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Speechless(2)

By:Hannah Harrington


                “Hey,” he says, his breath warm against my ear, and oh, yeah,                     that’s enough to send my already racing pulse into overdrive. “I bet if you go                     down the hall it’ll be quieter.”

                It’s a no-brainer suggestion, really, but in that moment, I                     feel like Brendon is a certified genius for coming up with it. Maybe it’s due to                     the fact that when I’m anywhere within a six-foot radius of Brendon I lose all                     ability to think coherently. Well, okay, the Jell-O shot I kicked back ten                     minutes ago probably isn’t helping matters.

                “Yes,” I finally choke out once I realize I’ve spent the last                     several seconds staring into his brain-melty hazel eyes with my mouth hanging                     open like the love-struck idiot I am. “Good idea.”

                I push myself off the couch, stumble past the cluster of barely                     clothed freshman girls writhing to some electro dance remix—nasty—and don’t stop                     until I’ve reached the end of the hallway. Of course, even down here I can feel                     vibrations from the stereo’s pulsating bass. My phone stopped ringing a while                     ago. Great. Now I need to come up with an excuse to explain why I didn’t answer                     Mom’s call right away. One that does not involve divulging that I’m at a New                     Year’s Eve party with a bunch of intoxicated minors.

                It’s so stupid. One lousy grade and my parents act like it’s                     the end of the world. A D- in geometry is not going to ruin my entire life. But                     of course they don’t see it that way. The only reason I was allowed over to                     Kristen’s at all was under the pretense that we’d be babysitting her younger                     cousins. If Mom finds out what’s really going on, there’ll be hell to pay.

                I open the hall closet and lock myself inside; at least the                     door blocks some of the sound from the raging party. My phone starts ringing                     again—Mom, of course. I push aside a broom handle and answer it with the most                     nonchalant hello I can muster.

                “Chelsea,” she says, and by the way she says my name alone, I                     can perfectly picture the pinched expression on her face. “Why didn’t you pick                     up before?”

                “Um…” I rack my brain for the first believable excuse. “My                     phone was at the bottom of my bag, and I couldn’t find it in time. You know my                     purse…it’s like a black hole.”