Silence

by Deborah Lytton

  When the class is over, I slide my book into my backpack. I move into the hallway and go with the flow toward my locker. The irony is that now I am more popular than ever. But I can’t enjoy it. And popularity no longer matters to me.

  On the way to my locker, Kace stops me. Gives me a hug. The drama crowd is very touchy feely. He tries to tell me something; I can’t understand him. I shrug and shake my head. He writes it down instead.

  So happy to see you back. I missed your smile.

  I am warmed by his compliment. And it makes me smile. Big and wide. For the first time all day. Kace grins back. For a split second, we are back on stage in the spotlight. Tony and Maria. In love.

  Then I remember. And the color in the hallways dims. Fades. My headache pounds once again.

  He writes something else down and hands me the note.

  Want to eat in the drama room?

  “Maybe tomorrow,” I answer. I’m self-conscious of my voice. Its volume. Sound. Quality.

  But Kace nods. He winks, and then moves away into the crowd of students. I have just rejected lunch with the King of Drama. A few weeks ago, that would have been a dream come true—to be a sophomore invited into the senior lunch crowd by the King himself. But it no longer matters.

  I would rather stumble through lunchtime with Emerson and her friends than pretend with Lily or Kace. And that is exactly what I plan to do.

  Another reminder of how much I have changed.

  When I reach my locker, Hayden is leaning against it. Wearing jeans and a white long-sleeved shirt he has left untucked. His hair is brushed back off his face. His eyes have never looked so dark. Like the sky just before the stars come out. Suddenly, I can breathe.

  “You inspire me.” His words are as clear as if I heard them.

  I take them in. Place them in a special place where I can remember them over and over again. His gaze holds me.

  “Would you like to eat lunch with me?” he asks. Formally. Politely.

  I smile. No words are necessary.

  I am pulling my lunch bag out of my locker when Lily arrives with a full posse in tow—three cheerleaders and one sophomore. She takes one look at Hayden and then turns to me. Eyebrows raised. Waiting.

  This is Lily giving me time? She doesn’t understand waiting. Delayed gratification isn’t her thing. She’s a here-and-now girl. I know she expected me to eat lunch with her and that everything would go back to the way it was. I would be added to the posse, another member of her entourage. The silent girl. Seen, not heard.

  Before, I would have gone along, but now, I take a deep breath. I must speak in front of all these people without knowing how I sound. I let the air out slowly.

  “I’m eating lunch with Hayden.”

  Lily’s eyes widen. Then narrow. A brief hint of sadness crosses her face before vanishing. She tosses her blonde curls.

  She says something I can’t understand, then she turns and walks away. The entourage follows closely behind her pink heels.

  I am left standing in front of my locker, grounded in my red Converse sneakers. I seek Hayden’s eyes; I swim in them for a moment, soaking up the appreciation I see there. For choosing him.

  Hayden and I walk together to the far side of campus to a large grassy area with trees. On the way, I see Emerson sitting with her friends on the ground near the front entrance of school—the area reserved for freshmen. Before I can tell her I am eating with Hayden, she jumps up to meet me. She grabs my hand and squeezes.

  Since the accident, Emerson and I have grown as close as when we were little. Now we, too, can communicate without words. She is happy for me. She understands. I squeeze her hand back to thank her. She lopes back to her friends. Her stride is graceful, musical. Emerson turns back to look once more. Waves at Hayden.

  We sit underneath the largest tree. All alone. I sink to the ground, suddenly exhausted. I am no longer hungry.

  Hayden pulls a sandwich and apple out of his backpack and begins eating right away.

  His face is more angular with his hair pulled back. His scar more noticeable. I watch him twist the apple stem. I think of my name game.

  I finally ask the question I have been wanting to ask. “Don’t your friends mind you eating with me?”

  Hayden twists his lips. “They might. If I had any.”

  I don’t understand. “You have friends.” Of course he does.

