Sound of Silence

by Mia Kerick

Out of nowhere, Kendall leaps on my back, which makes me buckle forward and I almost drop Jackie. I manage to hit my knees without sending my brother flying. Pain shoots up through my legs. While Kendall has me pinned, Flora wrestles the iPod away from me, and I set Jackie down. He starts crying because his music’s gone.

  “Who were you outside with?” Kendall asks, her knees digging into my sides.

  Flora is exaggeratedly cleaning her earbuds, groaning in disgust as if the thirty seconds Jackie and I had them have contaminated them for life. I can still hear distant music.

  “Huh? Huh?” Kendall tightens her hold around my neck. “Tell me.”

  I could body slam her into the tile if I really wanted to get this koala off my back. But I don’t want to hurt her. She might be aggravating as hell, but she’s still my sister.

  I reach out for Jackie, trying to ignore the fact that I’m being tortured into answering. Snot is running out of my brother’s nose, and his eyes and lashes are wet, but his tears are becoming sniffles.

  “Shh,” I whisper to him.

  “Renzy was outside with someone?” Flora asks, giving her Beats one final scrutinizing glare.

  “Yeah,” Kendall says.

  It’s getting so I really can’t breathe, so I shove my shoulders upward, wiggling to get her to loosen her hold. “First thing was he got a phone call this morning. Next thing he’s getting out of a freakin’ Bimmer this evening.”

  “Seriously?”

  I finally have enough motion that I can pry her hands apart. I feel like I’m pulling open a spring-loaded trap. God, this girl has strength!

  But once her hands are off my neck, she gets bored and climbs down.

  “They were in the car for a long time.”

  “Oooh.” Flora grins. “Was it a girl? Were they kissing?”

  “It kinda seemed like they were kissing.”

  Jackie stares at me for a minute, a finger in his mouth, and then a smile spreads his lips. He doesn’t care what his sisters are talking about, he just likes the way they’re saying the words. The fact that they’re teasing me doesn’t even register.

  My family doesn’t know I’m gay.

  I’m not hiding it, but then again, I’m not hiding the fact that I wish I knew how to play the piano either. It’s just that they don’t know much of anything about me.

  If I told the girls, I don’t think they’d care.

  Flora’s best friend is gay, and Kendall’s too busy worrying about Kendall for my coming out to be any great shock.

  But the kiss is still brand-new.

  It’s private.

  It’s all mine.

  So I sarcastically salute the pair of them, tousle Jackie’s hair, and run upstairs. They shout after me, but once I’m past the second floor, they’ve given up.

  It’s just me alone in my room with thoughts of Seven. I put on Adele. The lyrics aren’t right for my mood, but the rich warmth of her voice is all I hear. I open the round pivot window, dig my last joint out of the side table, and collapse in bed.

  Maybe I should have invited Seven inside.

  We could have listened to Adele together.

  Passed the weed.

  Made out.

  All right, I know, I sound greedy. But I’ve gone nineteen years without anything like this happening to me… ever.

  So can’t a guy dream?

  IT’S A long time later. Side A of 25 has been over for a while and I’ve just been lying here, feeling my every nerve ending.

  Thinking…

  Not thinking…

  Remembering…

  Not remembering…

  Floating…

  Sinking…

  I don’t feel good.

  Usually this stuff mellows me out, but I got too high too fast, and now all I can think about is… that time I peed on myself.

  Except I can’t remember a lot of it. Not really.

  The memory pops in and out of my head. When it’s out of my head, I’m calm. I’m quiet. I’m okay. But then it swarms back up, and it sounds like the flapping of birds’ wings, everywhere all around me.

  It was dark. Darker than this. No moon. Pitch-black. Hot. And I was really scared.

  So scared that, well, obviously I lost my bladder.

  I used to be scared all the time, though, so that doesn’t tell me anything about when this would have happened.

  Oh, there, it’s going away again…

  I’m myself. Here. In my bed. Totally fine. Thinking about Seven.

