The Language of Silence

by Tiffany Truitt

  To be honest, Brett has started a revolution. She’s started one within me. It might just be one that backfires on us, but it’s a revolution nonetheless.

  I should tell her this.

  Today is going to be rough on her. The nauseous feeling I felt the night when Officer Daniels came and crashed our private party has returned. I can’t find her anywhere in the hallway.

  I hang out at Brett’s locker for as long as I possibly can. Not that I worry about being late, but I know Brett wouldn’t dream of it. She actually likes the whole learning thing.

  Maybe she decided to not come today. Maybe she’s sick. Maybe I should ditch.

  The crowd of morons walk by me without a second glance. I’m right back in my proper place. Even the bruises on my face have managed to disappear.

  ****

  I’m sitting in Spanish. Pretty much any class feels like a waste of time at this point. I have my acceptance letter, so who cares what I get in Spanish 3? An acceptance letter I still haven’t told Brett about. Will we see each other when I am away at college? She still has two years left in this place.

  Two years.

  God. This is complicated.

  I am fidgeting. I can’t stop bouncing my feet or tapping my fingers. It feels like a damn Indian sweat tent in this classroom, or maybe like the inside of a jalapeño. That’s a better metaphor to use in Spanish class.

  Brett’s head pops up in the window of the classroom door. She holds a napkin to the door—Sorry, I did not see you this morning.

  I hold up a finger, entreating her to wait. I raise my hand and ask the teacher to use the restroom. “Hey. What happened?” I ask, once in the hallway.

  “Dad made me stop to see the guidance counselor when I got here. Apparently, I have anger issues, or guilt issues, or mourning issues, or something. Just my dad trying to shovel me off to someone else.”

  I nod.

  “So, things here are kind of weird, huh?” she asks, moving her notebook from one hand to the other.

  They are completely normal, but I know she doesn’t want to hear this. As if on cue, a girl who must know Brett walks by and offers her a bright smile and waves. Brett cringes.

  “Want to get out of here?” I ask.

  “Yes. But I shouldn’t. I have a test in Keyboarding.”

  The bell rings and everyone begins filing out into the hallway. I see the look of hope cross Brett’s face. She wants someone to confront her, call her names. But they all smile and ask her how her break was. She wants an identifiable enemy. She wants someone to blame for the whole mess.

  But there isn’t anyone.

  She wants what I have wanted for years—for everyone just to stop pretending it’s all alright. I want everyone to stop pretending these are the best years of our lives.

  Brett is biting on her lower lip, and I wonder if she’s going to cry. I notice her shoe is untied. I sink to the ground. “What are you doing?” she asks, her voice choked with emotion.

  “Making sure you don’t trip and break your neck,” I say as I tie her shoe.

  When I stand up, the look on her face undoes me. Gone are the tears. Her mouth pulls up a little to the side, and I see it’s almost possible for her to smile. And God, the way she’s looking at me. So full of trust. She does love me. I can see it. I grab her cardigan and pull her close to me. I kiss her right in the middle of class change.

  “Want to come over this afternoon?” I ask, wanting to be alone with her. She nods. “Good.”

  ****

  Lunch.

  The rest of the day has gone as it has always gone. I am about to tear into my bag of Fritos when I hear the chair next to me pull out.

  “Hello there, sweetie.”

  Evelyn.

  “What? No kiss? I didn’t hear from you all break. I’m starting to think you aren’t interested in me anymore,” she whines.

  I hadn’t called her. She hadn’t called me. I understood that as high school talk/lack of talking for “we’re done.” She can’t be serious. Can she? She’s laughing. Scratch that. She’s laughing at me.

  “Calm down, Ed. I’m just joking. Your face looks good. Can’t even tell you got owned,” she teases, snatching my bag of chips from my hand and opening them.

  “Do your friends know you’re over here talking to me?” I ask, raising an eyebrow. It’s funny, the sick, nauseating, nervous feeling that I’ve carried around inside me all day disappears. I reach forward and steal a chip from the bag she has taken hostage.

