“‘Spiritual commitment’?” he echoes, bemused.
“You didn’t tell him?” Ms. Kinsey says. “Well, of course you didn’t tell him!” She laughs at her own joke, turning to Sam with a big smile. “Chelsea here has taken an oath of silence.”
“You’ve—what?” He gapes at me like a floundering fish, processing this piece of information, and then turns to Ms. Kinsey. “How am I supposed to do a project with someone who won’t talk?”
“There are many forms of communication,” she says airily. “I know you’ll find a way to make it work while still respecting her spiritual beliefs.” She pats him on the shoulder, sauntering off as he stares after her with an annoyed look.
I grab the pen from him, scratch out a sentence on the clean sheet and hold up the pad.
I’m silent, not stupid.
“Yeah, okay, if you say so.” He snatches back the notebook. “Let’s just get this over with.”
We spend the rest of the period going back and forth, trying to brainstorm artists, Sam voicing his ideas and me writing down mine. He doesn’t once stray from the topic at hand, and I’m certainly not about to bring Noah’s name into the conversation. Sam was right; we just need to plow through this and get it done.
Eventually we settle on Jackson Pollack (my idea). I think it’s a solid choice—Sam likes modern art, and I like the idea of doing something easy like indiscriminately slashing paint across a canvas. But when at the end of class we go to inform Ms. Kinsey of our selection, she tells us someone else in the class has beaten us to the punch.
“I’m sorry,” she says with a frown, glancing down at her notebook, “but it looks like you’ll have to come up with someone else.” The bell rings, and she smiles again. “Oh, by the way, Chelsea, would you stay for a moment? I have something for you.”
I nod, surprised, and Sam looks at me and shrugs.
“We’ll talk about the project later,” he says. He rolls his eyes. “Or, I guess, not talk. Whatever.”