For John Schlag, who taught me to listen.
CHAPTER 1
On the other side of the lobby door, ninety- six sidewalk lines away, is the first day of fifth grade. I stare through the glass, tugging at my backpack straps, although they are fine. I know I am stalling. As soon as I open the door, the outside will rush into my ears: taxi horns, loud radios, barking dogs. I hold on to the quiet for as long as I can.
“Do you want us to walk with you?” Dad asks, right as Mom says, “Ready, Amelia?”
I shake my head. I savor one more moment of quiet—only to be interrupted by the elevator dinging. Deb brushes by us.
“See you there!” she says as she pushes open the lobby door. Warm air and city commotion burst into our apartment building. I cover my ears and count the ways I am different this year:
I am ten now and can walk to school by myself.
Mom and Dad gave me a new CharlieCard and permission to ride the T alone to the Boston Public Library.
My noise-canceling headphones are not on my head.
Once the door closes, I lower my hands. Outside, I see Deb catch up to Jax, who lives across the street. They head off together, without me. I tell myself that’s fine. I am only a neighborhood pal to Jax and, ever since third grade, backup friend to Deb-minus-Kiki.
I take a step toward the door, and then hesitate. I feel light-headed, missing the weight of my headphones. Only my hair covers my ears.
Mom hugs me good-bye. “Fifth grade will be great.”
Dad touches my arm. “One more thing,” he says, and hands me a box.
“What’s this?” Mom asks, as surprised as I am.
I open it. Inside are purple earmuffs with a white band. I slip them on. The muffs—soft and furry—cover my ears completely. I love them instantly. Earmuffs are like having permission to place your hands over your ears all the time.
I hug Dad hard. He laughs.
Mom’s smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Where did you get those?” she asks Dad.
“Target,” he says.
I think she is really asking why, but I don’t care. Now I am ready. I open the lobby door and walk by myself to school. Every few feet, I can’t help touching the fluff over my ears. How wonderfully soft! My steps grow bold. I’m sure everyone is admiring my beautiful, regular-looking earmuffs.
At the end of the first block, the traffic light turns green and all the cars accelerate at once. I jump—it’s louder than I expect. I walk eight more sidewalk lines, noticing city sounds more than before: the beeping of a backing-up truck, the one-sided cell phone conversations, the rattling of tires over potholes. The volume I hear is about five bars out of ten. Noise-canceling headphones are more like one bar. Earmuffs are better than nothing, though. Under my earmuffs, at least, everything is muffled, every sound is bearable. Almost.
* * *
I stand in the doorway of room twelve. Mr. Fabian has gray hair pulled back in a ponytail, and he is in the front of the room checking off names. Jax spins a pencil in the air. Deb-and-Kiki talk loudly, in side-by-side desks. Madge stretches her long legs beyond her chair. Soon Noah, José, Emma, Lina—everyone—will fill the classroom with too many sounds. Three rows with seven desks each is twenty-one.
No one else looks changed. I am the one who is different, now that my headphones are gone and I’m wearing beautiful earmuffs. I take a deep breath, adjust the band, and step into the classroom.
Instead of ignoring me like usual, they stare at my head.
“New earmuffs?” Deb asks.
“Your head is smaller now!” Noah says.
“Yeah, you no longer look like you work at an airport!” Kiki says, which launches a laughter wave.
My face turns as hot as my ears under my muffs. I keep my eyes down until I find my name on a desk next to Madge. My earmuffs are beautiful, I remind myself as I sit, letting the soft fluff brush my shoulder.
The bell rings, and I jump, unprepared. I press hard on my muffed ears, eyes shut, as everyone drops backpacks, scrambles to desks, scrapes chair legs across the floor. Mr. Fabian claps twice and snaps three times and claps again. Everyone’s hands make noise except mine. I am as stiff as a new book. Earmuffs do not cancel noise. Not even close.
“Welcome to fifth grade!” Mr. Fabian says, and announces that we’ll do ten minutes of silent reading every day, starting now.
