Never Said (4 page)
O
n our way to school, snow falling like feathers, Annie says, “There's Mr. Freeman. He's outside every morning.” She's whispering, like he might hear us if she used her whole voice. She pulls her jacket tighter at her throat. “Did you know that?”
I look up from
Everything Is Fine
. “Not really,” I say. “I've never really noticed.”
“That's 'cause you always have your head in a book.”
True.
Annie slows and we both look at our down-the-street neighbor. “It's like he's watching us.”
“Watching us? No. He's shoveling his driveway.” I stare at Mr. Freeman. He's bent over his work. Snowflakes cling to his head and shoulders. “Gosh, I hope he doesn't freeze out there.”
“It's gotta be below zero,” Annie says. “Why would he be doing this now? He's a freak.”
I glance at my sister. Her face is like stone, like she's frozen. With gloved hands I cover my mouth and nose then blow out to warm my face a little.
This is a bitter winter. Amazing ski conditions at all the slopes, snowdrifts piled higher than the mailboxes here in the valley, and me feeling closed in. I like it. There's an almost safe feeling. Like no one can get you. Like no one can see you.
We drive on.
In slow motion, the winter sky comes to life as sticklike fingers of the sun begin to push at the dark. We pass our neighbor, who seems to move only teaspoons full of snow at a time.
“He's not that bad,” I say to Annie. “He's just a lonely old man.” I remember when Mr. Freeman's wife died. Annie played the piano at the funeral. He cried the whole service.
“Whatever,” she says, then peels off, sliding this way and that until she gets control of the car.
I laugh with surprise.
Annie bares her teeth.
Half a mile from school, my heart starts pounding. Pounding the way that makes you sick to your stomach. Pounding the way it's done all my life.
The radio blasts out classical music. (Yes, classical. Annie and I both love it. Play it. I even read music scores when I'm bored.) I close my eyes. Try to let the music calm me. Why? Why can't I get used to this? Going to school, going to work, being in public. Normal people do it. Why can't I?
Annie's singing along with Mozart. No words. But still she sings. Off-key as ever. I just want to stay in the car with her forever.
I know, though, once you're in public, if you're quiet, people won't see you. If you keep your hand down in class, people won't make fun of your answers. If you walk at the edge of the hallway, people (as a rule) won't run into you.
There are ways to stay out of the way. Never answer a question. Don't volunteer anything. Sit near the back of the classroom. When called upon, keep answers short. Make yourself smaller in your desk. Don't lean forward in anticipation. Move around if there are no assigned seats.
Think invisible. Become invisible.
I'll be okay. I will. I know I will.
And I'll try and do what Annie has said. Not even think of Garret, though just knowing I'll see him today keeps me alive and kills me at the same time.
R
emember to give it a break,” Annie says, reading my mind again. She turns off the car. Looks at me. Smiles right in my face. She licks her finger and runs it over my left eyebrow, then right.
My throat closes up at her touch. “I don't like spit on my face,” I say. Sort of. The words aren't really there. But I don't move away from my sister.
She cups my face in her hands.
“Okay,” I say.
Something inside me warms at her touch. My sister and me the same, right at this moment.
I say it again. “Okay.” Then I close my eyes.
I sit in the car, not moving, after she leaves. The interior grows cold now that the engine and heat are off. I'll let go if I have to, but I'm not ready yet to stop thinking about him, because there may still be a chance for Garret and me. A chance at what we had Before. A chance for our plans.
Mightn't there?
That was me.
The girl with too many friends.
Some fake
some real.
then i pay
good or bad
i know the answer
i show the answer
now i choose
There's my sister walking in almost late.
Alone.
To her locker.
Right next to mine.
My heart clenches seeing her.
Have I ever loved
like she did?
(yes! Yes, I have!)
Like she still does?
Ever cared the way I saw
her care?
Know she cares?
(yes! Even more! I have!)
Ever planned more than a
scholarship from a glamour shot
and the correct answer of
World Peace?
I
rush to my locker so I won't be late. Though the hall is crowded, I feel like a whispered word. I pass the offices and think of how there was so much arranging done when I started high school. All those people to help fix me.
I didn't think it was possible. But it helped. They helped me.
“A language,” the guidance counselor had said as we prepared my ninth-grade schedule. “You need a language so you have all the right credits when you graduate.”
Right! Me! A language! “One I don't have to speak,” I said, trying to be funny.
“Got that,” she said.
ASL. With Miss Saunders, the best teacher. Sign language, the best (and scariest) class I've taken.
A change from a lonely world to one that forces you to be watched by everyone. Could I go to a school that would train me in sign? Could I do Deaf Studies? Visit Gallaudet? That's what I decided to do by midterm my freshman year.
For years now, the schools we've attended have made sure Annie and I are separated and don't share classes. I think they've hoped I would “come out of my shell.”
But it was sign language that changed me, if only for sixty minutes three times a week.
I love the noisy/soundless world of the deaf. The one place I am willing to stand out.
A
s I near Annie, who watches me come closer, I remember how on that first day of high school, I was terrified.
She waltzed into the building (like always). Everyone looked (like always). I followed. Watched people watch her. Did she even notice them? I was proud. Admiring her like everyone else did, feeling lucky because I was related.
Me, head tucked to my chest.
Her, head high, smile lighting up the hallway. She wasn't afraid, and so I followed her to where our lockers would be. Grateful to be with her. I let her open both of them. She spoke for me when teachers asked me anything, kept her arm around my waist when I started to panic, introduced me to the school â and to Garret that very first day.
