The Fine Art of Keeping Quiet

Chapter 1 My feet are stuck in a clump of snow at the bus stop, a haze of exhaust swirling around me. I need to get home so we can drive back to school for conferences—or speed-dating with teachers, as my mom calls it—where Mr. Henderson can tell my parents how I’m failing speech. You’d think that would be my biggest problem at the moment. Yeah. You’d think. But it’s not. Thing is, I’m really failing speech, the epic kind of failure that means repeating the class, maybe even summer school. I don’t know what I’m going to do if that happens. I don’t know what I’m going to do in half an hour when my parents sit down with Mr. Henderson. But right this second, I don’t know how I’m going to walk past the rink rats. The rink rats, as my brother Derek calls them, all skate in the youth hockey league and they practice in the park near my house. On most days, I wait them out. I stamp my feet and blow warm breath into damp mittens and let frost fringe my eyelashes until the rink rats move on. Eventually, they’ll abandon the sidewalk in front of Meadow Park for the hockey rinks behind it. But today, they stand there, in between my bus stop and home, skates slung over their shoulders and sticks in hand. They are armed, and dangerous, and once upon a time, before Derek went off to college, they weren’t even an issue. Wind stings my cheeks. My jacket feels thin, and I feel unprotected inside it. I tug my scarf up and over my mouth so its edge tickles the tip of my nose. Somehow, this feels safer. When another bus pulls up, I see my chance. I take a few steps, my boots crunching a mix of icy snow, sand, and salt. One of the rink rats heads for the warming hut, leaving the other two behind. Yes! Two against one isn’t so bad. I take a few more steps. Head down, I’m a few feet away when I hear them. “Hey, bro. Here comes your girlfriend.” It’s one of the rink rats, and he doesn’t say girlfriend like it’s a nice word. “Are you sure?” This is Crandall. That’s his last name. I only know this because it’s on the back of his hockey jersey. If the rink rats were a wolf pack, Crandall would be their alpha. As if to prove my theory, the first rink rat howls. It’s a sound that feels colder than the wind. “Now I see her,” Crandall says. “Hey, bay-bee.” The rink rats have always been mean. I’m sure that in pre-school they pushed other kids down to get to the choicest Saltines. But in the last few months, their words scare me more, make my feet freeze in their tracks. When I inhale, my lungs hold icicles. “Wanna go to the Valentine’s dance?” Crandall says. “Of course, you’ll have to wear a bag over your head.” “That’s the only kind of date you could get.” The other boy folds his arms across his chest and smirks at Crandall. Who shoves the other first, I can’t say, but a spark of hope warms my chest. If their fight goes on long enough, I can sneak past. They’ll be too busy with each other to care about me. The soles of my boots squeak in the snow. I wince, hope they don’t hear, and fight the temptation to run. Running is the worst thing you can do. It makes you look scared. Wolves—and rink rats—love that. “Hey, bay-bee, where you going?” Part of me wants to spin around, shove him in the chest, and shout, “Hey, bay-bee, I have a name.” But I don’t say anything. Your name isn’t something you give to a rink rat. Even Derek was careful never to use my name—Jolia—around them. “Cut it out,” someone says. This isn’t the other rink rat. It certainly isn’t Crandall. I feel myself turn, almost like I’m being pulled by a thin, invisible wire. The boy stands a few feet away, a new arrival from that other school bus. I know him. Or knew him. I’m not sure which. His name is Sam, and his eyes make me think of summer. “Who do we have here?” Crandall says. “A boyfriend?” He doesn’t say this like it’s a nice word either. The other rink rat snorts. “No way, dude. He’s the one with the boyfriend.” Now, the word sounds even worse. Sam’s face flushes pink, and Crandall laughs like this is the funniest joke ever. From the top of the hill, a voice calls, “Hey, are we going to skate or what?” It’s the third rink rat, back from the rink. I gulp a breath. If he starts down the hill, we really will be outnumbered. Crandall glances toward the hill and back again, then his eyes narrow at Sam like he has ruined everything. And Sam? He takes a step forward. I wait for the worst. “This sucks, man,” Crandall says at last. “Let’s skate.” So they leave. Just like that. But of course, as he walks past, Crandall’s shoulder knocks into mine. I stumble back only to have my elbow caught by Sam. He frowns after them and mutters, “A-holes.” I try to speak, but it’s