Silence Is Goldfish

by Annabel Pitcher

  “Why are you calling her Balls?” comes a voice in the crowd. A small boy emerges, half-hidden behind a large pair of glasses. Damian, I think he’s called. A Year Seven.

  “Because she—”

  “You mean he,” Adam corrects Connor.

  “Well spotted. He has stopped talking, hasn’t he? And everyone was trying to figure out why. And then someone set up this anonymous Twitter account and tweeted that it’s because she is actually a he and he’s been hiding it all this time. But he can’t now, can he? Puberty’s made that impossible. There was even a picture. Would you like to see it?” he asks me in a gleeful tone. “Spoiler alert: you look like a dog.”

  “Hey, that’s offensive,” Adam says, “to my Doberman.”

  Connor snorts then snatches my phone, fiddling with it for a few seconds, then holding it up so I can finally see what everyone else has been looking at. Someone’s taken a picture off my Facebook page and posted it on Twitter with the hashtag #SheIsAHe.

  “No!” Mr. Goldfish cries.

  The photo’s from the summer and I look big and bulky and boyish, hair scraped back off my face. I’m on a beach and I’m bursting out of a pair of blue shorts that are bulging at the front. It’s my money belt, the one Jack forces me to wear when we’re abroad, not that you can tell that from the picture.

  Mr. Goldfish cringes. “So that’s why people have been laughing at their phones.”

  “Including Isabel.” The words thud unexpectedly into my mind, followed by an image of a bench on the edge of the courtyard. “Isabel and Patrick were looking at something on Wednesday.” My throat constricts at the thought of my friend being involved. She’s always on Twitter. All the time. Of course she must have seen it.

  “Easy now. Easy does it,” Mr. Goldfish says, and that’s funny because he sounds just like Mum. “You’re okay, Tess. You are. Just breathe.”

  “Have you seen the comments too?” Connor scrolls and scrolls. And scrolls and scrolls. Freak. Trannie. He-she. Man beast. He tosses my phone in the air and catches it neatly. “So that’s why we call her Balls.”

  “Because she’s grown a pair of testicles,” Damian clarifies.

  “No, dickhead. Because the pair he has already got has suddenly dropped. His voice has broken, hasn’t it? That’s why he’s silent. He can’t talk, not without revealing he’s a bloke with gonads and a shed load of testosterone racing round his massive—”

  “Ha! Testosterone!” Adam shouts.

  “Boom! I love it!” Connor yells, firing his finger-gun at my face like he’s just hit the bull’s-eye. “Tess-tosterone. Brilliant!”

  “Rude, you mean.”

  Anna is standing nearby in a bright white shirt with short sleeves that expose her bare arms to the cold November weather. She isn’t shivering though. She’s impervious, taking in Connor with cool, cool eyes and a pulse that doesn’t seem to flicker.

  “Leave her alone.”

  I stare at her, hardly daring to believe my ears.

  “Leave him alone, you mean. She’s a he. You’ve said so yourself loads of times,” he replies, and that’s true, a reminder that I should be wary of this girl unexpectedly coming to my rescue. “Man Skull?”

  “Man Skull was obviously a joke. You know that, Tess, don’t you?” I’m glad no one’s expecting a reply. “What you’re saying is—”

  “The truth. She’s a he. A man. A boy. A bloke with a massive—”

  “It just looks massive in comparison to yours.” She sighs, sounding almost bored by the conversation. “Yeah, that’s right, Connor. Her nonexistent penis is twice the size of the thing hanging between your legs.”

  She waves a dismissive hand, white and elegant, drifting through the icy air.

  “Jog on, Connor Jackson,” she mutters, and he actually does, and I can’t believe how easy she made that look. Maybe Mr. Holdsworth did me a favor in that detention. Changed Anna’s mind.

  “Careful, Tess,” Mr. Goldfish warns, but I turn to her with shiny eyes and lips very tempted to do something forbidden.

  Maybe she senses it, the corners of my mouth twitching up toward the sky. Yeah, she definitely does, because she gives me a rare smile before disappearing inside.

  20

  It’s here at last. Sixth period. The door is hanging half-open, not a clear invitation to enter the classroom but not an explicit message to stay out either. I hover for a few seconds on the boundary, peeking through the glass at my hopefully heaven-sent miracle eating a chocolate chip muffin.

