by Sara Barnard
For the quiet ones
Contents
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Author’s Note
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Millie Gerdavey cheated on her boyfriend again.
But it’s OK. No one needs to know, right? And, no, she’s not going to tell Jack (‘Obviously!’), and she doesn’t want to be with Leo (‘That muppet?’). It was just a one-time thing. Again.
Imagine the scene where I found out this news. Millie is squashed up next to me on the bench, a tissue wedged in her fist, perhaps, already soaked with her tears and snot. She is all sobs and whispers.
‘I’m so glad I have you to talk to,’ she says.
It’s a nice scene, isn’t it? Two friends sharing a secret on the first day of school. Kind of natural. What could be more normal than the heads of two girls bent together, whispering secrets, one in tears, one reassuring? Nothing.
But, oh. See that other girl sitting on the bench? The weedy thing whose shoulders are a little hunched? The one who has her hair in front of her face and a book in her lap that she’s not actually reading?
Yeah. That’s me. The two girls are nothing to do with me, and they are having this intensely private conversation in front of me as if I am entirely invisible.
At one point, the second girl, whose name is Jez, darts a look at me then says to Millie, ‘Um, do you think she heard?’
‘Oh, her.’ Millie tosses her hair dismissively. ‘It’s OK. She won’t say anything.’
‘How do you know?’ Jez asks, a little nervously.
‘Watch this,’ Millie says, and my heart seizes. I grip the sides of my book a little harder. ‘Hey! Hey, Steffi!’
Go away. Go away go away go away.
‘Steffiiiiii.’ Millie’s voice has gone sing-songy. ‘Steffi Bro-o-o-ns!’ She elongates my surname so it somehow takes up four syllables. ‘See?’ Her voice has suddenly returned to normal. ‘She’s as dumb as a pane of glass.’
At least I didn’t cheat on my boyfriend, I would say, if I could. But it’s probably a good thing that I can’t at that moment, because it would be a pretty terrible retort. In order to be cheating on my boyfriend, I’d have to actually have one in the first place. And I very much do not.
‘She could put it on the internet,’ Jez ventures.
Millie is suddenly leaning forward, her head looming closer to mine. ‘Brons, you won’t put any of this on the internet, right?’
I have a sudden vision of myself sitting at my laptop, sending a tweet out into the ether, ‘MILLIE GERDAVEY CHEATED ON JACK COLE #again #lol’ while I laugh maniacally.
‘Brons.’ There is a poke at my shoulder and I jump. ‘Oh my God.’ I can hear the sneer in her voice. ‘Why are you so weird? It’s literally me. Millie. Like, known you since we were both five?’ It’s true she’s known me since I was five, but still she persists, so she clearly doesn’t know me very well. ‘Remember? You peed in my paddling pool?’
That does it. My head snaps up and I glare at her. Words fizz up on my tongue, then dissolve into nothing.
She grins at me. ‘There you are! I know you won’t say anything.’ She winks, and I want to smack her. She throws her head back to look at Jez again. ‘Steffi is a pal.’ As she stands up, she gives my shoulder a faux-friendly nudge. ‘See you later, pal.’
When they’ve gone, I am finally, blissfully alone. I allow myself the quietest of mutters: ‘You peed in my pool, Millie.’
And then I feel slightly better.
I’m in the common area outside sixth form, because Mr Stafford, my new head of year, has asked to see me before the first assembly. I am expecting the usual start-of-school pep talk/introductions I’ve had to endure at Windham for the last five years. I still haven’t figured out whether they’re meant to be for my benefit or theirs.
A few minutes after Millie and Jez leave, the door to Mr Stafford’s office opens and he strides through it, already beaming. I can only assume he practises the Stride & Beam in front of the mirror.
‘Stefanie!’ he says, his hand coming towards me. For one horrifying second I think he is going to use it to pull me chummily to my feet, but – thank God – he just wants to shake hands. Thank God. Calm down, Steffi.
