Speechless(33)

                After everyone has shuffled out of the room, Ms. Kinsey goes to                     one of the supply cabinets and pulls out a small whiteboard and a dry-erase                     marker. She hands both to me and says, “I was thinking this might solve some of                     your communication hurdles.”

                I’m touched by the gesture. I uncap the marker and write Thank you                     on the board.

                “You’re very welcome, Chelsea,” she says. “But keep in mind I’m                     not technically allowed to just give school supplies away, especially with the                     art budget being what it is. So consider it a loan.” She smiles, reaching out to                     squeeze my shoulder. “Until you find your voice again.”

                * * *

                I’m almost late to detention because I’m too busy                     scrubbing the vandalism off my locker. All I have is a wet paper towel and hand                     soap, and the marker’s dried already, so it’s slow going. After some time I’ve                     rubbed it off enough so that there are only a few black smears left. Not                     perfect, but it’ll have to do.

                When I get to the detention room to sign in, I immediately spot                     Brendon Ryan sitting in the front row. I’m surprised by his presence—Brendon is                     hardly the detention type. All the teachers adore him, just like the rest of the                     world. He looks just as startled when he meets my eye, blinking a few times                     before his mouth twitches into a half smile. He’s probably amused by the memory                     of how I acted on New Year’s Eve, the pinnacle of pathetic drunken desperation.                     Still, I can’t help it; my heart flips in my chest at the sight of him, the way                     it has for the past year, the way it has as long as I’ve been stupidly in love                     with him and his stupid face.

                The problem, of course, is that Brendon’s face isn’t stupid at                     all. It’s gorgeous. Like the sort of Abercrombie model, statuesque perfection                     that would leave Michelangelo in tears. I want to lick his high-set cheekbones.                     I want to run my hands over his chest to see if it’s as hard as it looks. I                     don’t even want to make out with him—I mean, I do, obviously, of course, but                     really I’d settle for just tracing his perfect lips with my finger. Or running                     my hands through his gorgeous blond hair over and over for hours. Or—