Speechless(3)

                “Uh-huh,” she says. I can’t tell if she’s skeptical or if I’m                     just paranoid.

                I perch awkwardly on the edge of a cardboard box, keeping one                     eye on the door. “So, what’s up?”

                “I just thought I’d ask if you could pick up a gallon of milk                     before you drive home tomorrow morning.” She pauses. “How is the babysitting                     going?”

                “Fine,” I say, though of course as soon as the word leaves my                     mouth, something crashes in the hallway. I cringe and press a hand to my                     forehead. This is just perfect.

                “What was that?”

                I recover without missing a beat. “Oh, just one of the kids                     causing trouble,” I say. “Probably should’ve skipped the candy after                     dinner—sugar overload.” I let out a laugh and hope it doesn’t come out too                     forced. “Actually I should probably go help Kristen wrangle them before they                     destroy the house.”

                “All right,” Mom says, so oblivious I feel kind of bad. But                     only for a second. Then I’m just relieved that she actually buys my story. “Just                     make sure to pick up the milk tomorrow.”

                “Right. The milk. Got it.” I need to wrap up this call ASAP                     before someone gives me away. “I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

                Mom says, “Have a good night, sweetie,” before hanging up. And                     I’m in the clear.

                Or, almost. I wriggle out of the closet and shut the door                     behind me, yanking my skirt down and raking my hands through my hair. I spent                     two hours wrestling with a flat iron to make it straight, and it’s already                     getting all poofy and gross. Great. I try to smooth it down as best I can,                     cursing genetics for the millionth time in my life for not gifting me with thin,                     silky hair like Kristen’s.

                “Chelsea?”

                I whip around to see Tessa Schauer standing there, peering at                     me with raised, overly plucked eyebrows. Usually when Tessa looks at me it’s for                     approval, or else a little fearful, but right now there’s just mild curiosity                     written across her face.