A folded piece of paper falls onto the table. Someone snuck a note into my bag before lunch.
I open it and read:
Knaht uoy rof gnipleh em htiw htam! S’tel pots gnithgif.
Ruoy tseb dneirf, Egdam
Best. Friend. And I’ve been the worst. My heart crashes to the floor, like my trombone slide.
CHAPTER 22
Mr. Fabian comes into the cafeteria and snaps and claps to get our attention. “Line up! School is closing early. Back to your homerooms to pack up!”
Everyone cheers, and I press my hands on my muffed ears. Then I crumple my lunch bag into a ball and carefully fold Madge’s note into my pocket. I have to find Madge to tell her I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to laugh. I should have gone over and helped my best friend. Why did I believe mean Kiki?
Everyone walks single file back to the classroom. It’s hard for Mom and Dad to leave work early. That means Deb’s mom is backup to pick me up on snow days. I wish I could go with Madge to her house, to Oma.
In room twelve, I look for Madge. What I notice first is the absence of a sound—a particular sound. The clink-clank-plink of Madge’s shoes. Her chair next to mine is empty.
Jax sees and notices too. “Where’s Madge?”
“She didn’t go out alone in the blizzard, did she?” Deb asks. “I wouldn’t.”
I look at Madge’s cubby. Her trombone is gone.
“Maybe her grandmother already came?” Then I realize: Oma doesn’t drive. Madge has to walk, and I am her walking partner. Or I was.
“Did she walk home alone?” Mr. Fabian’s face is serious. He picks up the phone to call the office.
Something makes me think she didn’t leave. If everyone laughed at me, I’d find a place to be alone, a refuge. Suddenly I know where to look for Madge.
I slip out of the classroom. No one notices a mouse.
* * *
The playground is under a blanket of white. I slide my earmuffs down to listen. Every snowflake is separate and falls without a sound. The whole city has gone quiet, snow muffling everything.
Outside is all covered up like hands over ears.
Inside is a voice in me so strong and sure, Find Madge!
I lift my legs high in giant steps, and with every landing, my feet sink deep into the wet, heavy snow.
I pass our tube tunnel—it’s empty except for snow drifting inside. For a second I want to burrow into this hole, away from all my worries. But I can’t. Madge needs me.
I trudge through ever deeper snow toward the wall and the pine tree. I feel like I might disappear. I swipe snow off the top of the crate, step up, and look at our refuge. Something is stuck on a branch—Madge’s red mitten!
My eyes fall like a pine cone to the ground, my pulse thudding. There she is, below the tree on the other side of the wall, next to a broken branch.
“Madge!” I say in my piano voice. I climb over the wall and jump down on the other side. I kneel next to her. “Madge?”
Madge is not moving, not talking.
A quiet Madge is very bad.
Snow is still falling from the sky, falling onto Madge’s face, and she doesn’t brush it off.
I remember the dogs in a book walking in circles to stay alive, walking until they are found—
Madge and I cannot stay here. We cannot stop in the snow. But I must stay with Madge. I poke her. “Madge, get up.”
No answer. The only sound I hear is the fast pounding of my heart.
Wait. There is something more I hear. It’s my voice, roaring inside me, Be loud, Amelia! Don’t be a mouse!
“Help!” I cry. “I found Madge! Help!”
It sounds feeble even to my ears. I need to be louder than the muffling snow, loud enough to be heard through the walls of buildings, loud enough to be heard through car windows and bus doors.
And then I see it—Madge’s black trombone case, buried.
I grab the handle and lift it out of the wet snow. I fumble with the icy snaps, open the case, and reach for the mouthpiece. It’s super cold. I twist the parts together, insert the mouthpiece, and hold the bell high. I purse my lips and close my eyes tight against snowflakes.
I blow, and a squawk comes out.
I warm the mouthpiece with my hands and take a deep breath. I can do this. I inhale and blow “Rondeau.” As I play, I am Melba, daring anyone to say a girl can’t, and I am Belle, my sound boomeranging around Copley Station. I am the trombone, making music on purpose so that someone will hear, someone will say, What’s that? What’s going on?