  He shakes his head. “Only you. You are my friend, aren’t you?” His eyes sparkle. He’s teasing me, I think, but without hearing the inflection of his voice, I can’t be sure.

  “I’m your friend,” I say. Friend. A word laden with so much meaning, but it’s missing something. I ache for that something—something I never wanted before.

  This bittersweet pain is an unfamiliar feeling.

  Hayden’s eyes drop to the ground. He studies the laces on his sneakers. “This is the first time I haven’t eaten lunch alone.”

  I read the words on his lips without seeing the expression in his eyes. When he finally raises his gaze to mine, there is the vulnerability again. I understand.

  Without thinking, I reach out and touch his cheek. My fingers brush his skin. He is warm and cold at the same time, like fire and ice. Sun and moon. Day and night. Love and loss.

  I catch my breath. His hand reaches up and wraps around mine. I am spinning, like a leaf in the wind at the mercy of a force greater than myself. Falling. Only suddenly, I’m no longer afraid. Because I know that when I land, Hayden will be there to catch me.

  We stay like that. Hand in hand. Connected.

  “Close your eyes,” he tells me.

  Like at the beach. Hayden wants me to use my senses. To open my mind to possibilities. The difficulties of today have left me locked inside my bubble of silence. Hayden is opening the door. Letting in the fresh air. Coaxing me outside.

  I close my eyes. Open my mind. Free myself.

  The spring air teases my hair, lifting it off my shoulders. I can smell orange blossoms and new grass. Hayden’s hand is warm, secure. I open my eyes. Hayden offers me a handful of trail mix. I bite into the raisins and nuts. Crunchy and chewy. Sweetness bursts in my mouth.

  I see Hayden watching me. Waiting.

  I am so grateful to him for bringing me back to myself. We sit there quietly. Touching. Being.

  Then Hayden speaks. “There we two, content, happy in being together, speaking little, perhaps not a word.”

  He watches me as the words sink in. Touch me. Move me.

  “It’s Whitman.” He shrugs. “Speech therapists love poetry.”

  It’s not the first time he has talked about his speech. Hayden reveals himself in bits and pieces. I have to put them together to understand him. I want to ask about speech therapy, gather more of the pieces, but there isn’t time. Behind Hayden, students are gathering their things. Lunch must be over.

  That means it’s time for drama. My stomach churns at the thought of passing through the red doors. I’m not sure I can do it. I pick up my uneaten lunch. Open my backpack. Put the lunch inside. Stalling for time.

  I am planning escapes instead of facing this challenge. Maybe I should go home early. Maybe I should change electives. Maybe it was too soon to come back. Something warm brushes against my shoulder. I look up. See Hayden. Like a soft summer breeze coaxing me into the sun, he reaches out to me. Without words or movements. I know he understands. Somehow, he knows. And just like that, the doubts fade. I am left with a clear, conscious focus. To move forward. And to have the courage to face my fears.

  He leaves me at my locker. “See you later,” he promises.

  I want to call him back before he disappears into the crowd. To ask him to shepherd me through the red doors. To be with me.

  But I don’t, really. Because this is something I must do myself. I breathe in deep. Put one foot in front of the other. And move down the hallway toward drama.

  When I arrive at the crimson doors, I stop. There, right in front of me, is my poster. I have made the
wall. And there, I am Maria. Forever.

  The poster doesn’t make me cry like the last time I saw it. Seeing it here, like this, I am proud. Proud of my work, my talent. It is with that burst of strength that I open the doors and walk through. Because I belong here. I have earned my place here.

  The class is seated in the mini-theater, a small stage used for plays and other more intimate productions. This is the area where we perform pieces and suffer critiques, first by Mr. Preston, and then from the class. When I enter the back of the room, I look around for an empty seat near the back. Kace sees me and motions from the back row. He has saved me a seat next to him. Quinn is seated on the other side, playing with her cell phone. I slide next to Kace.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  He nods. Quinn looks up, and her expression is one I have never seen on her—an actual real smile. Directed at me.

