Whisper

by Phoebe Kitanidis

  “Citizen Stefani, you are not immune from tests just because it’s your birthday.” Mr. J was passing out sky blue half pages to every row. He always copied our quizzes on brightly colored paper, said it gave them more “pizzazz.” “Back to your seat, please.”

  I slunk back to my desk and uncapped a fresh pen. By the time I’d answered every question, I’d managed to shrug off the nagging worry that I was turning into someone else.

  7

  The wind teased my hair as Waverly Lin’s gleaming white ’66 Mustang zipped down Rainbow Street. Parker had folded her small body into the makeshift center seat between her sister and me, while I was jammed into the passenger seat, clutching my colorful bouquet to my chest. Backpacks and shopping bags buried my calves. The sparkly wig peeked out from a Macy’s bag, rippling like some alien sea anemone.

  “So, who’s your date for this party?” Waverly demanded, turning her perfectly made-up face toward me. Unlike Parker, she had a heavy Korean accent, but it never stopped her from speaking her mind. In that, and their slender-boned beauty, the Lin sisters were alike. But while Parker dreamed of becoming the first Asian-American president, Waverly’s sole ambition was to have fun. She went clubbing every night and answered phones by day in her old high school’s main office, her prom queen photo from four years ago proudly displayed on her desk. Just one more example, I thought, of how two people could have the same genes but be from totally different planets.

  “I, um, don’t exactly have a date,” I told Waverly with a little nervous chuckle, bracing for the shocked response I knew would come.

  “What?” Waverly jerked her head back. “All those flowers and no date?”

  I smiled weakly, shrugged. My pathetic love life was something I tried not to think about, let alone discuss. Guys did crush on me, sometimes—thanks to my Hearing I always knew—and I’d go through the motions of flirting. I’d even gone on half a dozen dates, to the movies or the mall…but we never really ended up connecting. Two flat kisses at the eighth grade semiformal summed up my romantic experience.

  Parker was no help. “Maybe you’ll hook up with someone tonight.” She snuck a sly glance at me. “Quint Haverford’s going to be there.”

  I made a face. Quint and I got along great in chemistry, but we had none. My Hearing told me he was not so much into girls—whether he knew it yet or not. “He’s super nice,” I said. “I’m just…not sure we have sparks.”

  “But he’s always talking to you,” Parker pressed. “And he’s totally your type! He’s smart, he’s cool”—she tapped out his stellar qualities on her fingers—“he’s funny, he even dresses well…. God, now that I think about it, he’s perfect for you.”

  “Wow, thanks,” I said, because she was complimenting me, in a way. Saying I was smart, I was cool, etc. But why was she suddenly so into the idea of Quint-plus-me?

  Then I Heard her Whisper, I want Joy to be able to double date with me and Ben!

  Oh.

  My chest tightened at the sudden mental image of Parker and Ben holding hands in the front seat of his Land Rover, while I sat trapped in the backseat with funny, well-dressed Quint. A totally icky feeling…that was totally Icka’s fault. I’d been comfortable with the reality that Ben was out of my class, till she opened her big lying yap this morning and filled me with hope. False hope, I reminded myself. And stupid hope too. Because—reality check—even if Ben were to lose his mind, stop liking Parker, and ask me to be his girlfriend, I could never actually date the guy. She was my best friend!

  Waverly made a sharp turn into my driveway and parked next to Mom’s blue Prius. I banished Ben and Icka from my thoughts.

  “Promise you’ll give Quint a chance tonight!” Parker said, a parting shot as I gathered my things and climbed out. “You never know, sparks could fly….”

  “Yeah, don’t be so picky, Joy,” Waverly added. “Picky girls end up single.”

  I glanced from one Lin sister to the other. They were as different as an owl and a peacock, yet those two girls never missed an opportunity to stand by each other. To support each other. Envy rushed through my veins like caffeine, jolting every cell in my body. No, not exactly envy. It was longing. I missed the days when Jessica and I had faced (or hidden from) the world as a team. Today had made it clearer than ever—those days were never coming back.