I play the rondeau again, and I am Amelia, fifth-grade trombonist, harmony to Madge’s melody, a mouse with a megaphone, shouting, I AM HERE!
When the song ends, my ears are freezing, but I listen with every part of myself. Nothing. No one comes. Madge makes no movement.
And then—
“Ohhh,” Madge moans.
“You’re alive,” I cry.
She half smiles. She stirs, winces. “I fell out of our sad tree. My leg really hurts.”
“I’ll get help,” I say. “Don’t move.”
I bring Madge’s trombone to my lips again. For my friend, I play a bold blast like a subway horn blowing, HEAR ME!
“Who’s there?” I hear Ms. Parker call out from the other side of the wall. “Amelia, is that you? I heard your rondeau.”
“Yes! Madge is hurt!” I yell.
Ms. Parker peers over the wall, sees Madge on the ground, and pulls out her phone. “Mr. Fabian, I found the girls. Call an ambulance!”
Ms. Parker is over the wall so fast. She takes her coat off and covers up Madge. “Are you okay? Your grandmother is coming.”
“I’m sorry we left the playground,” I say.
“I’m sorry I climbed the tree,” Madge whispers. “My leg really hurts.”
“You’re going to be all right,” Ms. Parker says. “We’ll take care of you.”
The snow keeps falling as we shiver together. At last we hear the wail of a siren.
I pull my earmuffs back over my ears. I don’t need to pretend my ears are cold, even though they are. It’s okay to wear earmuffs when sirens are piercing.
The paramedics rush over to Madge just as a car screeches to a stop. Out jump Dad and Madge’s Oma.
“What happened?” Dad’s voice is louder than I’ve ever heard. He helps Oma through the snow to where we are under the tree.
“Madge is hurt, but she’ll be fine,” Ms. Parker says.
Oma is a bundle of wool and worry. “My Mädgchen!” Her arms cradle Madge like my mom would, because Oma is mother to Madge.
I start shaking, and it’s not because of the cold. All the fear and noise and tumult feels like vibrations through my body.
“Amelia, are you okay?” Dad asks, wrapping his arms around me. “When I got the call to pick up Madge’s grandmother, I didn’t know if both of you were—”
“Amelia’s fine!” Ms. Parker takes Madge’s trombone from me and expertly puts it away. “In fact, she’s a hero. She played a song so loudly that we were able to find them quickly.”
“I’m proud of you.” Dad hugs me tighter. I can’t wait to hug Mom, too.
As the ambulance speeds away, he lifts one muff to say so only I hear, “My Amelia Mouse roared.”
CHAPTER 23
Ready, Amelia?” Dad asks.
We’re standing in the lobby again, like on the first day of school. I hesitate, looking outside. The street and sidewalks are plowed. My earmuffs are on. I’m holding the flowers we bought for Madge at Scuto’s Market and an envelope with a secret inside. I wish I could say I’m ready, but I’m nervous.
“One more thing,” Mom says. She hands me a box, smaller than the one that held my earmuffs.
“What’s this?” I shift my gaze from Mom to Dad. They are smiling. As if they have a secret too.
“Something a little bit better than counting to help you concentrate,” Dad says.
“And better than earmuffs,” Mom says. “Open i
t.”
I lift the lid. Inside are earbuds. I can see right away that they are not the regular kind for phone calls or music. A different kind. They are little and black and don’t have wires to connect to anything. They are like the ones Belle used in the subway station.
“These are designed to subdue background noise,” Mom explains.
“For when sound overwhelms,” Dad says.
“After you mentioned Belle wearing them, we did some research and saved up,” Mom says. “I realize that you may always need help getting through a noisy situation, but at least these won’t be as noticeable as earmuffs.”
“They are expensive, so be careful not to lose them,” Dad cautions.
I hug both my parents, hard. “Thank you,” I whisper into Mom’s ear.
I then lower my earmuffs and slip my new earbuds in. They fit perfectly, like toes in shoes. I push open the lobby door, turn, and wave. My parents, arms around each other, wave back.