Ten minutes is not very long, but I’m happy for the promise of quiet. I choose a book off the shelf about a raccoon named Bingo. I turn to the first page and stare at the words, but I can’t focus.
All around me are little pestering sounds. Jax curls the pages of his book, over and over like an itch. Cassie snorts and giggles as she reads, and even though Noah is three rows back and my earmuffs are on, I hear him popping gum. Madge says she doesn’t have a book, and Mr. Fabian sends her to the bookcase. Her shoelace charms clink-clank-plink with every step. She knocks books around on the shelf, picking one up, dropping it, flipping through another. Each noise bounces around the walls of my head like a rubber ball.
Mr. Fabian keeps saying “Shh” over and over.
I close my eyes, place my hands over the muffs again, and fly in my mind to the Boston Public Library, where librarians catalog all sounds. Inside voices, outside voices, they say. It’s where I can wrap myself in books like a blanket—
I feel a tap on my shoulder and open my eyes. Mr. Fabian is standing right next to me. “Amelia, how can you read with your eyes closed?”
Everyone turns to stare at me. I mumble, “How can I read with so much noise?”
Mr. Fabian pauses and bends down to speak so only I can hear. “I understand you’re trying something new this year.” He points to my earmuffs. “Are these part of the plan? Maybe you should take them off.”
I shake my head. “I like my new earmuffs.” Even with them, I feel as exposed as a bird on a wire.
I turn back to the page and pretend to read, hoping he will go away. Please don’t make everyone look at me again. I’m relieved when Jax asks him a question.
Things are no better when it’s time for my favorite subject. Mr. Fabian hands out fifth-grade math workbooks, but everyone asks him so many questions, he can’t get started talking about geometry and twelve-digit place values and long division.
I write my name inside the cover, concentrating on each stroke of each letter to block out Noah’s yawn, Lina’s complaints, and Madge’s groans. I flip through the clean pages, greeting the numbers like old friends.
* * *
At lunchtime, I clutch my brown bag, waiting near the door until the first rush of cafeteria noise dims: banging trays, ripping plastic, overtalking at too-crowded tables.
Shoulders tight, I take note of who sits where. Like last year, Deb is sitting with Kiki, Lina, and Emma. I see only their backs; everyone is clustered around Kiki. Her voice is sharp like a crow’s. In fourth grade, I tried to follow Deb into that circle, but it didn’t widen to include me.
Jax sits with Noah and Madge. Madge talks with an open mouth, and I see her chewed-up sandwich. She laughs hard when Noah burps after he guzzles chocolate milk. Some spills onto his shirt.
Nothing has changed. Except me. I touch my earmuffs again, so light on my head.
I walk the cafeteria perimeter to my table from last year, in the corner near the trash and recycling bins. I open my lunch bag and my copy of Alanna, even though I’ve read it five times. This way, no one will talk to me, and I can eat fast.
When it’s recess, I head to my place on the playground: inside the tube tunnel, my burrow. I curl up against the curve, back on hard plastic, knees near my eyes. Through the earmuffs I can still hear Kiki’s exaggerated screams, the creak of the swings, and Madge’s shouts of “You missed me.… No, not me! You’re it!” i
n a game of tag. But at least purple fluff cushions the noise.
I hear footsteps climbing up into the tube. Jax appears, but he stops when he sees me like a clog in a pipe. We stare at each other for a moment before he backs down the ladder, leaving me alone, like last year. It’s like my earmuffs are stop signs. Which is fine, I tell myself. Now I don’t have to share my tunnel.
* * *
Mr. Fabian asks everyone to make fall leaves for the bulletin board and to write our names on them. We will post our creations by our leaves all year. On each desk are scissors and orange, yellow, red paper. “Quiet conversation is okay during art,” he says.
No, I think, but it’s too late. Talk surges around me like someone turned on twenty-one radios inside my head. I hear Cassie’s voice overlapping with Tyler’s on top of Ryan’s. I press my muffs firmly on my ears.
Kiki taps me on the shoulder. I cautiously lower my hands, wondering why she’s talking to me.
“Is it snowing?” Kiki asks. Deb dramatically arches her neck to peer over Kiki’s shoulder.
