Speechless(8)

                I don’t know why Natalie’s stupid comment is annoying me so                     much. After all, it’s Natalie; her opinion doesn’t                     matter.

                Brendon hands me another shot, and I notice his outstretched                     arm is a perfect golden tan.

                “God, you’re tan,” I tell him,                     running my fingers over his wrist and marveling at the deep red-brown shade. His                     skin feels hot to the touch, and the butterflies in my stomach flutter                     again.

                “Yeah.” He laughs. “I spent Christmas in Miami with my                     grandparents.”

                “Oooh, nice!” I look at my own arm and cringe. “I’m so pasty,” I moan, and Kristen laughs.

                “You’re such a ginger,” she says. She lowers her voice like                     she’s confiding a secret. “Still, it could be worse. So I’m in the locker room                     before P.E. the other day, right? Steph Lidell comes in and starts changing                     right next to me, and she takes off her sweater, and I am, like, blinded by orange.”

                This isn’t news to me. Steph sits in front of me in Geometry,                     and whenever she passes back papers, I get a full view of her streaky orange                     hands. Still, I know better than to point out that it’s totally old news.                     Kristen doesn’t like being one-upped when she’s telling a story.

                “It’s already bad enough that she has that fried, bleached-out                     hair, but a gross spray tan? Really?” Kristen shakes                     her head sadly. “It was horrible. I mean, she’s like seven feet tall! So she’s                     just this giant orange giraffe who smells bad. Like some weird combination of                     mustard and sweat or something. Seriously, I almost passed out.” She laughs,                     then sighs and adds, “I swear, it was tragic.”

                “Seriously tragic,” I agree,                     tipping the Jell-O shot back until it slides down my throat, weirdly warm and                     cold at the same time. These things are like ninety percent vodka. As it hits my                     stomach, I shake my head hard and grimace.

                Joey claps me so hard on the back I nearly choke. “You drunk                     yet, Chelsea?”

                Yes, actually, I am. More than a little. I turn around to face                     Joey, and the room spins around me. Maybe that last shot wasn’t such a good                     idea. I’m really feeling it now.