  “All right, all right, I can see I’m outnumbered.” I rolled my eyes and grinned to cover my distress. “I’ll flirt with Quint at the party. Who knows, maybe sparks will fly between us.” More likely pigs would fly between us. But the sisters’ approving smiles felt like warm water flowing over me.

  I stumbled through the front door, my arms so loaded with packages I could barely see ahead of me. Our whole house smelled delicious. Vanilla and cinnamon wafted through the air, growing stronger with every step I took toward the kitchen. Judging from the lack of clutter and angry voices, Icka must not have gotten home yet, or else she was safely locked in her room. Good. At the breakfast bar, Mom had already assembled a battalion of vases to hold my birthday flowers. She was arranging them and nodding into the telephone receiver as I entered.

  “Uh huh, yes, definitely.” She looked up at me and winked. “Right, gotta go now,” she said to the caller, and hung up—way faster, I thought, than I ever got off the phone with my friends. “Welcome home, sweetie!” Her flour-smelling hands reached over to relieve me of an unwieldy bag and several bouquets. “Good birthday so far?”

  Before I could decide whether to bring up my mega fight with Icka, the phone rang.

  “Don’t pick that up, please.” Mom smiled a little tensely as it bleated a second time. “It’s just your aunt Jane with more emotional processing. Now I’m sorry if this makes me a bad sister”—she dropped her voice as if the neighbors might be listening in—“but sometimes I just need a break!”

  “Mom. You, a bad sister? You could never be a bad anything.” I patted her soft cable-knit shoulder and shrugged away a creeping sense of guilt. If Mom thought she was a bad sister for dodging one call, what would she think when she heard I told Icka to get out of my life forever? How did Mom manage to keep giving of herself, even to the most difficult people?

  “I’ll call her back soon.” Mom sighed. “Poor Jane.”

  “I know,” I said.

  Mom’s younger sister had always been a star. Whether she was impressing teachers or acing job interviews, she knew how to use her sharp Hearing to her advantage. By age twenty-six, she was VP of sales at a high-tech firm, owned a three-million-dollar home in the hills, and was engaged to a semifamous singer. That, of course, was before.

  We still don’t know the exact details of what happened and why—she doesn’t talk about it much. But we do know that one day, instead of driving home to her mansion in the hills, Jane began driving north. Before she disappeared into the Olympic rain forest, she sent notarized letters to her family and friends, assuring them she was safe, healthy, and of sound mind (though of course they all doubted the last part).

  For an entire decade she lived off the land as a hermit, having little contact with the outside world. Icka and I could count on one hand the times we’d met her in the flesh; she was more a legend to us than an aunt. When she had finally emerged five years ago to rejoin the human race, she looked nothing like the stylish, smiling lady from her old pictures. This Aunt Jane was lean and leathery and serious, her hair streaked with silver. But the biggest change was her Hearing. It was gone.

  Instead of even trying to pick up her old life, Aunt Jane sold her house and moved into a studio apartment near Portland’s Pearl Street. There she’d sit on the floor meditating, reading, or whittling innocent pieces of driftwood into what would become her bizarre “sculptures.” Our family, out of concern, began visiting frequently. I wasn’t proud of it, but I always tried to find an excuse to avoid going along. Sitting in a coffee shop with the new, psychically impaired Aunt Jane was painful. Losing my Hearing was an unbearable thought. Worse than having both arms h
acked off. What could I say to the victim of such a tragedy? Other than “Um, yeah, school’s going well, thanks.”

  It was Icka, who’d always looked up to Aunt Jane, who seemed to know what to say. The two of them just clicked. Aunt Jane never asked Icka how school was going; they talked about the environment and sexism and world politics, like two adults. Two bleak, lonely, broken adults, but still. It was probably as close to a friendship as Icka was going to get in this life, so I didn’t begrudge her it.

  Besides, the terrible truth was I tried very hard these days not to think about Aunt Jane. I didn’t like to think of her, for the same reason I didn’t want to visit her: What had happened to her absolutely terrified me.

  I drummed my fingers on the counter. Moping about Hearing loss wasn’t improving my mood. I needed a distraction, and maybe I could make myself useful while I was at it. I Listened to see if Mom needed my help with anything. Dishes? Mixing batter? Putting the roses in water? Just give me a task.

