I gingerly lean toward him. Closer. Shortening the distance between us.
Our lips are almost touching.
He leans closer.
Just when he is about to kiss me, he pulls back. Turns away.
My first reaction is confusion. He doesn’t want to kiss me.
My second reaction is to follow his eye line. What is Hayden looking at?
That’s when I notice that someone has come into the room. A guy who plays in the band. He is saying something to Hayden. And Hayden is responding.
He must be scheduled to use the rehearsal room next.
The moment has passed. I look at my watch: 4:30. It’s time to go.
Hayden walks me out. Waves good-bye as I head for my mom’s car. I turn to look at him one last time before we drive away. He is still watching me. Just as I am watching him, with a myriad of emotions churning inside me.
Like a cake mixture of ingredients, some delicious and some tart. Combined, they make something sublime. Right now, I am sublime.
The language of art
— Hayden —
I would go anywhere, do anything. Just to be with Stella.
From the moment I received her text this morning, I knew something would be different today. Just like I have known other things about her before, I knew this. It’s the first time she has ever reached out to me, wanting me.
I knew today would be different—and it was.
For the first time, she seemed truly present. Like she wasn’t holding back, thinking about something else, hiding.
She was radiant. Her eyes glowed like amber jewels lit by fire. Her lips danced between smiles as though she has never smiled at anyone but me. She smells like honey and wildflowers.
And today, when I touched her hair, it felt like satin. Touching her like that, doing something I have seen her do herself many times—brushing a strand of hair from her face—I was one with her. Moving for her. It was intimate. So small, yet it sent shock waves through me as if I had touched high-watt voltage.
And then, watching her connect with the music, my music. It was one of the most perfect moments of my life.
I wanted to kiss her at lunch, then later in the rehearsal room. I wanted to taste her lips, but I held back.
My first kiss with Stella will be my first kiss with anyone.
The rehearsal room isn’t the right place, just like a mall parking lot wasn’t the right place. There will be a moment—the right moment—and I will know when it arrives. That’s when I will kiss Stella. Until then, it’s enough to be near her, to see her. And to know that what I feel for her, I have never felt for anyone before.
I drive home slowly, the melody from her final song in West Side Story still throbbing in my fingertips.
Gramps is working in his art studio. I stand in the doorway for a few moments, watching him work. The room is really a converted garage, but you would never know it. Gramps and I worked for two years to turn the garage into his work space. We laid wood floors and installed more windows in the walls to let the light in. Animal sculptures are scattered around on tables and columns, some miniature, others life-sized. The smell of clay permeates the room, bringing with it a sense of comfort. This is my favorite place in the house. Because this is the only room that is entirely Gramps. Sometimes I like to work on homework at one of the benches while he creates. He plays country music on his stereo and sings along—even though he is always completely off pitch.
Today, he is sculpting a wolf. The frame is made of aluminum, which he has bent and worked to form the legs, torso and head. Eventually he’ll work layers of clay over the form, turning a stick figure into a living, breathing creature.
“She’s a n-new one,” I observe.
Gramps talks to me without turning, fingers working the clay into fur. “Your friend Stella inspired me. This one’s called Brave Star. See how her ears bend down? She can’t hear, like all the other wolves, so she’s at a disadvantage in the pack. This one has to find her way without one of her most basic senses. She has to learn to survive in a new way.”
He still doesn’t look at me, but I know he is smiling, as I am. Gramps turns everything into art. That offended me at first, when I discovered how every step in my journey would somehow become a title for a new animal sculpture. My pain is represented in countless bronze pieces. Loss represented by a dying bear. Anger in a panther striking. Silence in a wild, unbroken horse.
I expected that Gramps would eventually carve Stella’s journey. What I didn’t expect is that she would be depicted as a wolf. My favorite animal is a wolf, and Gramps knows it. I am drawn to their intelligence, their ferocity, and loyalty to the pack.
“I think it’s high time you had one of these bookends.” He speaks of his art in a deprecating way, as though each piece isn’t purchased for thousands of dollars.
Gramps is making this wolf for me as a gift—and as a message. He uses art to speak for him. To say what he could say in words, but can say so much better through art.
“I h-have your art w-with me all th-the t-time,” I tell him, referring to my keychain, the knot that binds us together.
I move to stand behind him and watch him work the wire loop to shape the face of the wolf.
He turns then to look at me. “I’m making one for her, too. This wolf’s mate. He hears for her, and she howls for him. I consider that a perfect match, don’t you?” His way of telling me something without actually saying it.
“I d-do.” Although I don’t really think he was asking the question. It was more of a statement.
Gramps pats me on the shoulder, turns back to his wolf, and I pull out my US history book. The rest of the night is spent in quiet camaraderie—so much said and unsaid at the same time. A sense of peace and understanding floods the room, where there are no secrets and the windows open to the light.
11
— Stella —
When I open my locker the next morning, a note is waiting for me.
