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Speechless(28)

By:Hannah Harrington


                “That’s very interesting,” she says, and she sounds like she                     actually does find it interesting, not like she’s                     mocking me. “What inspired this?”

                I pull the National Geographic                     article from my pocket and hand it to her. She unfolds it, eyes scanning the                     wrinkled page, before her face lights up like the Fourth of July.

                “Brilliant idea, Chelsea!” she exclaims. “I think it’s great                     that you’re on this voyage of self-discovery. If more people strove for                     spiritual enlightenment, the world would be a much better place for it.” She                     squeezes my shoulder with one chalky hand. Even though she’s totally off base                     (I’m not exactly sure what “striving for spiritual enlightenment” entails,                     really), after a day of no one being nice to me, I could just hug her anyway.                     Which is proof that I am totally losing it.

                Other students start filtering into the classroom. I hastily                     wipe off the board and make a beeline for one of the workstations. The good                     thing about art class is that it is devoid of jocks and most populars. I’m here                     only because it’s the easiest elective available, and it sure as hell beats Shop                     (such a misleading title!) or Personal Finance (my only interest in money is                     spending it, not budgeting it).

                If previous experience is any indication, the art freaks will                     be too consumed with fostering their existential angst and crafting abstract                     pieces out of coat hangers, Styrofoam, magazine cutouts and black paint (to                     symbolize their dark, tortured souls, of course) to heed me any attention. A few                     weeks ago I was comparing schedules with my friends and lamenting the fact that                     none of them had this class, but considering my new circumstances, I’m relieved.                     The tardy bell rings, and I think maybe, just maybe,                     I’ll finally be able to actually relax.

                And then Sam Weston walks into the room.

                My heart plummets to my feet, and for an awful moment I am                     convinced I am going to either pass out or throw up in front of everyone. I’ve                     been so preoccupied worrying about Kristen and the others that I hadn’t even                     thought to prepare myself for running into Sam. Sam, who I don’t know a lot                     about, but the one thing I do know is that he is best friends with Noah.