I try and smile back. I start to say, ‘Good morning, sir,’ but the words die in my mouth halfway through ‘morning’ when I realize Mr Stafford isn’t alone. Dammit. I was so proud of myself for mustering actual words in front of a teacher, already thinking it was a good sign for this year, the first year of sixth form, the year I’m meant to show I can do basic things like talk in front of teachers. I want to go to uni one day, and – according to my parents – I won’t ever be able to do that if I can’t even talk in school.
Mr Stafford is still beaming. ‘Stefanie, this is Rhys.’ He gestures to the boy at his side, who is smiling at me.
What fresh hell is this? Now they’re parading strangers in front of me to mock my inability to speak in front of them? I can feel a familiar choking panic start somewhere in my stomach. My cheeks are starting to flame.
I look at Mr Stafford, knowing my expression is hovering somewhere between kicked puppy and Bambi.
‘Oh,’ he says hastily. ‘Oh, it’s OK. Rhys is deaf.’
My eyebrows shoot up.
‘Oh!’ he says again, looking mortified. ‘I didn’t mean . . . I meant it’s OK for you to . . . I didn’t mean it’s OK to be . . . though of course there’s nothing wrong with being . . .’
Rhys, standing slightly to the left of Mr Stafford, is waiting patiently. He is still looking at me, but his smile has faded slightly and he looks a little confused. Who is this gormless girl? he is clearly thinking.
‘Gosh,’ Mr Stafford mutters. ‘What a start to the year. Let me try again. Rhys –’ He claps a hand on Rhys’s shoulder, then gestures to me. As he does so, he turns his head so he is looking directly into Rhys’s face. ‘This is Stefanie,’ he says, loudly. ‘STEF-AN-EEE.’
Oh dear Lord.
Rhys’s face breaks into a warm, if slightly amused, grin. He looks at me, then raises his hand into a wave. Hello.
I wave back, automatically. Hello. I let my hands fall into the familiar patterns. My name is Steffi.
Nice to meet you. Rhys taps two fingers to his right ear. Deaf?
I shake my head, touching the tip of my finger first to my own ear and then to my mouth. Hearing. I hesitate, trying to figure out how to explain myself. I could fingerspell ‘selective mute’, but he probably doesn’t know what that means, and it’s not really even accurate any more. I can’t – I begin, meaning to say that I can’t talk, but that’s not accurate either, because I can talk, physically speaking. Oh God, both Rhys and Mr Stafford are staring at me. I can feel my face flaming. I finally sign, a bit lamely, I don’t talk. Which is the worst response ever.
But Rhys smiles, raising his eyebrows a little as if in appraisal, then nods, and I’m so relieved I smile back.
‘Wonderful,’ Mr Stafford says, looking like he wants to pass out with relief. ‘Wonderful. Steffi, Rhys is starting at Windham sixth form today. I thought it would be a good idea to introduce the two of you. Rhys will have a c
ommunication support worker helping him out, of course, but I thought it would be nice for him to meet a fellow student who knows sign language. So he can feel more at home.’
Oh, he looks so pleased with himself. It makes me want to both hug and slap him. I want to tell him that I only know the really basic stuff, but the ability to speak has completely deserted me right now, so I just lick my lips nervously and nod along. The whole this-is-the-year-I’ll-speak-at-school thing is really not going very well so far.
‘I suppose I’ll have to learn some sign language too, won’t I, Mr Gold?’ Mr Stafford turns his head to Rhys only as he says the final bit of this sentence, clearly oblivious to the fact that Rhys will have completely missed all that came before it.
But still Rhys nods cheerfully, and I feel a sudden fondness for him. He must be all right if he lets Mr Stafford act like such a well-meaning buffoon without making things awkward for him. I wish I could be more like that, but I make things awkward for everyone. People just don’t know what to do with someone who doesn’t speak.
I’m curious about this new boy and my mind floods with questions. What brings you to Windham? What are you studying? Do you like white grapes or red grapes? Would you rather have hair that won’t grow or a beard you can’t shave? What’s your favourite sign? But the thought of speaking these words out loud makes my stomach clench, and my BSL skills were always rudimentary at best. Apparently, with Rhys, I can be useless in two languages.