  Mr. Richardson swallows the last mouthful then writes something on the board—with his left hand I realize with a great leap of joy because here it is, yet more proof that we could share the same DNA. His fingers are short, just like mine, and he isn’t wearing a wedding ring. He holds a pen the same way I do, and I copy his actions as he scribbles a sum while chewing the inside of his cheek. It’s not something I do, but I give it a try, and wow it feels totally natural, as if this bit of flesh is meant to be nestled between these two molars. My cheek’s found where it belongs, and maybe I have too I think with growing exhilaration, pushing my face harder against the glass.

  “You can come in, you know.” I’m embarrassed and so is he, rubbing the back of his head. As always, he’s wearing black trousers and a black shirt and a black tie.

  “Perhaps he used to be an undertaker,” Mr. Goldfish says with a giggle, but I think he looks incredible, this man dressed the color of night.

  “It’s nice to see you looking happier, Tess. I’ve heard good things about you. Mr. Holdsworth spoke very highly of your ability in this subject.”

  I have an irresistible urge to work out the sum on the whiteboard, shouting out the answer, maybe even in French to show off my language skills.

  “Ce n’est pas une bonne idée,” Mr. Goldfish says as people start to enter the room, Isabel among them, just one in the crowd for everyone but me. She avoids my eyes, pretending to be deep in conversation with Patrick. It hurts, how easily she’s moved on in a matter of days. I ache for how things used to be. In the library. On our bench. Talking endlessly about everything and nothing. The Lord of the Rings. Isawynka. Mr. Holdsworth’s mugs.

  “The fact that she thinks you’re a lesbian,” Mr. Goldfish adds dreamily and then, “What the hell is your problem?” I’m gripping him hard. “Strangling me, more like. Get off!”

  “You don’t think it was Isabel, do you? She wasn’t the one who put up the picture?” A cold chill creeps down my spine. “She knows my Facebook photos better than anyone. In fact, she’s probably the only person who’s ever looked at them.”

  “I don’t think it was her,” Mr. Goldfish wheezes, but I’m not so sure.

  Tara plonks herself on top of the table next to Mr. Richardson’s desk, swinging her legs as she opens a packet of chewing gum, seeing what she can get away with.

  “What’re you up to this weekend, Mr. Richardson? Anything nice?”

  Mr. Richardson fiddles with the wallet on his desk, no doubt full of all sorts of personal information. I’d be able to figure out where he shops, maybe even where he lives, if he has a driver’s license or something displaying his home address.

  “And also, what the inside of a prison cell looks like when you’re arrested for theft,” Mr. Goldfish whispers. “Get real, Tess.”

  “Well,” Mr. Richardson replies, “I’ll do a bit of grading. Play chess.”

  Tara gnaws away at the gum. “Who do you play chess against?”

  “I play in a league. But this weekend I’ll just be practicing. Me versus me.”

  “How’s that even possible?” Tara asks, chomping the gum. “How do you play with yourself?” She pretends to gasp, clapping both hands over her mouth. “I didn’t mean it like that, I swear!”

  Mr. Richardson has no clue how to respond. I try to come up with a witty answer to transmit to his brain, but I am equally flummoxed. Of course I am. The Richardsons are not people of snappy retorts.

  “Are you allowed that?”
he says at last. “Because I don’t—”

  “This?” She points at her massive gob then beams. “Yeah. Yeah. Year Elevens are allowed gum. It’s one of our privileges.”

  Everyone has arrived apart from Anna. We’re all waiting for the lesson to begin. Trying to make a point without having to make a point, Mr. Richardson removes the cap of a red marker then holds it up to the whiteboard, but Tara doesn’t budge.

  “You’re okay, you are, Mr. Richardson.” It isn’t really a compliment. “You know how to talk to us. More than Mr. Holdsworth. He’s too strict. But you’re sound. Math is going to be all right now. Like, you really get teenagers, I can tell. Okay, this might be totally wrong, but I bet you have kids, don’t you?”

  Mr. Richardson opens his mouth to reply as everything stops. The time. My breath. My heart.

