Speechless(182)

                What. The. Hell. Is. Going. On?

                I twist around to find Andy and Noah. Andy’s staring at the                     stage, wide-eyed and gob smacked, while Noah just grins his doped-out smile. And                     then, snapping out of it, Andy stands and maneuvers the wheelchair to the front                     of the gym, the crowd parting to make a pathway. Brendon hops off the stage and                     places the crown on top of Noah’s head, hands him the stupid plastic shiny                     staff, and he says something, too, but the microphone is away from his mouth so                     I don’t hear. He squeezes Noah’s shoulder with a smile, and everyone is just                         staring.

                Everyone still stares, even after Mr. Fenton ends this weird                     little interlude by announcing the rest of the upperclassman court. Everyone                     still stares when the music kicks on again, a slow pop ballad, the dance                     reserved for the Court winners. Everyone stares as Andy slowly, slowly helps                     Noah stand.

                They don’t really dance—they just hold each other, swaying from                     side to side, Noah’s face buried in Andy’s chest, Andy holding him up, their                     arms encircled so tightly around each other.

                No one is looking at Kristen. But I am. I stare across the room                     at her, her rose bunch clutched in one limp hand, her mouth slack as she gawks                     at Andy and Noah, the Snow Princes, the belles of the ball, the center of                     attention. I wonder if she’s thinking what I am. How it seems so impossible that                     someone could look at them, see how plainly they care for each other, and find                     anything ugly or shameful or worthy of hatred in it, when all I see is something                     beautiful.

                I can’t tell. I hope she is. I hope that’s what she sees.

                * * *

                “Best. Winter. Formal. Ever.”

                This has to be at least the eighteenth time Asha has made this                     same declaration in the past hour.

                “It was your first Winter Formal,”                     I point out. I lean against the counter as Sam rummages around for an extra                     colander. We’re having some serious tuna melt cravings.

                “I don’t care. Nothing can top tonight’s.” Asha does a giddy                     twirl on her toes.