  “Of course. They think I’m breaking up with you. I told them you’ve been calling me day in and day out to explain what happened at Kevin’s party,” she sing-songs.

  “I’m quite persistent,” I reply dryly. I sigh. “Listen. About Kevin’s party...”

  She holds up her hand. “Please, don’t attempt an apology. I couldn’t bear it. Besides, it would tarnish this image I have of you in my mind.”

  I choke on a chip. “You have an image of me in your mind?”

  “Yeah, you’re sort of a badass, Ed. It’s kind of a shame, you know, your sudden realization of your Brett obsession. I was kind of having fun.”

  “I didn’t have such a bad time myself,” I admit after a long silence.

  “Can I be honest with you?” she asks.

  I look over at her table of friends, the table that fought over claiming me and my grief a month ago. “Sure. I think you can prolong this breakup a few more minutes. Then it’s right back to same old, same old.”

  “Stop,” she whispers, “you’re gonna make me laugh. Breakups are not about laughing.”

  “Sorry,” I reply. I smile a little.

  “Listen. You like Brett, right? I mean, like, adore the ground she walks on and stuff?”

  I nod.

  “Then you should break up with her.”

  “Can’t quite say I understand your reasoning,” I counter, snatching back my bag of Fritos.

  “You’re kind of a mess, Ed. You’re going to ruin that poor girl. Hasn’t she been through enough?”

  I swallow. She’s wrong. I have it all under control. I try to ignore the anxiousness that has found me again. “You can go now,” I mumble.

  “Fine. But when you’re ready to screw it all up, come find me.”

  I shake my head. A layer of sweat covers my forehead, and for some strange reason, I feel guilty. “Don’t think your friends would like that much.”

  Evelyn bites on her bottom lip and her eyes twinkle with delight. Whatever this is to her, she’s enjoying it. She leans in close to me and makes a promise that any teen boy would kill for. “Please. I’ve been keeping secrets from them since the moment I learned to talk. I wouldn’t tell a soul.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Brett:

  I wasn’t in the guidance office this morning. In fact, I told my dad school started a half hour earlier than it really did. Not like he knew anything about school start times.

  I was a girl with a mission. A new mission.

  My brother killed himself. Something really bad must have happened to him. My brother would never do something so rash, so selfish, unless he had a good reason.

  I knew Donnie was an early bird as well. He was the copy-editor for our school newspaper. He liked to work in the quiet—that special time where the newsroom is actually about news and not the collective hum of guarded whispers about who was sleeping with whom.

  I was waiting for him when he arrived. When he saw me, he stopped short. He gave me a curt nod and went to the computer.

  I wouldn’t back down.

  I got up and pulled out the seat next to him.

  “Can I help you?” he asked, clearly annoyed, his voice tight.

  “I hope so.”

  He swiveled his chair to face me and crossed his arms. His defenses were already up. I can’t say I blamed him. “I was hoping you could tell me about my brother,” I said. It hurt to have to ask this question.

  It hurt worse than I thought was possible.

>   “Tristan Jensen? Died in a drunk-driving accident at the age of seventeen. Survived by two parents and a sister. Loved by everyone.”

  I took a deep breath. “I wasn’t asking you to recite his obit.”

  “Oh, the real Tristan Jensen? You mean the dick who pounded my face in?”

  “Yes. That Tristan Jensen,” I replied quietly.

  “Can’t help you. I told you all I know. He was loved by everyone except me. He died. The end.”

  I place my hands in my pockets. They had started to tremble. “So, you’re telling me you two didn’t have something going on?”

  “Excuse me? What the hell are you talking about?”

  I looked around the newsroom to make sure we were alone. It still didn’t feel like my secret to tell. I licked my suddenly dry lips. “You have to have known my brother was gay.”

  Donnie froze. He eyes widened for a second and then they narrowed. “Is this a joke?”