  Seven, Seven, Seven.

  Beautiful, arrogant, asshole Seven.

  I wonder if next time we’ll kiss with tongue.

  Please just shut up Ren-Ren!

  What the hell? Me? Was that person talking to me? “Shut up” is not something I’ve heard much of in my life. But I can swear that’s what they said, and I swear I heard it aloud. Formless, genderless, coming through that hot darkness—whatever was scaring me, whatever made me piss myself, just screamed at me.

  It told me to shut up.

  Oh fuck, I wish I’d come down.

  Chapter Ten: Seven

  ACCORDING TO Newton’s Third Law, for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. Therefore, I’m certain—there has to be a loud and lurid reason for Renzy’s extreme silence. He’s reacting to something serious—something profoundly disturbing and maybe even life changing—that must have happened in his childhood.

  This kind of fact-finding mission isn’t new to me. I persisted in asking Morning every question I could think of about the night she was attacked. Yet, I came away knowing about as much about her defilement as I know about Renzy’s lack of voice. Rien. Nothing. But if I’m going to put these people back together, don’t I have to know precisely what has caused them to fall apart? In Renzy’s case, short of coming right out and asking for the name and number of his psychiatrist, I don’t think I’m going to gain access to the details I need unless I figure them out for myself.

  “Renzy’s lips are sealed about why his lips are sealed,” I say aloud to no one but still stifle a snicker. And since I brought up the topic of my new friend’s lips, I can’t stop myself from becoming momentarily distracted by their wonders. Slim, but pouty, and sweet, yet spicy—and innocent, but very, very dangerous to me. It’s amazing that I gained this wealth of knowledge from one soft brush of my lips to his.

  But did I touch his lips with mine? Or was it the other way around? Who is the tempter here? Which of us is Adam, and which of us is Eve?

  With imaginary scissors I snip in half the endless ticker tape of questions that seems to constantly travel through my mind when it comes to Renzy, as it will only serve to dilute my determination. After briskly clearing my throat, I speak again, this time to my MacBook Air. “And so, I again turn to you, Google.com, to assist me in my moment of need.”

  I sit down at the new-to-me, antique white secretary desk that still needs refinishing, unless I decide to leave it in its shabby-chic condition. I carefully chose this desk at an exclusive antique shop in Midtown, hoping that the allure of its decorative, painted wood might draw me in, and I’d be inclined to spend more time on homework. Hasn’t worked. I open the desk, slide my computer forward, and type my query.

  What are some reasons a teen won’t talk?

  A sufficiently direct query, but it seems, in retrospect, that this is the wrong question. Virtually all of the answers to this question come down to teenage rebellion. There are countless links to discussions about teens giving their parents the silent treatment, the runaround, the worst of attitudes, and then, of course, there is secrecy.

  Time to change the question.

  What are some reasons a person can’t talk?

  Before I even blink, links to the information I need pop up. Wikipedia’s definition of muteness is the first one to catch my attention, cited as “an inability to speak often caused by a speech disorder, hearing loss, or surgery. Someone who is mute may be so due to the unwillingness to speak in certain social situa
tions.” The second part of this answer is what I’m interested in.

  Morning slinks into my room, having just woken up from yet another late-morning nap. She never knocks when she enters through our adjoining doors, which isn’t a problem. I’ve had no need for privacy in my bedroom since the morning I found the shell of my sister in her bed, bruised and broken and staring at a blank wall. What I learned that morning changed everything in my life—my bond with Morning became more intense, my relationship with Rhonda and Edgar more antagonistic, and every aspect of my social life suffered. I could no longer fathom how late-night visits to street corner cafés with throwaway friends, or taking meaningless lovers into my bed, ever satisfied me.

  All that mattered since that devastating morning was pulling my sister out of her pit of despair.

  But now there’s Renzy….

  “Are you actually studying?” Morning holds an apple. She examines it but doesn’t take a bite. “Hell must have frozen over.”