Nature, the gentlest mother,
Impatient of no child,
The feeblest or the waywardest,—
Her admonition mild
In forest and the hill
By traveller is heard,
Restraining rampant squirrel
Or too impetuous bird.
How fair her conversation,
A summer afternoon,—
Her household, her assembly;
And when the sun goes down
Her voice among the aisles
Incites the timid prayer
Of the minutest cricket,
The most unworthy flower.
When all the children sleep
She turns as long away
As will suffice to light her lamps;
Then, bending from the sky
With infinite affection
And infiniter care,
Her golden finger on her lip,
Wills silence everywhere.
—Emily Dickinson
The handwriting is perfectly scripted. And though I haven’t seen his writing before, I know it is Hayden’s. He doesn’t sign the note. He doesn’t need to.
The words move me. Transport me to another place. The last line strikes me the most. Wills silence everywhere. Because when I read these words, silence—my silence—becomes beautiful.
It is then I notice a sentence at the very bottom.
Day 11—Shall we visit Mother Nature today?
He hasn’t forgotten. He is still counting down the days with me.
I carefully fold the note. Slip it into the pocket of my sweatshirt, where I can touch it all day.
On impulse, I pull out a blank sheet of paper and a pen. I write.
In silence he beckons me
Promises to open my heart
To a world unknown but not unfamiliar
Where I will learn to reimagine
Through his eyes I see
What I have never seen before
The possibilities are endless
&n
bsp; Hope is the reward
At the very bottom, I write one word: Always.
I fold the note three times, until it is small enough to fit in the palm of my hand. I have an idea where his locker might be—the place I first saw him. So I head in that direction, hoping to find him before my first class.
My reply can wait until lunch, but I don’t want to wait. I want Hayden to read it right away.
I round the corner to the far corridor. Some lockers are at the end of the hall. My eyes scan the crowd for a sign of him. I have to hurry, or I will be late for class. There. Just up ahead, I catch a glimpse. I speed up, moving so fast I am almost at a run. He turns just as I reach him. As if he expected me, knew I was there.
Our eyes meet. He waits. Breathless, I reach out my right hand. He touches it with his. Holds it for the merest of seconds. The note slips from my palm to his. We part, though our eyes do not. We are standing in the middle of the crowded hallway, but all I can think of are yellow daffodils and clear blue skies.
“See you at lunch,” I manage. Then I turn and hurry to class, leaving my poem and my answer behind.
“I thought I knew every poem ever written,” Hayden tells me at lunch. We sit side by side under our tree. Today, we have laid out our lunches on a napkin. We share them like a picnic. I have brought grapes, oatmeal cookies, and a hummus wrap. Hayden has added his peanut butter and jelly sandwich, an orange, and a granola bar.
“You didn’t know this one because I wrote it,” I say.
Hayden’s eyes widen. He really didn’t know. “You’re a poet.” He still looks surprised.
I wrinkle my nose. Shrug. “I don’t know. This is the first poem I have ever written.”
Hayden pulls the note out of his front pocket. Smooths it open and reads it again to himself. Then he looks at me. Shaking his head. “Stella, I know poetry. I’ve had to read so much of it in speech therapy. Truly, you have a gift.”
A gift. One that doesn’t depend on sound. Hearing. Voice. Something that comes from within me, from within the silence. But able to scream out loud.
Words.
Words aren’t silent.
Words are happy and sad. Angry and joyous. Bitter and sweet. Full of loss and longing. And love.
Words can be turned into lyrics. Plays. Poems. Stories. They are unlimited.
I feel a blush spread across my face. “I never knew,” I tell him, “that I could do this.”
“Well, you can.” Hayden looks at me through lowered lashes. “I’ve never had a poem written for me. About me.” A beat. “Thank you doesn’t seem enough.”
I lean closer. “What is enough, then?” My voice feels husky as it leaves my throat. I wonder what it sounds like to him.
His hand touches my cheek. Fingers brush against my skin. I imagine my skin sparkling where he has touched it. Glistening.
“Something more.” His lips move just above mine.
“More?” I echo. I want to extend this moment, preserve it somehow. “I meant it, you know. The words in the poem.” We are so close that our breathing synchronizes. I’m not sure if I have spoken or whispered my last words.
Then something just behind Hayden catches my eye. In the distance, Emerson is eating with her friends. But Lily and her entourage have joined the group. They’re settling in with my little sister and her friends. Lowering themselves to socialize with freshmen.
I hesitate, and Hayden pulls back, a question in his eyes.
“Do you see that?” I ask Hayden, gesturing to Emerson. He turns to look behind him, to see what I see.
My eyes narrow, trying to understand. Why would Lily sit with Emerson?
“Why don’t you go see what it’s all about?” he suggests. “Might be nothing.”
I nod, shooting him a sheepish glance. I have ruined our moment. Maybe interrupted our first kiss. Regret pinches me. Makes me ache as I turn away from him.