I turn toward the windows. Outside, the street trees are starting to turn orange-yellow, matching our bright artwork.
“It’s fall,” I say to Deb-and-Kiki.
Kiki points at my head. “Then why are you wearing earmuffs inside?”
Everyone laughs.
“I can wear whatever I want,” I say, but no one pays attention.
By the time the last bell rings, I make up my mind. I will wear my earmuffs at lunch, at recess, at the library, when I take math tests. I will say, The headband holds my hair back, and I will wear them every day until no one notices them anymore.
Fifth grade will be the year of earmuffs.
CHAPTER 2
After school, when Dad gets home, he says we have to go to the store. I’d rather stay on the sofa, but shopping is easier together. I drag our rolling cart into the elevator and jam my earmuffs back on.
Scuto’s Market is five blocks away. We walk past the brick buildings and under the trees that shade our street. Even though I’ve just walked these same blocks, it’s nicer with Dad. We match our strides, concentrating on our feet.
“So… how was school?” Dad asks.
“It’s really different.” I pause. “Lunch was the worst. All the conversations crashed together.” I don’t tell him about un-silent reading.
“Ah yes, like cars without a stoplight.” Dad smashes his hands together. We walk two more sidewalk lines before he asks, “Do you like the earmuffs?”
“Yes.” I remember Kiki’s words stinging my ears. “They will be extra nice when it’s colder,” I add. When it’s winter, my earmuffs won’t stand out as much.
“I thought they would help.” He stops at the door of Scuto’s. “Ready?”
I nod, adjusting my earmuffs band. I know what’s coming. Dad and I each take a deep breath before stepping through the door.
As soon as we’re inside, all the sounds ambush me. The background music is one more irritation on top of squeaky shopping cart wheels, and people asking “Do you have shallots?” and “Where is the kosher salt?” Someone is on their phone asking how to cook lentils. The guy at the fish counter is tossing words back and forth with a woman, about what’s fresh and what’s a good deal today.
The aisles are narrow, and the shelves are full of so many cans, boxes, tins, and jars. It’s impossible for two people to browse side by side. Dad and I move toward and away from the shelves, like hopping bugs, trying to make a buffer of space between us and other shoppers.
A baby starts crying, and I press against Dad. I don’t know how he manages without anything over his ears. At least we are in this together.
He bends down, just like Mr. Fabian. “Play the counting game,” he whispers. “Concentrate on only one thing at a time. It will help.”
Dad is methodical, examining each item before he adds it to our cart. I do the same. I count what we have: one box of pasta, one container of orange juice, and one loaf of bread equals three. Add five zucchini and three onions to make eleven. My breathing slows, and finally we have everything on the list.
Checking out is a challenge too. The staff call out “Next in line!” and shake open paper bags that crackle. The scanner beep, beep, beeps for every purchase, and Dad exchanges mindless words with the clerk about the weather. I place the bags in our rolling cart to keep us moving. As soon as we are out on the sidewalk, we both lower our shoulders at the same time and notice and laugh.
There is no need for conversation on the walk home. Dad knows I am counting pavement lines, and he is looking through the leaves on the trees for birds.
“Pigeon,” he says after a few blocks. “Chickadee.” He points to a small bird on a branch.
“Seventeen sidewalk cracks,” I say.
Dad smiles. “Isn’t it nice the way numbers can keep you company?”
I smile too and continue counting until we are back at our brick apartment building. Twenty-two lines per block, twenty times five blocks is one hundred, and two times five is ten. One hundred and ten lines from Scuto’s to home, same as always, a satisfying certainty.
* * *
The lobby door closes with a whoosh behind us. At last, it’s safe to take my earmuffs off. We ride the elevator up.
Home is only-child quiet. Sounds come here one at a time. Dad listens to the Red Sox on low, making dinner. I chop zucchini. We take turns speaking. We move as quietly as Finway, our goldfish.
The apartment door opens, and Mom comes in. “Hello,” she says low, slipping off her shoes. She kisses us both.
“How was the first day?” she asks me. “How is fifth grade?”