  “Hi,” I tell her.

  Class begins. I can read the words Mr. Preston speaks on my smart phone. There are mistakes in the translation, like “Blonde will be the first ringer pup” instead of “John will be the first singer up.” But I get a good idea of what is happening.

  That is, until the students each stand and begin singing. Then the app goes crazy. It can’t follow the rhythm of the music. I give up and watch their body language to see if I can understand the emotions they are conveying. It’s a new way of watching performances. I try to learn from what I see. I imagine using more body language and facial expressions in my performances. Kace writes me a note.

  Mr. Preston probably sounds better on mute.

  I write back. Especially when the app gets his words wrong.

  I show him my phone. Kace slaps his hand over his mouth to keep from laughing out loud. He writes back. That’s priceless.

  I watch Quinn on stage. Her arms open wide, face upturned. Mouth filled with a song I cannot hear. I am useless here. Unable to perform, I can’t use my talent. I can’t even comment on others’ performances.

  Someday Broadway, I think wistfully.

  What is she singing? I write to Kace.

  “Defying Gravity” from Wicked.

  Oh, I love that song. I look back at Quinn. A deep ache courses through me. I want to be up there filling my lungs with air, breathing out emotion. Song.

  I remember the power flowing through me. Bursting out like fireworks. Lighting up the stage, the theater. With color.

  Now I sit.

  Silent.

  I don’t write any more notes to Kace. I just stare at the other performers. Pretending to watch. But I see nothing. Hear nothing. I am invisible.

  My loss has never been as painful as in these moments. In this class, which was once the center of my world. The center of me. Can one grieve the death of a dream? Is that what I am doing now?

  When the clock finally reaches three o’clock, I am free. I stand and reach for my backpack, happy to escape.

  “See you tomorrow,” I tell Kace.

  He stops me with a hand on my arm. Then gives me a leading man smile, sparkling eyes. He seems like he wants to tell me something. I pause for a moment, out of politeness. Sometimes being polite is a negative trait. It makes you do things you would rather not do. Like stay when I want to leave. Kace scribbles something on a slip of paper.

  He hands it to me with a wink. Lunch tomorrow. You promised.

  Speaking

  the unspeakable

  — Hayden —

  School has always been a prison, a place where people judged me, laughed at me, and asked questions I didn’t want to answer. Until today.

  Because today, for the first time in my life, I belonged. I belonged with her. Stella forces me to come out of the shadows—to be seen, to connect.

  Speaking to her, I am free. I am free to be myself. Reciting poetry in a tone so smooth it would make my speech therapist proud—envious, even. Stella’s silence has given me a voice. A way to communicate with words but without sound. Who would have thought it was possible?

  Today, I saw how strong Stella is—willing to attend classes where everyone else can hear what she can’t, willing to walk hallways with people pointing and talking about her, willing to walk away from her best friend because she isn’t the same person anymore.

  Stella inspires me with her courage. As though by being near her, some of her fearlessness might touch me and make me more like her.

  I haven’t admired many people in my life. Only my grandfather, President Lincoln, and Stella. I never knew my dad. My mother couldn’t even remember his name, let alone where to find him, and there was nothing admirable about her. To my grandmother, I was grateful. But there was something about her—maybe in the way she spoke or in her mannerisms—that reminded me of my mother. It wasn’t until she died that it was safe for me to speak. And then only to my grandfather. I admire him—his gentle ways and his optimism, his faith, and, of course, his many talents. For seeing the unseen and speaking the unspeakable. We don’t speak of love, my grandfather and I.

  My mother said she loved me. Right before she split open my chin.

  I have the memory engraved in my skin. A reminder in case I ever forget.

  At the end of the day, I look for Stella. The hallways are crowded, but I can always tell if she is near. My senses become heightened in those moments. Sounds are defined, smells more distinct, my sight acute. She has this effect on me.

  I see her near the far doorway, and her sister Emerson is with her. Students wave at Stella. She waves back. She makes it look so easy, making friends. I meant it when I told Stella she was my only friend.