I stand and move across the grass. My vision centers on my sister, who is chatting with Lily. Lily, who is smiling and tossing her curls.
And then I stop in my tracks.
Because I have just realized.
I can’t hear what they are saying.
How can I possibly listen in on their conversation? Ask questions and receive answers?
I can’t.
I turn around, unnoticed, and walk slowly back toward Hayden.
I sit down without saying a word. Hayden gives me a quizzical look, but waits for me to speak.
“I can’t hear them,” I say. “What’s the point of going over there?”
Hayden stands and offers me a hand.
I shake my head, not understanding. Not taking his hand.
“Let me be your ears.” He wants to go with me, to help me with my sister.
I take his hand. Stand up. Close enough to look up at him in wonder. “You would do that for me.” It’s a statement, not a question. The question I want to ask, but won’t, is why.
Hayden wraps both of his hands around mine. “This is going to be difficult for you. I’ll make it simple. Just remember this one word. Anything.”
My heart fills with air. Floating like a red balloon drifting across the sky. Reaching high to the heavens. This is happiness.
My heart carries me across the grass to where my sister sits with Lily. To listen. With Hayden’s ears.
We greet one another with hellos. Smiles all around. Lily doesn’t quite meet my eyes. Emerson does. She is flushed with excitement. Bursting with news. In that split second, as I look at my little sister, I realize I didn’t have to worry about not hearing anyone.
I can understand my sister. Not in the way I understand Hayden. I can’t read her lips. But I know her. I can read her body language, her expressions. Her emotions from the color of her cheeks. I am not helpless.
I also forgot to give Emerson credit. She knows I cannot read her lips. Pulling out a piece of notebook paper, she begins to scribble, fast, as though time will run out before she can get her words on paper.
Her smile as she hands me the paper reminds me how she used to look on Christmas morning after coming downstairs and seeing the presents Santa Claus had left. As though she couldn’t believe it had really happened. That there were gifts for her.
I take the paper and read it. Sense Hayden’s strength beside me. The touch of his hand on my arm. His presence.
Lily wants me to try out for junior varsity cheerleading! She’s going to mentor me.
I wish I thought Lily’s offer was coming from an honest place. That Lily really wanted to help Emerson. But I don’t. Any time my sister used to join us, Lily rolled her eyes and sighed. Tossed a T.T.Y.L. over her shoulder as she walked away. What changed? Nothing. Emerson is still a freshman. Still beneath Lily’s social status. The only thing that is different—is me.
I want to say something. To tell Lily to back off. To leave my sister alone.
But I don’t.
Because Emerson is glowing. And she deserves a little happiness. Truth is, she would make an incredible cheerleader. With her dance background and outgoing personality, they would be lucky to have her on the squad.
Hayden reads the note over my shoulder. His grip on my arm tenses as though he understands my pain. Even without one look from me. He knows.
I lift my eyes from the note. Kneel by my sister and lean in. I hug her tight. Tears prick, but I blink them back. This is about her. Not about me.
“I’m so happy, Em. I’ll come to the tryouts if you want me to.”
Emerson hugs me back. I turn to Lily. Paste the widest smile possible on my face. I don’t say thank you. I can’t. I just stand there with my clown smile. Then lunch ends and everyone walks away. Everyone except Hayden. And then my smile fades.
“You have a heart of gold,” he tells me.
I shake my head. “I don’t, though. That’s the thing. I don’t.”
And then I walk to class.
Drama class is bustling. No one notices Kace passing a note my way.
&nbs
p; Are you busy Saturday night?
I hold the note in my hand. Try to decide what to say.
I’m not busy Saturday night. But my heart is.
Hayden and I have never had “the talk.” The one where you tell someone you want to see them and only them. It sort of seems understood that we are spending time only with each other. But it isn’t definite. That is, Hayden could see someone else. It’s the same for me, I suppose. But I don’t want to see anyone else. It wouldn’t be fair. To Hayden. Or to Kace.
Because I love Hayden. I would rather be alone Saturday night and be true to my heart than pretend with anyone else. Because I already spend every single day pretending already—pretending I can understand people, pretending Lily is still my friend, pretending this isn’t so hard that sometimes I don’t want to wake up in the morning.
So much pretending. I can’t pretend about this.
I write the truth. The real truth.
Thank you so much for asking. But I’m going out with someone.
I watch Kace as he reads my note. If he is surprised, he covers it well. His expression doesn’t change at all. He writes back.
Hayden Rivers.
No need to say anything else. I simply nod.
Seriously? He writes. You can do better, you know.
Seeing his words brings back memories. Lily calling Hayden “SC” and making fun of him watching me. Me afraid to speak up and say how I really felt. But I’m not that girl anymore.
I take my pen. Actually, he can do better. I’m the lucky one.
And in that moment, a door closes. One that may never open again.
Kace doesn’t write anything else for the rest of class.
We just sit there side by side and watch the performers until the bell rings.
Saying nothing and everything
Silence Page 14