  “One son, yes.”

  Still nothing moves, not the hands of the clock or the air in my lungs or the blood in my veins. Everything is waiting for some mention of me that surely is about to emerge from his lips, but no. He just points at the board with the wrong end of the pen.

  “Okay, everyone. If you just have a look at what I have written on—”

  “I knew it! How good am I?” Tara asks the room at large, oblivious to the mood of growing impatience, and how do you get to be like this, just so wrapped up in yourself that you don’t sense the awkward atmosphere because I would love this particular type of immunity. “You can always tell the teachers who have kids. Mr. Holdsworth—obviously not a dad. I mean, he has no idea how to talk to teenagers, you know? How old is your son? Our age, I bet.”

  “Seventeen. He’s in Year Twelve at Manchester Grammar School,” Mr. Richardson says of this boy who could be my half brother.

  I want to get excited about it, like I really try to imagine hanging out with my older sibling, watching Star Wars with popcorn placed directly between us on the sofa, but I can’t. It’s too obscure and I find that, deep down, I don’t believe it’s true. Any of it. The wave of anticipation that has been building over the past three days comes crashing down then retreats, leaving a vast expanse of absolutely nothing.

  “But anyway, if you wouldn’t mind taking a—the lesson did start ten minutes ago and—”

  “What’s his name?”

  “That’s not important right now,” he snaps.

  About time, too. He needs to take some sort of control because this is getting embarrassing. I miss Mr. Holdsworth and also, with an unexpected pang, Jack. Jack, who takes charge of any situation and makes people laugh and holds court like he’s the judge, not the one being judged as completely and utterly incompetent.

  “Oh, go on.”

  He sighs. “Henry.”

  “Henry… Oh my God, not Henry Richardson?” The hand clapping over Tara’s mouth is genuine this time. “You’re Henry Richardson’s dad?”

  “Henry Richardson?” Sarah gasps from the back of the room where she’s sitting at the only table with two empty spaces, one for Tara and the other for Anna, who still hasn’t arrived. The door frame is waiting for her to fill it; that’s how it looks as it stands, empty and yearning, calling out into the hallway. “You’re Henry Richardson’s dad?” Sarah repeats. “Oh my days. Tara!”

  “I know!” she replies in an equally high-pitched voice, spinning around to look at her friend, who’s craning her neck to return the blazing gaze. This is something wondrous to them, something unexpected and brilliant and truly thrilling, and I catch a dazzling glimpse of their shiny life outside the black school gates.

  Excitement fizzes in the air between the girls as the rest of us breathe oxygen the equivalent of flat Coke.

  “Mr. Richardson, I actually cannot believe this.” Tara’s tone is different, enthralled and reverent. Mr. Richardson senses the change, abandoning the marker pen entirely. “You’re so different than him.”

  “I take it that’s not a compliment.” He laughs, and she does too, and also Sarah, because, oh look at that, she’s standing up at the back of the classroom and racing to join them at the front.

  Part of me wants to, too, but the other part sides with Isabel, angrily making a point of starting the work on the board. She turns to the right page in her textbook with a very fierce finger-flick. She wants to be overheard, and she gets her wish, because they turn to stare at her in unison—three pairs of eyes versus one, and she wins because they look away first.

  “Well done,” Mr. Richardson says with a cough that’s not as embarrassed as it should be. “Look at that, everyone. I’m glad to see someone’s showing some initiative. There is stuff on the board for you to be getting on with, you know.”

  A mood of silent resentment settles over the classroom like black fog.

  “I still can’t believe it, Mr. Richardson.”

  “So, you know Henry, do you?” he says, giving the girls his full attention as I watch from a distance. “Dare I ask how?”

  “Everybody knows your son,” Tara replies. “He’s a hottie. Everyone’s in love with him.”

  “Tara!” Sarah squeals. “You can’t say that!”

  “I’m just telling the truth. He’s, like, the hottest boy in Manchester.” I gouge the date into my book. My so-called brother sounds nothing like me—a Mercury, sizzling close to the sun. “Probably the hottest boy in the north of England.”

  “Well, that’s—well. I don’t quite know what to say. Thank you, I guess.”