  When I was young, I was afraid to make friends because they might find out my secret. Later, when I stopped speaking, I repelled other students. I was the freaky kid no one wanted to stand next to or sit near in class. I ate lunch alone every single day. Lunch I had usually made myself. Lunch was the worst time of the day for me because that was when everyone else had someone. Everyone except me. Eating lunch alone wouldn’t be so bad if you weren’t the only one. Then it’s worse. Then it’s like a banner over your head reading LOSER. Once you have that moniker, you can pretty much guarantee the rest. My journey hasn’t been a meandering path, but a climb out of the mouth of a volcano. Someday, I will understand why.

  Gramps likes to say that it is the way we overcome obstacles that defines us. But what happens if we don’t overcome the obstacles? What if we become the obstacle itself?

  Stella and Emerson exit through the door together, and I watch them go before I turn toward the parking lot. I am expected at the nursery for a couple of hours after school. Then I will stop by Stella’s house. I have a surprise for her.

  14

  — Stella —

  After dinner, I help my mom wash the dishes. Emerson finishes her homework on the computer. The kitchen is my favorite room. It’s peaceful in here. Mom rinses while I put the dishes in the dishwasher and tell her about my day.

  I still can’t understand my mom, but I have learned how to read her face. So when I say, “I didn’t eat lunch with Lily today,” her eyes widen with understanding.

  “It’s not the same,” I explain. Mom nods. She writes something on the pad on the counter.

  Give yourself time.

  “Okay,” I tell her. “I will.”

  But she doesn’t know. Time has already driven me and Lily apart. I have been replaced by a posse of populars. Time is my enemy. Each moment that ticks by takes me farther from the life I had. Moves me into a future I don’t recognize. The unknown scares me. I resist it even as I know I have no choice. I must learn to see myself differently.

  Just like Hayden said.

  Emerson brings Hayden into the kitchen. He looks taller in our house. More golden. As if the room has been lit by his presence.

  He’s holding a bag of groceries in his arms. I smile and cross the room to greet him.

  “Hi,” I say. It seems inadequate. Too small for all the things he makes me feel.

  His eyes rest on me, and for a long moment
, we just gaze at each other. Silent. Like we are the only two people in the room.

  Then my mom reaches over and hugs Hayden. It is how she always greets him. He gestures to the bag. “Would you mind if we used the kitchen?”

  She answers him with wide open arms. I imagine she is saying, “It’s all yours. Just clean it up when you finish.” Then she leaves.

  “We’re cooking?” I am surprised. This is the last thing I expected.

  He tilts his head to the side. “Baking, actually.”

  “Is chocolate involved?” I ask as I take the bag from him and set it on the counter.

  Hayden reaches into it and begins unloading. Flour, sugar, brown sugar, eggs, chocolate chips, and butter.

  “Let me guess,” I offer, considering the ingredients. “Chocolate chip cookies?”

  “You must be an expert.”

  I take a couple of mixing bowls out of the cabinet, then preheat the oven. I show Hayden the drawer with the measuring cups and spoons. Hayden hands me the bag of chips and points to the recipe on the back. I laugh; I know this one by heart.

  I’ve made chocolate chip cookies dozens of times before, but it’s never been this fun. We work together silently, in unison, as though we hear each other’s thoughts.

  Hayden deftly cracks the eggs with one hand, like chefs on television. I am impressed. I measure the flour and baking soda. He adds the salt. I pack the brown sugar. He measures the cane sugar. I pour the vanilla, and he mixes in the butter. He holds the measuring cup while I shake out a cupful of chocolate chips.

  Our movements are harmonious, almost like a dance. I notice things I never have before. The smooth, powdery texture of the cool flour against my fingers. The sweet aroma of soft, brown sugar. The cocoa tang of the semi-sweet chocolate chips I steal. The deep sunflower shade of melted butter, which reminds me of the center of the daisies Hayden gave me.