like the rink rats have stolen all my words. My insides quake. My eyes are hot with unshed tears. Sam’s bravery amazes me, and I wish I could tell him that. “You okay?” he says. I nod, then manage, “Yeah. Thanks.” The words come out of my mouth with tiny puffs of fog. “Do they do this all the time?” Sam asks. I look away and he knows the answer. “Maybe you should tell someone.” Yes, I know I should. Everyone says to do that: parents, teachers, pop stars on YouTube. Sure, my parents would listen, but both Sam and I know how it would go. The torment might stop—for a while. Then the rink rats would invent something new, something worse. “Or maybe,” he begins, and I catch the hint of a grin in his voice. “You could join a sport or something and take the activity bus home.” He nods toward the park. “They’d be skating by then.” They’d be cutting up the ice and wouldn’t risk ruining their skates just to mess with me. “I might do that,” I say. “I usually take that bus,” he adds, “but I have conferences today.” We don’t go to the same school, never have. Sam might live in Fremont, Minnesota, like I do, but he’s in the Winnetka school district. As long as I can remember, whatever our school did, Winnetka had to do it better, so it doesn’t surprise me that they have conferences today, too. “Well. See ya,” he says. “I’m going to be late.” “Me too.” But we just stand there, like both of us want to say something. I haven’t seen him up close since the summer before seventh grade. He’s taller now, taller than I am. Dark bangs peek from beneath a knit cap. His eyes remind me of all the summers we spent together, right here, in Meadow Park. Their color is the glimpse of blue between the green and brown of the largest oak. Summer green, I think, and they stare at me now as if something intrigues him. But he doesn’t mention those days. I wonder if he even remembers me and how we played until the mosquitoes chased us home, how he was my summer best friend. Instead, he jerks, something that starts as a wave, but ends as a swipe at his bangs. Then he turns and walks toward his house. I wave, but his back is turned and he doesn’t see me. I trudge home, wondering why the idea of Sam forgetting our summers feels worse, in some ways, than failing speech. “I don’t understand. I simply don’t understand.” My mom has said this a dozen times, at least, during the conference. She started on a fresh round before we even sat down in Mr. Henderson’s classroom. My dad is here and so is the guidance counselor, Ms. Patel. This is special. This is serious. This isn’t your normal school conference. “How can Jolia be doing so well—straight As—in all her classes but one?” Mom asks. That’s the million dollar question. I wish I had an answer. So must everyone else, because for a long time, no one says anything. I begin to feel like I do during speech class itself, my insides like ice, hoping (usually beyond hope) that Mr. Henderson won’t call on me. My mouth feels awkward, like my teeth are too large for my jaw. I press my fingers against my upper lip. No braces. Not anymore. My teeth are straight. Sometimes that’s hard to believe without a mirror. Mom reaches over and gently tugs my wrist so my hand slips away from my mouth and into my lap. Her fingers are cool. They don’t tremble, but I know she’s nervous. “I’m going to outline a few options that Jolia has at this point,” Mr. Henderson says, clearing his throat. He pauses to make sure he has everyone’s attention. My parents lean forward, and even Ms. Patel props her chin on her hand. “One option is Jolia can make up the speeches she’s missed plus give a handful of extra-credit speeches before the end of the term.” I feel my eyes go wide at the prospect of writing and giving that many speeches. Apparently, Mr. Henderson doesn’t think much of this option, because he continues. “Or, perhaps it would be best if Jolia drops speech and retakes it during the last term.” “What?” comes out of my mouth before I can stop it. “But I have creative storytelling.” Fear forces the words from me. The honors elective is by application only. Mrs. Riley has already approved the outline for the graphic novel my best friend Caro and I plan to write. We’re the only sophomores in the course this year. And if I drop it? I doubt Mrs. Riley will give me another chance to take it. Mr. Henderson’s expression is bland. He narrows his eyes at me, like the last thing I should worry about is my graphic novel. Maybe he’s right. Creative storytelling isn’t a blow-off elective, but without speech, I can’t graduate. Dad coughs. “That’s an option,” he says, “but I’d hate to see Jolia miss out on creative storytelling.” “Actions have consequences,” Mr. Henderson