  I shook my head. “I’m sorry I wasted your time,” I mumbled. I moved to leave and meet Ed at my locker, but Donnie grabbed me by the wrist.

  “Your brother was gay?”

  I opened my mouth to speak several times, but nothing would come out. I closed my eyes and counted to five. After a deep breath, I said what was so difficult to say. “Yes. He was gay. He killed himself.” I do not know why I told him that last part.

  “And because I’m gay, I’m supposed to have not only been involved with him, but also know why he ran his car into a tree?”

  I felt a little dumb when he put it like that. And I was dumber for thinking that admitting the truth would have gotten my brother the tiniest bit of sympathy.

  “Wow. Do you know Brandon West?”

  Yes, I knew Brandon West. He was a known perv. He had a reputation for being a little handsy on dates. I nodded.

  “Well, good. You’re heterosexual and he’s heterosexual…maybe you should let him put his hands down your pants the next time you see him. Might make class a hell of a lot more interesting.”

  I swallowed down the lump in my throat. “I deserved that. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have bothered you.”

  “No. You shouldn’t have assumed because I am gay I have all the answers to the whole big Fag world. There’s not a handbook, you know. Just as I assumed there’s no handbook on how to date Edward Vance without ending up royally screwed.”

  “There’s no handbook,” I muttered.

  “You also shouldn’t have assumed I give a damn about your brother,” he continued as if I hadn’t spoken at all.

  “Well, I do give a damn,” I snapped back.

  Donnie released my wrist.

  “I needed some answers, alright? I’m sorry that my need to discover why my brother ended his life ruined your morning. I just thought maybe you would understand a little of what it might have been like for him.”

  Donnie heaved a heavy sigh. “Look. I’m sorry I can’t help you out. But have you ever thought of the fact that you’re dating your brother’s best friend, and maybe he has some of those answers you’re searching for?”

  Of course I had thought about it. I just knew Ed had no desire to talk about my brother. And I was pathetic enough to care more about my relationship with Ed than finding the information I needed.

  Perhaps because my brother was dead, and Ed’s heart was still beating.

  When I left the newsroom, I shut myself into a bathroom stall. I felt guilty for caring more about Ed than my brother. I felt sad when I thought that our relationship was not as intimate as it should be.

  How much were we both keeping inside of us to save this relationship?

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Ed:

  “Oh. My. God.”

  Brett seductively, painfully seductively, pulls her hand to her hip. She raises her eyebrow, biting on her bottom lip before she replies. She’s doing this on purpose, and a part of me loves her for it. “What?” she asks, feigning innocence. “Don’t you like?”

  “Um…I…well…it’s definitely…” I stammer like a character from a Stephen King novel about the horrors of adolescence. I wonder if I stare at her long enough, desperately wanting her to stand just as she is and wanting to hide her from the world, if I would develop some odd affliction like telekinesis. I always thought that Carrie girl never knew how good she had it. I could use that power tonight.

  Through her siren-like powers, Brett has convinced me to attend the town’s founding ceremony. Every February, in lieu of observing Valentine’s Day, the good people of Wendall dress in their Sunday best, sit down to a three course meal in the refurbished town hall, and look the other way as their children sneak sips of champagne while they make back-room business deals and congratulate each other on keeping patriarchy alive. All in the name of Wendall.

  While Brett and Tristan attended this event since they could walk, the founding ceremony was invite only and, somehow, I never made the list. Last year, Tristan texted me pictures all night of the most ridiculous things. The school principal furiously wiping at his mom’s breast after accidentally bumping into her with his fourth glass of wine. A shot of Brett attempting to throw a paper airplane into the two-feet-high hair of Evelyn’s mother.

  But Brett Jensen, who now claims my world as much as I claim it myself, convinced me to attend this year’s event with her. And in true Brett fashion, she can’t just do anything normal. Instead of wearing some simple cocktail dress, Brett has decided to attend the event wearing an extremely authentic replication of a civil war era dress. Gone with the Wind on drugs.