“Hey, you look like you know what you're doing in math.” She said that to him when she dropped me off in front of my Algebra classroom. I knew who he was. We'd seen him and his mom moving into the house on the corner. “Watch over my sister in there.” She had stuck her hand out. “I'm Annie. This is Sarah. You're new to our neighborhood.”
“Oh,” he had said. “I'm Garret King.” And I'd wanted to shake hands with him too, even though shaking hands is something that old people and beauty queens do.
I
've gotten my books. Annie watches me, worried. She stands the way I do when I'm afraid. The way I do when I'm in an uncomfortable situation.
I see it then.
Is she waiting for me to notice?
Does she need me to see?
I'm not sure. We both reach for the paper at the same time. It's folded and stuck in the groove of her locker. Peeking out of that air vent.
B
eauty Queen Pig. It says
beauty queen pig
.
Winter washes over me, like someone has left the hall door open. I swallow, swallow, swallow, but my throat stays dry.
Who?
Who?
The halls are flooded. Everyone is suspect. I look around. Turn in a circle. So many people hurrying past, but no one seems to wait for a reaction.
Beauty
Queen
Pig
Sarah rips the note to bits.
Grabs the words from my hands
and tears them to pieces.
“This is . . .” She hesitates. Swears.
“They're wrong.”
She sounds afraid.
But her eyes flick to my stomach.
She thinks it too,
thinks I'm a pig.
Her face goes bright red.
She thinks it too,
I'm sure.
Her sister is a pig.
Yes.
I
am.
This is the way I want to be.
What I have decided to become.
I didn't know it at first.
Didn't see the power until the first few pounds
caused Mom to freak out.
My body knew I needed this
And I have gone along.
I have chosen to be fat.
Say it enough, the words are even more real.
Fat. Fat. Me.
These words are me.
And this is the way I want to be. This is the way I want to be. This is the way I want to be.
This is the way.
“Who?” Sarah says. “Who would do this?”
“Who would write these . . . things?”
“Who would leave it here for you to find?”
She looks me in the eye and I can see she's going to cry.
“Why?”
I shrug.
There have been many, I want to say
Every day, I want to say
Sometimes more than once, I want to say.
“This,” Sarah says, “is wrong
on so many levels.”
She wipes at her tears.
“You don't deserve this.”
I'm stunned.
Wait. I asked for this when I
Made my choice.
Still I say, “I don't?”
Sarah has a tight hold on my elbow.
“Who's doing it? Who's writing them?”
Guys I dumped?
Girls I stole boys from?
Beauty pageant competitors?
These could be from anyone
but I think I know.
“And, Annie, no. You don't
deserve these comments.
Ever.”
“Not even if you think it too?” I ask.
“I don't believe it,” she says.
And she's gone.
Back straight.
Hair swinging.
Not one sound from her
as she leaves.
I'm thinking.
I used to believe
I earned these notes
That I've been getting
what I
deserve
But maybe
I don't.
W
hen we separate and head to class, I stop at the bathroom and weep in a stall for my sister. I'm quiet. Practiced. Flush the toilet if I have to sob. But I can cry without a sound if I have to.
“Who would do this? Who would want to hurt her?” I can't look at myself in the mirror. Refuse to step out of the stall at all. My voice is low but I can almost hear the echo of the questions.
The bell rings, and I don't care. I keep seeing Annie holding that note. And her face, it never changed. Each time I remember, I cry again.
When I know I can, I leave the bathroom for a late pass. I want to go home. Go find Annie. Make her take me home. Make her leave with me.
But Garret's waiting when I push into the hall.
I stumble with surprise, and he steps forward. There's no one else out here. Why isn't he in class? Did he hear me cry? Or did the buzz of voices from under closed classroom doors drown me out?
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“I saw you and Annie.”
I know my eyes are red. Lashes wet. Nose runny. But when I speak, I'm thrilled, broken, upset, delighted that I get to talk to him today. More than just the, “Hey, Sarahs.” And the “Did you get the homework in American History?”
Annie says give us a break. To not think of Garret. She's right. I know she is.
“So?”
“I could see you were upset. I've been waiting for you. What's wrong?” he asks.
I have to look up to peer into his eyes. He's basketball tall (though he plays rugby). His hair's a little longer than the last time we were this close.
I love you.
Forget him.
I miss you.
Words get caught in my mouth, try to pass my teeth.
Pig
is in there and
We're too serious
and that image of my sister looking so afraid. I can't say any of that. Can't put words to those thoughts. Nothing is full or spoken. I want to tell Garret everything â like I used to â even though I shouldn't. Instead, I shake my head because tears will spill if I speak, and I don't want him to think those tears are for him. I may be heartbroken, but I have some pride.
I manage to say, “I'm having an off day.” A fluorescent light above flickers, buzzes, goes out. The hall just-like-that feels like a scene from a slasher movie. Garret says nothing, just steps nearer â quiet, pretty the way he is, Garret. He wears that soft leather jacket, the one that almost feels like satin. His hair is damp â maybe from the snow? I lick my lips without meaning to.
“Need company?”
I don't answer.
I can do what Annie says.
So I walk. He goes down the hall with me and I am struck, like a fist hits me, of walking down this very hall when Garret reached
for my hand, caught his fingers in mine. My face went red then and I lost my voice that day too.
This walking close is something I miss. The way his hand brushes mine. (On purpose? Not on purpose?) There's other stuff too. Like the fact that Garret is nice. How many guys out there are nice? (Did a guy write that note? A girl? Did Garret write the notes? Would he? Why? No. No, it was someone else.) I miss the way he laughs. Miss watching him play sports. Watching movies at my house. Doing homework at his. It all sort of crashes through my head, the memories. I'm so dumb. I shouldn't want to walk beside him. But I do. I should let him go, like Annie says. But today I can't.