So I just carry on smiling nervously and wait for Mr Stafford to fill the inevitable silence. He does, bless him. ‘Well, on to assembly, then, the two of you. Steffi, what’s the sign for assembly?’
I’m about to obediently make the sign when a spark of mischief lights from nowhere in my mind. I turn to Rhys, keep my expression completely deadpan, then sign Welcome to the hellmouth. Rhys’s whole face lights up into a surprised grin. Oh yeah, strange new boy. The silent girl is FUNNY. Who knew?
‘Excellent, excellent,’ Mr Stafford says, oblivious. ‘Let’s go, then.’ He Strides & Beams off down the corridor and I follow, perhaps slightly reluctantly, with Rhys at my side. We walk from the sixth form block all the way to the hall in silence, but for once it’s not because of me, silent, awkward Steffi. It’s an expected silence. Comfortable. It’s nice.
The hall is full of sixth formers, both upper and lower sixth. They’re sprawled on the floor and chairs, talking loudly and easily, as naturally as breathing. Do they know how lucky they are? I catch myself wondering. Do they? Of course not. It’s probably the same thing someone with cystic fibrosis thinks about me. I guess taking normal for granted is part of being human.
‘People, people,’ Mr Stafford says, jovial. ‘This isn’t your living room.’
No one moves.
‘Sit on the chairs!’ Mr Stafford orders, more sharply and with more than a little frustration in his voice. ‘That’s what they’re there for.’
He walks to the front of the collection of chairs, gesturing to Rhys to follow him. I stand there for a second, dithering, then slide into a vacant seat and slouch down a little.
‘Well, now that you’re all settled,’ Mr Stafford says pointedly, ‘let’s begin the new year. Welcome back, upper sixth. And welcome to sixth form, everyone else. Most of you have spent your secondary years at Windham, of course, but we do have some new faces joining us this morning.’
I feel a sudden pang, so sharp it almost makes me gasp. It’s part panic, part loneliness. This is the first time I’ve ever sat in a first-day-back assembly without my best friend. I ease my phone out of my pocket and peek at the screen.
‘Come up to the front if you’re one of those new faces,’ Mr Stafford is saying.
Tem:
How’s it going?!
I almost miss those manky halls ;) xxxxx
I grin down at the screen, flooded with affection and relief. OK, so Tem isn’t here with me. It’s going to be hard. But we’re still connected.
Steffi:
Crap. I miss you.
COME BACK!!!! xxxx
‘Twelve new students!’
I glance up, taking in the slouching, affectedly disinterested teenagers now standing beside Mr Stafford. None of them looks like they could be a Tem replacement. That’s because there is no one like Tem in the world.
Tem:
Just SAY THE WORD, Brons!
Go on. SAY IT. xxx
My eyes slide along the line until they snag at the face of the one person who is looking back at me. Rhys. When our eyes meet, he grins. I can’t help it; I grin back.
Steffi:
DON’T MAKE MUTE JOKES ON MY FIRST
DAY ALONE AT SCHOOL! You MONSTER! xxxx
Tem:
You are awesome. Your voice is like a flowing stream on a warm spring day. No one in the world is youer than you. Etc. SPEAK YOUR TRUTH, EVEN IF YOUR VOICE SHAKES!!!
Actually, scrap that. Your voice is so awesome I just want
to keep it to myself. DO NOT TALK, Steffi. That’s an order.
I’m bent over my phone, smiling at the screen as if Tem is looking right back at me, when my skin starts to prickle. I look up slowly, pre-emptive dread already sliding down my back, and everyone is looking at me. Horror of horrors . . . everyone.
Panic explodes in my chest, sending sparks through my bloodstream, down my veins, into the tips of my fingers, electrifying my hair. I try very, very hard not to vomit.
‘So just speak to Stefanie if you’d like to learn any BSL,’ Mr Stafford, devil incarnate, is saying. And then he points at me. As if he expects me to stand up and give a speech. Shockingly, I do not.
Someone mutters, ‘Speak to Steffi?’ and a low laugh ripples across the room.
‘Or you could just talk to me,’ Rhys says. His voice is a surprise, thick and slightly drawled, like he’s speaking with his mouth full. The volume is slightly off, a little too loud at the beginning and then fading towards the end. He grins. ‘I don’t bite.’
