toward me, and oh, God, I brace myself to be slapped,                     or spit on, but instead she puts her arms around me and holds me close, and—oh.                     A hug? She’s actually giving me a hug?

                “Thank you,” she says in my ear, and I’m too bewildered to do                     anything but stand there. “If it weren’t for you, who knows if those boys                     would’ve gotten away with it.” She pulls back and smiles at me, her eyes shining                     like she might cry. “It was a very brave thing you did.”

                Not only am I receiving a hug, but gratitude? My mind, it is blown.

                I’m not sure what to say. “Um, I—I d-don’t—” I want to explain                     why, exactly, she should be angry with me, but Sam shoots me a look, and I                     understand I’m supposed to just accept this. So I attempt a smile and say, “It                     was nothing.”

                My first lie since I started talking again. Sorry, God.

                Mrs. Beckett says, “Why don’t you go in and see him? I think                     he’s awake now.”

                Sam and I enter Noah’s room. It’s crowded with balloons and                     flowers and gifts, and I’m shocked, a little, to see such an outpouring of                     support and love. It’s such a contrast to the ugliness I’ve seen at school. But                     the row of cards tacked to the wall are all from students, so maybe I just was                     too caught up in my own bubble to realize how much people do care.

                “I’m pretty sure I’m single-handedly keeping Hallmark in                     business.”

                The voice takes me by surprise. I jump away from the wall and                     whirl to see Noah, in the bed, propped into a sitting position by pillows. He                     looks…rough. There’s an IV attached to one of his arms, a line of stitches                     across one cheek and his lower lip is split and bruised. A patch of his                     white-blond hair has been shaved off and covered with a bandage.