  “I’m not studying. There is nothing I need to study in any of my classes at Redcliff Hills High.” For a second or two longer, I watch her as she sizes up the shiny, red fruit in her hand, and then I return to typing.

  “Well, do tell me what you’re up to, then. The suspense is absolutely killing me.” She yawns. But upon my hesitation, Morning persists. “Exactly what are you working on?” Her sarcasm is thick. She spins the apple around with her long, thin fingers, still studying it as if a piece of fruit could hold the answer to the world’s mysteries.

  “I am researching.” I sincerely wish she’d eat the damned apple. I can see her collarbones poking up from beneath the white T-shirt she wears. “Just not for school.”

  She brings the apple to her lips and opens her mouth, but then seems to change her mind. “Hmmm… are you researching which ballet companies are touring the Midwest? Or perhaps you’re surfing the web in search of the perfect music festival with which to open Renzy’s eyes? Will you start with jazz or bluegrass… or maybe folk?”

  Morning likes to tease me about how cultured I am, but she’s no different. “Neither. And, as much as I appreciate the finer things in life, I’m not ordering specialty cheeses from Beecher’s Handmade Cheese.com or herbal teas from The Crimson Lotus Tea Company, so don’t bother to ask.”

  Morning isn’t one to beg for the full story on any subject, no matter how much she might want it. Without another word, she flops down on my bed and continues to toy with the apple.

  Anticipating the bright sweet taste of the crisp apple, I start to drool. Which brings my mind back to an image of a boy-man’s sweet red lips. Lips that I kissed… or that kissed me. Just once. “If you have to know, Morning, I’m researching mutism. Right now, selective mutism.”

  “Because of Renzy?”

  I nod. “Listen to this: selective mutism is an anxiety disorder that is common in young children. These children cannot speak when they do not feel comfortable.”

  “Hate to break it to you, Sherlock, but Renzy’s nineteen. He’s no kid. He’s a man, older than you, even.”

  I glare at Morning, who has yet to take a bite of the apple, and summarize the next paragraph. “It usually accompanies social anxiety and shyness, and often selectively mute people stay silent even when they’re threatened and embarrassed and openly criticized. But it says in this article that they are, in no way, physically incapable of speech.”

  “But it all comes down to the same thing, doesn’t it, Seven? Renzy doesn’t talk. And if you believe Mom and Dad, silence is golden. I rather think they say that whenever they’re hard at work in the office, doing their best to pretend they don’t have kids. It sounds classier than ‘shut up.’”

  I don’t miss the bitterness in her voice.

  “Well, this is about Renzy, not Rhonda and Edgar. And I want to figure out what happened to cause his silence.” I send my little sister a trademark sly wink and she gifts me with an eye roll. “By the way, if you don’t eat that damned apple, I’ll eat it for you.”

  Morning picks herself up off my bed and saunters to my side. She bends over to get a closer look at the computer, not missing the opportunity to wave the fresh piece of fruit past my nose. After reading for a minute, she says, “This is interesting… listen, Seven: after not speaking for a period of time, and recognizing that students and teachers at school no longer expect him to contribute, the silence becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. I think it has become impossible for Renzy to speak.”

  I think she’s very likely correct, but I don’t validate her assertion with a reply. Instead, I push the top down on my computer and then close the desk. It’s time to get moving. I can’t dwell on Renzy’s lips and the sounds that do not come out of them any longer. “Let’s go for a walk. With all this rain and fog, I’m feeling nostalgic for our walks through the shopping district in London. Remember our trip last spring?”

  “Yes… it was three weeks before my life went to hell.” She stands up and makes a big show of biting into the apple. Juice squirts from the corners of her mouth, and she brushes it away with her bony wrist. “Let me grab my coat.”

  “I THINK I know how Renzy feels.” The ice princess looks adorable swallowed up by her oversized, bright yellow raincoat that I insisted she purchase, in which everybody else I know would look ridiculous.

  “He wasn’t raped, Morning.”