  The skirt, which I have been informed contains many petticoats and wiring to make it poof out like a parachute in an elementary gym class, is a pale pink. Brett points out the golden leaf embroidery that runs across the hem. “If things get too bad, you can always hide underneath it,” she teases.

  It’s the top part of the dress that leaves my throat dry. A mixture of white lace and sheer fabric, it fits snugly against her chest. Super snugly. Because her boobs are huge. The corset, while I’m told is a misogynistic tool used to cage women like birds, does wonders. Her chest heaves every time she talks, and it’s damn near impossible not to—

  “You’re staring at my breasts again, Ed,” Brett chastises, though she’s grinning like a fool.

  “You’re lucky I’m not drooling on my Macy’s suit,” I counter. I don’t mention it’s the same suit I wore to her brother’s funeral. I figure it might ruin the mood.

  Brett walks over to me and straightens my tie. “Does that mean you like it?” she purrs, batting her eyes.

  I grab her by the waist and pull her close to me. She yelps slightly. “I’m ready to time travel whenever you are.”

  “You’re staring again,” Brett says, a slight blush to her cheeks.

  “Isn’t that the point of all this?” I ask her, my voice suddenly husky. My mind contemplates how long it would take to remove the ensemble.

  She shakes her head, slips her hand up my chest, and places it on my cheek. “No, good sir. The point of this was to send them a message. This town is completely stuck in the past. So, I’m giving them exactly what they want. I want them—”

  I can’t stand it any longer. I press my lips against hers, stopping her ideological speech before it really starts. My hands maneuver themselves up the bodice of her dress, and I’m only seconds before reaching the promise land when my mom calls from downstairs that we’re going to be late.

  I really need to talk to her about her timing.

  “You’re not worried they’re all going to laugh at you? I mean, don’t get me wrong, you’re beautiful, but not exactly the typical attire for such an event,” I ask, tucking a curl of her black hair behind her ear that has come loose from her artfully done bun.

  She leans closer to me and presses her forehead against mine. “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.”

  ****

  Thirty minutes. That’s all the time we get together, and that includes the twenty minutes it took to get Brett
in and out of the car. Brett is whisked away by adult after adult inquiring about how her family is doing and reminding her of how sorry they are for her loss. Not a single person remarks on her choice of dress. I can tell it disappoints her. Her shoulders slump. Her smile wavers. And she looks at me with such sadness that I want to scream at them till they leave her alone. But she doesn’t want to be left alone. Not really. She wants them to listen to her. She just doesn’t know how to get them to see she’s speaking.

  I text Brett to let her know I’ll be sitting on the patio whenever she can break free. I can’t stand the clinking of champagne classes and the smell of caviar. I don’t belong here, and unlike Brett, I don’t need to make some sort of political statement.

  Despite it being February, the cool air feels good against my skin. I loosen my tie and lay my head back against the chair. I have a feeling it’s going to be a long night. I’m close to drifting off when someone pulls the chair next to mine out from underneath the table.

  I sit up to find Georgina next to me. She’s stunning, but this isn’t a surprise. She’s always looked like she stepped out of an Abercrombie and Fitch catalogue. Tonight, she’s wearing a short blacksequined dress with cuffed sleeves. A bit vintage. Totally hip. Her hair has that messy look that probably took hours to perfect. Upon closer inspection, I notice something—the dark circles under her eyes.

  “Last place I thought I’d see you.” Her voice doesn’t attempt pleasantries. I can hear her disdain loud and clear. “Shouldn’t you be in a bathroom or car dry humping someone?”

  “Ahhh, Georgina, don’t be jealous. You’re the only girl I take into bathroom stalls.” I’m surprised by how quickly I sink to her level. It comes too easily for me these days. I wait for Georgina’s counter-attack, but she’s quiet. If anything, the color has drained from her face. I clear my throat. “Is there something you need?”

  She swallows. Hard. Takes a deep breath. “I want to know why.”

  “Why what?”

  Her eyes move from my face and she stares out hard into the night. “Why did you use me?”