It takes me a moment to tune in to her question. I’m distracted by how Mom’s energy changes the air. It’s not unwelcome. It’s just different from when it’s only me and Dad. She looks at me expectantly.
“My teacher, Mr. Fabian, is nice,” I say. “We’re going to learn how to multiply multiple digits.”
That makes both my parents smile. Mom asks, “Who’s in your class? Deb?”
“Deb-and-Kiki,” I correct her. “My desk is next to Madge. She has charms on her shoelaces.”
I place three forks and three plates on the table without clanking. I wonder if Madge walks around her home jangling.
Mom stops unpinning her name tag from her jacket. “You took the earmuffs off in class, right?”
I shake my head. “Even silent reading wasn’t silent. And the cafeteria is really loud.” I don’t know how to explain that even with my earmuffs on, I heard sounds crashing and competing.
“Fifth grade will be a medley of new things.” Dad is grinning as he mixes the zucchini, tomatoes, and yellow squash together.
“Ha ha,” I say. “Except vegetables aren’t noisy, Dad.”
“Fifth grade will be a big year to grow up,” Mom says.
I ignore her. I already proved I can be trusted to walk to school by myself.
We sit down to eat. The heat from the oven makes our kitchen cozy, and our table for three feels complete. I fork one zucchini, one yellow squash, and one tomato. I eat them in trios like that.
“Did anyone notice you weren’t wearing headphones?” Mom asks.
“Of course. Earmuffs are smaller,” I say. “And purple.”
“It’ll take time to get used to everything,” Dad says.
“Well, try not to wear the earmuffs too much,” Mom insists.
I stab the last zucchini. Mom makes it sound like I can wake up and decide to go to school without them, like not wearing socks one day. As if blistered heels—or blistered ears—are no big deal. Because that’s what it would be like. Sound rubbing my brain raw.
After dinner, I press my nose against the glass fishbowl to greet Finway, eye to eye. Then I flop onto the sofa and pull out my homework. I’ve solved two problems when I hear Mom say my name in the kitchen. I listen, my pencil still.
“The world is noisy,” Mom says. “She’s going to have to get used to it. Tho
se earmuffs were a mistake. We told the school she’d stop wearing headphones.”
“She has,” Dad says. “Her earmuffs will help her adjust.”
“What about Mr. Skerritt’s advice last year?”
“We’re doing what the school counselor said, reducing reliance,” Dad says. “She’s still young, our Amelia Mouse. I am trying to help. What’s wrong with that?”
I put my earmuffs back on with a snap, and their voices fall to a low undercurrent. Dad is wrong—I am not a mouse. And Mom is wrong. I will decide—on my own—what sounds I want to hear. And I will wear my earmuffs every day.
I watch Finway swim in his bowl. Dad says goldfish sense sound vibrations through their inner ear and the lines of sensory organs down their sides. He says he and I are like the fish. Too much sound, and our heads vibrate out of control. Mom is not a fish, not even close. She doesn’t understand that my earmuffs are here to stay.
“Good night,” I whisper to Finway, covering his bowl with his night cloth. I slip away to finish my homework in my room alone.
For the rest of the night the only sounds are the sounds I decide to make: writing numbers, spitting toothpaste, walking like a cat to my room, closing my bedroom door, flipping pages. No surprises.
I close my book and glance at my purple earmuffs on my dresser. My old black noise-canceling headphones are stashed in a box on the top shelf of my closet. Even covered with stickers, they look like they came from a hospital. When I wore them every day, they covered my ears completely. I listened to my thoughts. I heard the words I read or the numbers I counted in my head. When someone spoke to me, I’d have to take my headphones off. I’d say, What? Sometimes they jabbed my arm to get my attention. After a while, people stopped talking to me, even Deb.
When Deb and I were really little, we draped blankets over chairs while our moms sipped tea in the kitchen. Sometimes we pretended we had to be quiet to hide from dragons. But sometimes Deb stood on a chair and belted out a warrior cry. That was when my headphones would go back on. And I never took them off once school started. Then Kiki moved here, and Deb became Deb-and-Kiki.
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