I was so not mute.
Jayden’s brows knitted together as he eyed her. “That’s a stupid question, Paige. I just said I saw her talkin’ to Rider.”
“You know what?” Her face scrunched up and somehow she managed to still look good. She twisted toward him, planting her hands on her hips. “Boy, you have enough shit going on, you don’t need to be all up in my business.”
He cocked his head to the side. “Brave words from the chick who’s always all up in mine.”
They were obviously distracted with one another, and as the two bickered in a way that said this wasn’t the first or the last time they would, I pivoted around and eased into the mass of students heading to class.
Are you mute?
My cheeks were burning by the time I reached my class, and the embarrassment quickly festered into anger—mostly at myself. I could’ve said something to her, anything, instead of standing there like I didn’t have a functioning tongue.
And God. She was Rider’s girlfriend. For real. The girl that asked me if I was mute, the girl I’d just stood in front of like a loser, was his girlfriend.
I resisted the urge to bang my head on my desk.
Mute.
I hated that word with a passion.
Everyone had believed I was mute—Miss Becky and Mr. Henry, group home workers, CPS. Even Carl had thought that when he and Rosa first met me. Only Rider had known that it wasn’t true. That I could talk just fine.
But I didn’t speak today.
Dr. Taft had this fancy phrase for why I hadn’t spoken for so long—post-traumatic stress syndrome, he called it, because of...of everything I’d experienced as a small child. Half of our therapy sessions had been dedicated to working on coping mechanisms and ways to combat it.
It had taken so much to get to where I was today, to a point where I no longer felt like I needed the therapy sessions, and a handful of minutes made me feel like I’d taken twenty steps backward. Like I was the Mallory I’d been at five years old, and then at ten, and at thirteen—the Mallory who did and said nothing. The Mallory who just stood there in silence because that seemed like the safest route.
I hated that feeling.
I clenched the pen tight in my hand, ignoring the way my knuckles ached. Tears of frustration burned the back of my throat, and it was hard to focus in my chemistry class, even harder not to cave to the messy ball of emotion, especially when it struck me that I was sitting in the back of the class again.
Not drawing any attention to myself.
*
Keira immediately swiveled toward me the moment she sat down in English class. “Okay. I have a really weird question for you.”
Caught off guard, I blinked as my stomach dipped a little. Was she going to ask if I was mute?
She smiled as she tucked a stray curl back behind her ear. It popped right back out. Bright blue earrings dangled from tiny lobes. “Have you ever thought about trying out for cheerleading?”
I stared at her. This was totally a joke, right? Then I glanced around the classroom. No one was looking at us or holding their phones up, recording this moment for posterity.
“I mean, you look like you’re pretty sturdy. You could be the base or a back spot,” she said, shrugging like she hadn’t just said I looked sturdy. “Look, we’re kind of desperate. Not a lot of girls around here are into it and one of my teammates broke her wrist yesterday in practice, so I thought about you.” She ran her hand down her slim arm, twisting the blue bangle at her wrist. “So what do you think?”
Uh.
“You’re really cute and the blue-and-red uniform would go great with your hair,” she suggested, glancing at the door.
My tongue felt thick and my throat swollen as I reached deep down inside my head and forced myself to live up to all the work I’d done to get to this point. “Um, I’m...I’m not really the rah-rah type.”
One dark brow arched elegantly. “Do I look like a rah-rah type?”
I shook my head, unsure if that was the right answer or not. I had nothing in common with cheerleaders. They were loud and talkative and popular and pretty and about a thousand things I had absolutely no experience with. Then again, I really wasn’t sure if all cheerleaders were loud and talkative and popular and pretty. Keira was the first one I’d ever met, so I was basing my assumptions off movies and books, and Lord knew, the movies and books kind of sucked when it came to stereotyping things.
Wincing, I realized just how offensive my statement could’ve seemed to her. The rah-rah type? Sometimes it was better not to talk.
She laughed softly. “It’s really fun. At least think about it, okay?”
The pen I was squeezing in my hand was seconds away from imploding blue ink all over my fingers. “Okay.”