Even though the air is cold, I keep my earmuffs down around my neck. I walk, one sidewalk line, two lines, three. And then I stop counting and listen.
I hear the sounds on the street—car tires through slush, buses braking and hissing as they lower and open doors, boots striking cement, voices talking on cell phones, radio music from a fast truck.
Through my earbuds, the level of volume is about three bars. Not one, like noise-canceling headphones. Not five, like earmuffs. The sounds I hear are quieter and clear—nothing is lost or fuzzy, only tamped down. Manageable. I put my earmuffs into my pocket.
I hear a bird sing and find it on a branch. “Hello, chickadee,” I say. “Nice day, isn’t it?”
When I turn onto Madge’s street, my stomach flip-flops. Will Madge be happy to see me?
Outside of Madge and Oma’s apartment building, I carefully take the earbuds out and put them into their special case in my other pocket.
The door opens, and it’s Jax, leaving. We’ve been eating lunch together the last few days, since I found Madge in the snow. It turns out Jax likes books too.
“Hi,” I say. “How is she?”
Jax shrugs. “She’ll be happy to have another visitor.”
He’s holding a copy of Because of Winn-Dixie, which makes me happy. “Do you like it?” I ask.
“It’s awesome when she claims the dog in the grocery store,” Jax says, and turns to walk home.
I take a deep breath. “Hey!” I call after him. “Want to take the T to the library with me and Madge, when she’s better?”
“Sure!” He waves his hand clasping the book in the air. I wave back, grateful I’ve got someone to talk to until Madge comes back to school.
I ring the bell. Will Madge want to talk to me? We still haven’t had a chance to talk about what happened between us. Words press against my mouth—“sorry” and “All my fault. Earmuff-wearing is no excuse for not being nice.” I wrote my feelings down on paper in case Madge is too hurt to hear me.
Oma opens the door. Her warm smile and their home’s hot-bread smells embrace me as always. It makes me hopeful.
“Look who’s here to see you,” Oma says to Madge. She puts the flowers in water and sets them on the table between us.
Madge is slouched on the sofa, her healing leg in a cast propped on a pillow. Jax’s Get well soon and name are scrawled on the cast in big letters.
“Does it hurt?” I say first, without thinking.
“Not as much anymore,” Madge says. “Taking medicine helps.”
Silence falls between us, and for once, Madge is quiet. As if she is waiting. Waiting to hear what I will say. I clutch my letter in my hands. Have I forever lost my friend?
All my planned words disappear.
“Madge—” I take a big gulp as if I am Finway gasping back in his bowl refreshed with new water. “I love the clink-clank-plink of your shoelaces.”
Madge is so surprised, she laughs. “You do?” Her laughter is like melting snow.
I nod to show I mean it, and Madge’s smile is like sunshine again.
“I am sorry for everything,” I blurt. I hand her my letter, and she opens it. Tickets fall out onto her lap, along with my note. She reads aloud, turning the words around:
“Egdam,
Nac ew eb sdneirf niaga?
Ruoy tseb dneirf,
Ailema”
“The tickets are for Belle’s concert,” I say. “Will you and Oma come?”
Madge shouts, “Yes! And yes!”
I clutch my new earbud box in my pocket, and then relax. I glance over at the music stand. “Can we still practice together?”
Madge asks, “Music?”
“And math,” I say.
She grins. “The rondeau is better with two.”
“And solving math problems is more fun in pairs.”
* * *
That night, I slide next to Mom, who is working on her computer.
“Let’s find a video of Melba,” I say.
Mom types in trombone player Melba, and there she is, in the results. We watch a black-and-white video of her playing a tune called “Reverie,” soft and slow. Melba moves with her trombone, bell raised.
“ ‘Reverie’ means ‘daydream,’ ” Mom says.
The sound is dreamy. Melba sways, her eyes closed. “It’s like you can see the music in her face,” I say.
Mom nods. “She plays so expressively.”
“She must have felt alone,” I say, “being the first one to play in a band with all men.”