says. Or in my case, non-actions, because, in truth, the only thing I haven’t done in speech is talk. Just because during last week’s speech, I froze in front of everyone and then just stood there—mute, for three whole minutes—doesn’t mean I should fail speech. Okay, maybe it does. Dad bristles, and I know he’s going to say something, something that will probably land me in summer school, or worse. “Actually,” Ms. Patel says before Dad can speak, “I’m not entirely certain Jolia can stay in the honors program if she drops speech this term.” An urge to bolt from the room washes over me. Mom must feel it, too, because she clutches my hand. I’m not certain if she’s keeping me here or the other way around. With one sentence, Ms. Patel has sent my future plans crashing, like one domino into another. No honors program? No chance at a scholarship. No scholarship? I don’t know what that means. But things are tight with Derek at college—and he has scholarships. “May I?” Ms. Patel leans forward and studies the screen on Mr. Henderson’s laptop. “Hmm ... interesting. Jolia has turned in all her written assignments on time.” Mom and Dad exchange looks. Mr. Henderson glances toward the ceiling. “And for one hundred percent credit as well,” Ms. Patel continues. “It seems Jolia has a grasp on how to outline a speech, and how to write in general, wouldn’t you say, Mr. Henderson?” He nods like this fact pains him. “And her grades in American Literature reflect that. So, really, what she needs to work on is the performance aspect, actually standing up in front of a group and speaking. Am I right?” Mr. Henderson’s face is blank, and he gives one stiff nod. Mom edges closer to Ms. Patel and the laptop. Ms. Patel shifts so Mom can see my grades. “What about a third option?” Ms. Patel says. “For instance?” Both Dad and Mr. Henderson say at once. “For instance.” Ms. Patel points to the poster on the wall behind Mr. Henderson’s desk. It says The Fremont Free Speakers Want You! “Weren’t you saying,” she adds, her question directed at Mr. Henderson. “That the team needs more members?” Mr. Henderson looks like he’s going to choke on his own spit. Yes, the team is recruiting—hard. They lost all their award-winning seniors from last year. The co-captain twins, Ryan and Tory Dinsmore, have plastered posters all over school and they even did a funny routine at the last pep rally. But Mr. Henderson probably wants members of the Fremont Free Speakers with the ability to speak freely. “It’s perfect for a case like Jolia’s,” Ms. Patel says. “She’ll attend practice during the week, and all the tournaments are on Saturdays ...” Tournaments? How much better is that than repeating speech class? My palms start to sweat. “Every Saturday?” I squeak. “Here.” Ms. Patel hands me a sheet of paper from Mr. Henderson’s desk. I count nine tournaments between now and April. “I’m not really sure this addresses the problem,” Mr. Henderson begins. Everyone knows the speech team is his pride and joy. Last year, eight team members went to state, and four to national. Why ruin a record like that with me? I don’t blame him for hating this idea. I don’t like it much myself. “How about a trial basis?” Ms. Patel suggests. “Jolia doesn’t need another term of learning how to write a speech. What she needs is a little help overcoming her performance anxiety. What if she continues in speech class and uses her participation on the team to raise her grade?” The silence in the room falls cold and hard. I don’t dare breathe, and I don’t think my parents do either. “Practice is every day after school,” Mr. Henderson says. “Attendance is mandatory on Tuesdays. Although to prove you’re serious and to improve, I’d expect to see you every day.” This last sounds more like he’s insisting I eat a big plate of liver and onions. It sounds like he’s hoping I refuse. “Practice?” My voice wavers on that word. Eating a big plate of liver sounds so much better than speaking in front of a group every day after school. Mr. Henderson scowls. “Will that be a problem?” Before Dad can jump in, Ms. Patel adds, “If transportation is an issue, there’s always the activity bus. Practice will end in time for her to catch the last one, won’t it, Mr. Henderson?” Ms. Patel beams at him. Oh, she’s good. “Yes.” Mr. Henderson sighs. “It does.” I hear an echo of Sam in my head. After school ... activity bus. I think of the walk home, the way clear of rink rats. I wonder if the Winnetka activity bus drops off at the same time. I wonder if Sam will be on that bus. There’s enough wonder in these thoughts that it makes speech team seem almost bearable. Everyone is staring at me, so I raise my chin and say: “I’ll do it.”