  But Mom was silent. She just stood there gazing at the phone, as if she too couldn’t get Aunt Jane out of her mind.

  At last, uncertain, I grabbed the scissors and began snipping stems.

  “Oh, hon!” Mom turned and waved her hand distractedly at me. “I can take care of that. Don’t you want to change out of your costume?” Her eyes darted back to the phone.

  I Listened again. Mom wasn’t acting like herself. Was she really worried about her sister this time? “It’s okay, I’ll just take off the shoe—Ow!” I gasped at the sudden sharp, grating pain at the top of my head.

  Mom pursed her lips. “Another headache?”

  I nodded, still catching my breath.

  “If you want to go lie down, I’ve got things covered here.” As if to illustrate this, she turned away from me, bent over the oven, and pulled out a pan of golden brown cakes. “See? Last batch.”

  “But weren’t we going to decorate those together?”

  She folded her arms. “Dr. Brooks said you should rest if you have a headache.”

  “It doesn’t hurt that bad.” It kind of did, but I wanted to stay and help her in the kitchen. She’d taken the whole afternoon off work to prepare for my party. The least I could do was pitch in.

  Mom must have Heard me, though.

  “You help out every day, Joy,” she said softly. “I hope you know how much I appreciate knowing I can always count on you.” She paused and her brow creased, and for a moment I thought she was about to wish that she could count on Dad and Icka the same way. Instead she said, “Honestly, I think I overestimated the workload here,” Mom said cheerfully. “You’re off the hook!” She started transferring a previous batch of cupcakes from cooling rack to counter. Then she dipped a knife into a Pyrex bowl of pale pink frosting and spread it evenly, expertly, across the first cake.

  “Come on, let me do a few.” I ran to the sink and started soaping up my hands. But the sweet cupcake smells I normally loved were making me want to gag. My headache was getting worse. Muscle tension, that’s all it was, I told myself. Don’t think about Aunt Jane or Icka’s stupid warning.

  “Go on, shoo!” Mom made a waving gesture with her flour-dusted hands. “I can handle a few silly cupcakes. If you don’t feel like lying down,” she added, “why don’t you go thank your father for his lovely gift?”

  “But—” That stopped me. “Dad’s home already? Where is he?”

  She gave me a look.

  “Never mind, dumb question.” Beyond eating and sleeping, Dad spent nearly all his time at home in his home office. He even had his old treadmill set up in there and would, when working on a tough case, clear his head by taking a brisk jog to nowhere. I made a face. “Well, at least let me put these flowers in a vase first.”

  I reached to turn the water on again, but she put her hand over the faucet.

  “I can take care of that.” Was that agitation in Mom’s voice, or was it my imagination?

  I was about to insist, but her tone stopped me. If Aunt Jane or something else had managed to upset my super-calm mother, I sure didn’t want to add to her stress level.

  Then it occurred to me. People who were upset almost always Whispered. They wanted things to be different from how they were; that was practically the definition of “upset.” I watched Mom’s knife spreading pink frosting with a surgeon’s steady hand. Her eyes stayed glued to her task, as if the cupcakes were a matter of life and death, yet her mind expressed no desires. In fact, I hadn’t picked up a single Whisper from her since I got home. So she couldn’t be upset, right? She must just be tired, too tired to think.

  Ow, ow, ow. My head felt like someone was probing it with a skewer. “Okay,” I agreed, deflated. “I’ll stop by Dad’s office and then I’ll go lie down.”

  When I was in the doorway, she called after me, “And I do not look tired!”

  I laughed, which hurt my head enough to make me cringe. “Sorry!”

  Some people might think it’s weird to apologize for your thoughts, but in our house it was a normal part of life.

  I let the back door swing behind me as I ran across the dewy lawn.

  Dad’s home office was a blue cottage in our backyard, half hidden behind Mom’s apple trees. Years ago, when we first moved to Rainbow Street, Grammy and Grandpa Stefani had started Whispering that they’d like to move into the “in-law apartment” and be closer to us. I was in favor; the senior Stefanis were energetic and funny, and loved spoiling us girls with oatmeal cookies and zoo trips. But Dad wasted no time installing his cherry corner desk in the main room and spreading his collection of boring, leather-covered law tomes all over it, and Grammy and Grandpa stayed in their duplex in Salem after all, and only came to visit for birthdays and holidays. In fact, after it was finished, they never set foot in Dad’s office. I think they felt hurt.