The faces that had been turned to me all jerk towards him, meerkat-like, when he speaks.
‘This is hello,’ Rhys adds. He lifts his hand into the BSL wave of greeting. He puts a hand to his chest. ‘Rhys.’
And to my total surprise almost everyone in the room lifts their hand in response. He has the sixth form saying hello to him and I am simultaneously impressed and jealous. And also, weirdly, a bit betrayed. He can talk? That’s just not fair, is it?
‘Wonderful,’ Mr Stafford says. He looks thrilled. ‘Now we have the introductions out of the way, let’s get on to housekeeping matters.’ He claps his hands in a way that makes me think that’s how he thinks heads of sixth form are supposed to behave. ‘The common room is open to you at all hours of the day, though we ask that you work to keep it clean and tidy. Any breakages will be paid for.’ He waits for a laugh, which doesn’t come. ‘Your free periods are yours to spend as you please, though we do advise that you use them for studying.’
I stop listening, my eyes sliding back to Rhys, who is watching Mr Stafford’s face intently as he speaks. Every time Mr Stafford turns his head or moves out of Rhys’s eyeline, I see him tense. It makes me want to run up to the front of the crowd and grab Mr Stafford so I can yell, ‘Just keep your head still! Can’t you see he’s trying to read?’
But my name is Steffi Brons and I don’t speak, let alone yell. I move slowly so people won’t notice I’m there, because running in public is as loud as a shout. I like to wear jumpers with long sleeves that go right down over my wrists and hands and fingers. Meekness is my camouflage; silence is my force field.
So I don’t.
The ten stupidest things people say to you when you don’t talk
10) What if you were, like, dying or something?
9) What if I was dying?
8) Can you talk if you close your eyes?
7) OK, but what if I close my eyes?
6) Cat got your tongue?
5) Just say something. Really, just anything, I don’t care.
3) You should just have a glass of wine.
2) Just relax.
1) You’re quiet!
Here are three separate but similar things: shyness, introversion and social anxiety. You can have one, two or all three of these things simultaneously. A lot of the time people think they’re all the same thing, but that’s just not true. Extroverts can be shy, introverts can be bold, and a condition like anxiety can strike whatever kind of social animal you are.
Lots of people are shy. Shy is normal. A bit of anxiety is normal. Throw the two together, add some kind of brain-signal error – a NO ENTRY sign on the neural highway from my brain to my mouth, perhaps, though no one really knows – and you have me. Silent Steffi.
So what am I? I’m a natural introvert with severe social anxiety and a shyness that is basically pathological. When I was a kid, this manifested as a form of mutism, known as selective mutism. The ‘selective’ part sometimes confuses people, because it makes it sound as if I had the control over when to ‘select’ my speech, but that’s not the case. Selective means it’s out of my control. Progressive mutism is when your childhood mutism gets worse as you get older.
I don’t have progressive mutism, for the record. I’ve been able to talk – with difficulty – in places like school for a few years now, though the difficulty is more to do with social anxiety and shyness than mutism. This is incredibly hard to explain to people, which is why I usually don’t. ‘I couldn’t talk but now I can, sometimes, but sometimes I can’t. No, I don’t know why, sorry’ isn’t really that illuminating, as far as explanations go. And people really like explanations.
They like explanations and recovery stories. They like watching House and knowing a solution is coming. They like to hear that people get uncomplicatedly better. They love the stories of childhood mutes who meet an incredible speech therapist and recover their voice by the end of an hour-long documentary. Kids like me, who struggle through their childhood years, juggling various diagnoses that try to explain their silence to their frustrated parents, who graduate from ‘mute’ to ‘severe anxiety’ but still can’t speak to shop assistants or call anyone on the phone, just confuse things. Forever in the grey area, in the question you see behind the eyes of teachers and family friends: ‘Is she just putting it on?’ ‘It’s not a real thing, is it?’ They say, ‘It’s all in your head.’ They say, ‘It’s not real.’ And I think, What is more real than that? I think, therefore I am, right?