“And also brave,” Mom says. She gives me a hug that is just right.
In my room, I get ready for bed. On my dresser—next to my favorite books, next to my earmuffs—are my new special right-for-me earbuds. I will wear them for the moments when sounds are too much. Sounds like talking-shouting-clapping on top of forte trumpets-flutes-trombones on top of screeching subways-sneakers-chairs.
My earmuffs will only be for cold days now. My new earbuds will make it easier to tune in to what I love to hear:
1. Footsteps on pink marble
2. Trombone notes
3. Jax singing
4. Madge’s laugh
5. My own voice.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
When I was a child, more than two feet of snow fell in Boston during one storm, stopping all traffic for days. I still remember the silence—the startlingly beautiful quality of it. When the snow melted, I was sad that our street once more roared day and night with cars. That blizzard was the seed for Amelia’s story. A few years ago, I wondered: What if having a quiet respite from noise was more a necessity than a pleasant preference?
I grew up in a gregarious family of interrupters and critics, which shaped my interactions and expectations for others. When I married into a family of introverts with sound sensitivity, though, I gained a new perspective. Living with a highly sensitive partner means knowing how to avoid overstimulation, allowing them processing time before they answer, accommodating their need for extra physical space, and giving them quiet time alone to recharge. Learning to interrupt less and listen more has been a gift.
Amelia’s story grew as I researched and read about sound sensitivity and the use of noise-canceling headphones. I shared early drafts with therapists and teachers to make sure I was plausibly portraying a highly sensitive child. Any errors are my own; ultimately, Muffled is the story of only one child’s struggle to figure out when to cover and uncover her ears.
I hope Amelia’s story inspires you to accept and respect the different ways we experience the world’s sounds—from car horns to trombones—and to truly listen to one another.
RESOURCES AND INFORMATION ABOUT NOISE SENSITIVITY
Hearing is one of our main senses, yet the level of loudness we can handle without discomfort varies widely. Being sensitive to sound is hard to classify, although it is often linked to a diagnosis, such as an auditory processing disorder, misophonia (sensitivity to certain sounds), or hyperacusis (sensitivity to everyday sounds). About 20 percent of peopl
e have a sensory-processing sensitivity, a personality trait that can include a strong reaction to noise. In the 1990s, Dr. Elaine N. Aron identified those who are highly sensitive as people who: process things more deeply than others; are likely to be overstimulated by their environment; have stronger emotional reactions to their experiences, including being more empathetic; and are more likely to perceive subtleties.
Whether or not you experience sound sensitivity, the problem of noise pollution is growing. Studies show that noisy classrooms negatively affect reading comprehension and concentration. Recommended decibel levels to encourage learning are in the 25 to 40 decibel range, and yet ambient noise in some classrooms in urban areas can spike to around 70 decibels. (A power lawn mower is about 100 decibels.)
One way to make noisy places such as schools manageable for sensitive children is to permit the use of noise-canceling headphones or noise-suppression earbuds. Although ear protection provides immediate relief, most doctors and educators recommend against excessive usage because children can become dependent on the headphones and become further isolated. To encourage adaptation, therapists often retrain the brain to make a child feel safe and secure.
If you are interested, you can read more about noise sensitivity in The Highly Sensitive Child by Dr. Aron (Harmony Books, 2015) and by searching on PsychologyToday.com. There is also an online resource at AllergictoSound.com, a support network for people living with sensory processing disorder and other diagnoses.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Making a book is like making music—from the first tentative note to a final performance, it takes many hours before it is right. And it takes the support and applause of many people. From the first, Muffled was guided by my amazing agent, Andrea Cascardi, who saw its potential when it was in an entirely different form. A big thank-you to my editor, Catherine Laudone, who fell in love with Amelia and enriched her story in countless ways.
Special thanks to Merriam Saunders, LMFT, who read an early version with a clinical eye; to private special education and math teacher Julie Durbin for her keen insights into children with different learning abilities; and to Chandos McEowen, the most big-hearted teacher and parent I know.
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