  Tara grins. “Thank you. For producing him. Anna! You will never believe this,” she says as her friend finally strolls in, taking ages over it, in no rush whatsoever.

  “Where have you been?” Mr. Richardson tries to ask, but Tara and Sarah are talking over him.

  “Mr. Richardson’s son! Guess who he is!”

  “You will never guess!”

  “Henry,” Anna says, and it’s a statement not a question, as if she thought of the connection ages ago.

  “Can you believe it? They’re nothing like each other, are they? Like, Mr. Richardson plays chess. On his own. How weird is that?” Tara looks dazed that two such opposite creatures could be in any way related. It makes me think of Isabel and her mum and how different they are. Okay, I’ve never met her in the flesh, but I have seen a photo and it’s pretty obvious to anyone with eyes that Isabel is ninety-nine percent her father’s daughter.

  The wave of anticipation swells once more. It’s possible. Of course it is. I mean, some siblings look nothing like each other, especially ones who only share half their genes. Whoever this Henry is, perhaps he’s more like his mum and I’m more like our dad, so we only have a couple of things in common—the same nose and the same freckles that appear in spring then fade in autumn, unlike our bond that, once formed, will stay strong all year round, I just know it.

  Above the classroom, the fog thins to a gray wisp then disappears completely.

  I have to meet him.

  It’s pure, this feeling, ringing out in my body like a brand-new church bell on an unusually clear day.

  “You play chess on your own,” Anna says, sauntering to her place. “That sounds fun.”

  “Oh, it is,” Mr. Richardson replies, ignoring her tone or maybe failing to notice it altogether. No offense to maybe-my-dad, but he does seem pretty clueless when it comes to dealing with teenage girls. It’s something I can help him with, just as soon as he invites me over for tea with Henry in their house that’s probably crying out for a woman’s touch. He clearly isn’t married. Maybe he’s divorced. Or widowed. “I don’t mind it, really, being on my own. I suppose you could say I am a bit of an introvert. Right, shall we get on with some work, girls?”

  The lesson begins at last, but I don’t pay any attention to it, just secretly look up introvert on my phone because it seems important to read the official definition. The words glow in my lap.

  A person who turns inward, retreats mentally.

  I grin before I can stop myself. Another word for a Pluto, then.

  21

  Tomorrow we’re t
aking Gran out for dinner because it’s her birthday, but I don’t want to miss a week of cleaning so I head to her house even though it’s only Thursday, stopping at the supermarket to pick up supplies.

  “Won’t Jack be annoyed?” Mr. Goldfish asks. He puffs out his chest. “Have you forgotten the rules, Tess? Homework out, as soon as you get home.”

  “He’s going shopping after work and Mum’s got a meeting so no one will even know.”

  Normally I’d let myself into Gran’s house and shout that I’d arrived. I ring the doorbell instead. It chimes like a glockenspiel in a fancy orchestra.

  Mr. Goldfish chuckles. “This is a bit formal.”

  “I can’t just burst into the living room unannounced. Gran might be doing something private.”

  I ring the doorbell one more time. Gran doesn’t appear so I have no choice but to step into the hall, banging around a lot in the hope that she will hear me before I knock on the living room door.

  “Tess! Well, this is a nice surprise.” I drop some biscuits into Gran’s lap then squeeze her hand with all the love I can muster. “Or is it Friday?” She scratches her head, looking worried.

  I can taste the words I want to say. They’re comforting, like the warm milk Mum used to give me when I was small that would fill me up and settle me down and make me feel safe. I grab the newspaper off the coffee table and show Gran the date.

  “Thursday. I thought so. I’ll make us some tea, dear. This is a lovely surprise. I don’t normally have any visitors on a Thursday. Barbara used to come, before she went into the home.”

  It takes Gran three attempts to get out of the chair, so I’m suddenly fascinated by the newspaper, hiding behind it as she hobbles into the kitchen. Definitely I am not going to get that old when I grow up is the decision I make as I crouch down on the floor. It isn’t Gran’s fault, the fact that she doesn’t notice these crumbs, or that bit of thread, or the fluff by the fireplace. I have to be on all fours to see it myself. Checking that she’s still in the kitchen, I polish the ornaments with my sleeve, giving the lion a little stroke.