Read Speechless for Free Online

before class.
    “A vow of silence?” he says dryly.
    I nod, fiddling with the strap of my bag. Mr. Callihan has never liked me much, but that’s okay because I don’t like geometry, either. It’s my worst subject, and the most boring. I typically sit in the back next to Megan and talk to her as much as I can before Mr. Callihan threatens me with detention. My hope is he’ll be so keen on the prospect of me shutting up during his lectures that he won’t ask a million questions about why I’m keeping quiet. The last thing I want to do is try to explain. It’s why I came prepared with the note.
    “Well.” He sighs. “You’re lucky I don’t grade on class participation.”
    I take my usual seat next to Megan, who is diligently copying down the warm-up problems in her notebook, all of her attention focused on what she’s writing. She glances at me as I swing my backpack onto my desk, and then just as quickly averts her eyes again. I know she has to have heard what happened; everyone has. It even made the front page of the Grand Lake Tribune. Sure, the article didn’t include the dirty details or mention me by name, but too many people witnessed my scene in Kristen’s kitchen to keep my role in everything under wraps, and I’m sure Kristen didn’t hesitate to fill in the blanks with her own revisionist history designed to paint her in the most flattering light. And I know the gossip grapevine well enough to know how fast that story would’ve traveled.
    Geometry goes okay, all things considered. Everyone acts like I’m invisible, which isn’t so surprising. All of my friends hate me now for turning in two of our own, and everyone else hated me already. The few who didn’t have no doubt heard the story and blame me for what happened to Noah. Mr. Callihan doesn’t call on me, but when the bell rings and I pack up my stuff, I can tell he’s watching.
    Invisible is preferable to what I get in next period, American Lit. Mrs. Finch is far less accommodating of my voluntary silence. When I show her my note at the beginning of class, she sends me straight to the guidance counselor, Ms. Davidson.
    The only time I’ve ever set foot in Ms. Davidson’s office was to fix my schedule—freshman year I’d picked French for my mandatory language credit without consulting Kristen, who’d chosen Spanish, so I went and convinced Ms. Davidson to let me switch over. Even though I’d been kind of excited about taking French, imagining that one day I would utilize it while showing my spring collection during Paris Fashion Week, it was more important to share as many classes with Kristen as possible. High school was now; my career in fashion design would come later, and there was always Rosetta Stone.
    Ms. Davidson sits behind her desk and reads the note I provide, hmm -ing under her breath. She’s quiet for a while, longer than what’s necessary to read my explanation. Poor Ms. Davidson. I can tell she’s mentally reviewing all of her training and schooling to see if there’s something she’s learned that is applicable to my situation, some proper protocol for dealing with the voluntarily mute. I’m pretty sure they don’t make pamphlets for that.
    “Chelsea,” she says finally, “what is it you hope to accomplish with this?”
    I shrug one shoulder and stare up at the ceiling. Even if I could explain it to her, I don’t want to. She wouldn’t understand. I don’t know what the big deal is. No one wants to hear what I have to say anyway. Not Kristen, not my teachers. Not even my parents. After I explained to them what happened that night, they looked so completely let down by me I thought I would be crushed under the weight of their combined disappointment.
    Running my mouth has hurt enough people already—the least I can do is shut up. Why can’t everyone see I’m doing the world a favor?
    Ms. Davidson sets my note down on her desk and folds her hands on top of it. “Well, I can’t force you to talk to