Read Speechless for Free Online Page B

me with the cruelest smile I’ve ever seen. Carelessly cruel, which is maybe why it hurts the way it does. I train my gaze straight ahead and sit statue still.
    Lowell shoves his face in front of mine so I have no choice but to look at him. “I think Derek’s right,” he says, all mock serious and wide-eyed. “Hey, maybe at lunch, you can come by our table and suck my dick. Then Derek’s. Then everyone else’s. Think you owe that much to the team after costing us our two best players, don’t you?”
    If I were speaking, I’d retort that the very idea makes me want to vomit, and inform them that contrary to popular belief, guys do talk, and from well-placed locker room sources, I am aware that neither have impressive dick sizes anyway. I’d watch that comment land and saunter away, secure with the knowledge I’d one-upped them both.
    But I’m not speaking, and I’m not used to being on the receiving end of this kind of harassment, and after everything else—my locker, Kristen, the detention—I’m not equipped to fight back. It’s taking every ounce of resolve I have not to crumble under their sleazy smirks.
    I will not cry. I will not cry. Dammit.
    Derek and Lowell laugh, and I carefully stand up, collect my papers and shove everything in my bag. I don’t look back as I walk out, and I don’t stop walking until I’m in the bathroom, locked in the second stall. I sit on top of the toilet seat, drawing my bag onto my lap and wrapping my arms around it. My whole body shakes.
    All I want to do is scream, but I can’t. I can’t. I made a promise to myself. Talking is what led to this mess in the first place. If I hadn’t said anything, no one would have found out Noah is gay, and Warren and Joey wouldn’t have beat him unconscious. If I hadn’t said anything to the cops, they wouldn’t have been expelled and arrested, and I’d still have all my friends. My biggest worry would be the state of my hair at this point in the morning, or what I should use as the topic of my next column in the school paper, not wondering how I will possibly survive the rest of this semester.
    I close my eyes and take deep breaths as the door swings open and two girls come in, chatting away about a Spanish grade, unaware of my presence.
    “Hey, did you hear about Chelsea Knot?” one of the girls suddenly says. I recognize that voice; it’s Allie Dupree, Derek’s girlfriend. I hold my breath and listen hard.
    “No,” the other girl says. “What about her?”
    “Derek’s in one of her classes, and I guess she’s refusing to talk. Like, at all,” Allie explains. “She’s like a mute or something now.”
    “She probably just thinks she’s too good to speak to anyone,” the other girl says.
    “Wow, you really don’t like her.”
    “Chelsea Knot is a total bitch.” The words ring a little louder than they normally would, bouncing off the tile floor and walls. “She’s the one who told everyone that time I got my period and stained my jeans. It was mortifying.”
    I vaguely recall this incident, but cannot for the life of me remember the name of the girl. My stomach twists and I try to push the feeling down. It’s not my fault the girl made the mistake of wearing white jeans that week. Besides, it was funny. Can’t she take a joke?
    “She’s so stuck-up, always acting like she’s better than everyone else in this school,” the girl whose name I don’t remember continues.
    “Except for Kristen Courteau,” Allie points out. “Any farther up Kristen’s ass and she’d be able to see her tonsils.”
    “Poor Kristen,” the other girl coos. “I can’t believe all that happened at her house.”
    They continue talking, but their voices fade as they exit the bathroom, the door swinging closed behind them. I release a long, shuddery breath, willing my heart to stop beating so fast in my chest. Part of me wants to race after them and tell the two of them off, but the larger part of me is rooted to the spot,