  “No, he wasn’t, but we have other things in common—for example, how we view the world.”

  When we first came to Missouri, I’d been excited about the possibility of snow, but since we arrived here, all we’ve gotten in terms of precipitation has been rain. One morning, huge wet snowflakes fell for an hour or so before it warmed up, but that’s the extent of the winter wonderland I’d hoped for. Now spring rain persists. I take Morning’s arm and hold it tight, because with her hood pulled tightly around her face, she has no peripheral vision, and she tends to wander onto the street. “Tell me what you mean.” A few months ago, she never would have been speaking so openly to me. A few months ago, she was still trapped in her shell of fear.

  “I think he feels like a constant outsider with regard to the rest of the world. Like he’s a kid standing at a window, looking outside at the other kids playing, but can never play with them.”

  I didn’t wear a raincoat today so my hair is plastered to my head. The cold rain dribbles down strands of hair, directly into my eye sockets, but when I manage to take a look at Morning, I can still see her blue eyes flashing this way and that, scanning the road around us, always wary. She isn’t completely over her fear, but considering that it took her nearly two months after being attacked to even leave her bedroom, she’s making progress.

  “And I bet he regrets not being normal, and feels bad about missing out on proms and ball games, and activities like the debate team. You know, stuff that regular kids do. Maybe he wonders what he could have made of his life had he talked and how things would be different for him now.” Morning tugs her arm away so she can tuck her hair underneath the hood. “But why do you care? He’s not the little sister you practically raised.”

  Why do I care?

  “I’m merely curious about what would make a person stop talking, permanently.”

  Morning trots forward a few steps and kicks her respectable, new black rubber boot into a puddle, sending a splash of cold dirty water halfway up my pant legs.

  “Why did you do that?” Again, I merely glare at her. We both know I’ll never retaliate against my sister.

  With this in mind, she does it again. “Because you aren’t being honest with me, or yourself. Seven, face the facts: you aren’t trying to just figure Renzy out. You want to find the key to his secrets so you can unlock his hidden door. And let yourself in… and make yourself at home there.”

  She’s right. That’s exactly what I intend to do.

  Chapter Eleven: Renzy

  I TAKE my time with the letters, gripping the pen between my fingers, feeling each line as I form it. I’m driving Seven insane t
his way. I can feel him nearby, practically vibrating with frustration.

  Yeah, that’s what you get for coming over unannounced, sister in tow, so I can’t even clean up my bedroom for you guys.

  Never mind the questions. Jesus. You’d think I was on a game show or something, except there’s no prize and all the questions are about me. So, I guess not a game show. More like an interrogation.

  Seven lets out a low grumble.

  He’s really impatient.

  Well, I’m impatient too, but not about things like taking the time to draw out my thoughts. I do this daily. I don’t just write in my diary; I meditate on the act of writing in my diary. Sometimes instead of writing about the day, I’ll draw the day. Have you ever drawn loneliness? It takes a while.

  But maybe I’m impatient about other things.

  Maybe I’m impatient that the first time Seven’s in my room, he’s brought Morning with him. Morning is amazing, of course she is. But… right this exact second, I’m not a magnanimous host. I wish she were at the spa again or a Take Back Our Power meeting. I know, that’s horrible. It’s horrible. I’m horrible. She’s my… friend. That’s still so weird and foreign to me. She was my friend before Seven was my friend, even. But if she wasn’t here, maybe Seven would bring up what happened in his car.

  Maybe what happened in his car would happen again.

  We could be making out on my bed right now!

  Instead I’m being interrogated about decidedly unsexy things, and it’s made worse with Morning half listening as she texts someone.

 

  “But you used to speak,” Seven says as he reads my overly formal handwriting. “Right?”

  I nod at him.

  “And then you didn’t. When did you stop?”

  I hold up seven fingers then drop them to go back to the paper.

  “Can’t you write any faster?”

  I want to say, can we possibly talk about something other than me not talking?