  Then again, Mom and I rarely found ourselves hanging out here either. Only Icka made a habit of spending time in Dad’s space. She claimed to enjoy their lengthy debates on construction defect law, a topic that always made my brain vaporize.

  No one answered my three polite knocks, so—as usual—I sighed and went in. I almost tripped over the treadmill.

  Dad was at his computer, slumped statue still in his four-zillion-dollar director’s chair, staring at a ceiling beam. (No doubt brooding over a defect in its construction.) “Hi, pumpkin.” He gave a listless wave in my direction. He’d changed into jeans and a U of O sweatshirt, his second uniform after Armani. I caught a Whisper: Sure would be nice to have a BMW.

  A BMW? It was all I could do not to groan at some of my dad’s Whispers. Despite owning a perfectly nice Mercedes, he was forever desiring some other kind of luxury car. Why couldn’t he just be happy with what we had? Or better yet, take TriMet to work, like Mom often did? I just didn’t get his car obsession.

  Then I remembered why I was here and lifted my hair to show off my bejeweled neck. “Dad, thank you so much for the necklace! It’s gorgeous.”

  Finally he looked at me. A shy smile. “Oh, it’s no big deal.” He ducked his head and sipped from a glass of wine barely balanced on a mountain of stiff tan folders. “It’s nothing.”

  Nothing? I blinked. How could it be nothing that he’d remembered my birthstone? That he picked out a special, beautiful present just for me?

  “I’m just saying, I don’t want you to feel any pressure over it,” he said.

  “Pressure?”

  “Like if it’s not your thing, if you don’t actually like it, don’t feel bad.”

  I was mystified. “But I do like it!”

  It was as if he hadn’t heard me. “See, my idea was to give you money,” he said, shrugging helplessly. “So you could choose what you liked best. But your mom, she didn’t think cash was a very warm gesture. What do you think, Joy?”

  I held back a sigh. All our conversations were like this. I never knew what he wanted from me, and I couldn’t even Listen in to find out. His Wishes were all about work, cases, cars, stuff. “I—I don’t kn
ow, Dad…I just wanted to say thanks, that’s all.”

  “Oh. Oh, okay. Well, good. You’re very welcome.” Dad cleared his throat and coughed. “So,” he said. “Uh…how are you?”

  We went through the how-are-you-fine-how-are-you script. Dad’s face was reddening, just from the stress of chatting with his own flesh and blood. Though his gaze was settled on me, his thoughts were already flying back to work: how much research he hoped to get done today, how bad he wanted to win this case. I couldn’t even hold his attention for ten minutes.

  “Looks like you’re swamped,” I said, and pivoted as if to go.

  But suddenly Dad leaned forward, shook his head, and grinned. “Am I ever!” he began. “So much on the docket, Joy, October’s shaping up to be even crazier than September was. I’ve got one deposition Tuesday in Eugene, one in Bend the next day.” He leaned back in the chair and pointed his thumbs in opposite directions. “And those damn repair specs for Winchester, they’re not even eight-oh-three’d yet, and it’s already the seventh….”

  I want to get that new paralegal up to speed ASAP.

  I nodded, blinking to keep my eyes from glazing over. “Uh-huh…?”

  It never failed. My brain spaced whenever Dad spouted legalese, no matter how hard I fought to stay on track. Instead of asking smart questions like Icka would, I caught myself wondering if Ben would wear his ripped jeans to the party, or maybe those tight black ones Parker secretly thought of as “the butt pants.” Then I reminded myself it didn’t matter; there was no point in thinking about Ben that way. But turning off the thoughts was harder now that Icka’s big mouth had made everything complicated.

  “…and then there’s the Tisdale building.” Dad was winding down. “Opposing counsel’s already harassing me with a whole redwood tree’s worth of memos, I swear to you. Demanding ETA, like I could give a meaningful ETA without those reports…”