Sound of Silence Page 3

  “If you don’t know what the problem is, then I’m not going to waste my breath trying to explain it to you.”

  So I’m forced to reexamine my actions of the past twenty-four hours in search of how I’ve sinned against her. “Is it that you didn’t care for me quizzing you on the rules of definite integration for AP Calculus?”

  Morning stares blindly in front of her into the rain that pummels the windshield as if it has a grievance. She seems to be in a trance of sorts. It’s as if I hadn’t spoken.

  “It’s that damn boy, isn’t it?”

  My sister blinks once, then again. I’ve hit on the sore spot sooner than expected.

  “That pitiful waif who is somehow bound to silence. What’s his name?” I know very well that his name is Renzy.

  “Renzy.”

  Ahhh, I have engaged the ice princess.

  “Yes, of course. Renzy.” I park my car in my usual spot on the street in front of Heart On Fire… or Ablaze… or whatever the fuck it’s called. “How did I step on your toes with regard to this Renzy person?”

  “You stepped on his toes, Seven. You really need to gain a measure of patience.” She pauses. “And some compassion.”

  Compassion? She dares to accuse me of a lack of empathy when, since that night in Paris when she was violated, I have devoted my every waking moment to her?

  “I’m still coming into the meeting.” I get out of the car and slam the door, and then I roll my eyes one more time just because it feels good.

  THE QUEEN of stretch polyester greets us at the door—not that I’m criticizing her attire, but hey, hasn’t she ever watched What Not to Wear? And I thought Americans couldn’t get enough reality television. Whatever. She offers us grape Kool-Aid and Double Stuf Oreos, but I shake my head rather vehemently, hoping the coffee that is dripping on the far edge of the counter won’t equally repel me.

  Some of the women at the Take Back Our Power meeting seem uncomfortable with my presence, even after Morning introduces me as her brother—not that she mentioned I was the person who compelled her to survive when she wanted nothing more than to drift away. Far away. Forever away.

  Morning’s stalker, aka Renzy, is already here, semisecluded on the floor in the corner by the bay window. I’m not one to judge—and if you believe that, I’ve got some swampland in Florida to sell you—but he appears fully engrossed in stamping his own fingerprints in some kind of a notebook. I don’t intend to stare, but I can’t stop myself.

  To be honest it’s the closest thing to fucked-up I’ve witnessed since I went into Morning’s room on that morning last summer and found her sitting on her bed, pulling out her eyelashes. He’s intent, focused, and looking much too pleased, as he covers his fingertips, one by one, with ink from his Sharpie marker, and stamps them carefully in strategic locations on the notepad.

  Stranger still, nobody but me seems to find this behavior odd. Three middle-aged women sit very close together at the table in the front of the room, chatting with animation, and sending me sporadic and suspicious glares, but spare not a glance for the guy doing preschool art in the corner. Another younger woman, with silky brown skin and long dreadlocks tied into a loose bun, sits alone at the table behind them. I can’t see her eyes because she’s staring down at her hands, but I’m good at reading body language. She’s tremendously depressed.

  Morning and I sit down in the back of the room, opposite from Renzy, who is still hard at work in Police Officer Basic Training 101: Fingerprinting Your Suspect.

  A woman wearing a name tag on her shoulder that reads Ms. Allison steps into the room, folds her arms on her chest, and clears her throat. “Good morning, ladies… and gentlemen.”

  “Good morning, Ally,” the three women say in unison. Ms. Allison flinches, but it’s so brief I wonder if I imagined it.

  Depressed Girl, Morning, and Renzy say nothing in response. I think, what’s so good about this morning? But my lips also remain sealed. I’m not here for the niceties. I’m here to guard my little sister from finger-painting Pablo Picasso, over there.

  “Today I would like to talk about this statement: I am not alone.” No introductions…. No Hi, my name is so-and-so and I’m a desperate victim. This tall, gray-haired, nondescript woman sporting a nondescript ponytail and a nondescript stretchy pantsuit dives directly into the hot topic on today’s agenda. The lack of a smooth transition shocks me. I wonder how the rape victims feel about their splash into the chilly waters of soul-spilling.

  “My cousin… I know I’m not alone because I have her,” one of the women offers. She glares at me briefly, as if I’m going to post what she says to social media. “She always listens to me. Lenore told me once, ‘Never feel that you have said too much on the subject of… what happened to you. I will listen until you have nothing left to say.’”

  I’m not sure why, but I’m compelled to look at Morning. A wetness I haven’t seen in what seems like an unnaturally long time fills her ice-blue eyes. I’m distracted by her uncharacteristic show of emotion and am surprised by the next reply.

  “I’d say that I’m not alone because I’ve got this group.” Another of the three takes her turn at spilling her soul. “I still have anxiety. Worry. Fear. But I can talk about it here, which makes me feel like I’m doing something about it.”

  The small crowd offers a supportive murmur. Well, most of us do.

  I glance at Renzy. He’s bent over his notebook, fully engrossed in his art.

  The third woman says, “It’s these two ladies, who sit beside me every day, who keep me going. They meet me when I’m scared to go to the grocery store and hold my hand while I shop. They go with me to pick up my son from school. I used to be alone, but I’m not anymore.” Time for a group hug.

  A flurry of small nods and, of course, the standard small-group embrace meet her comments.

  “Leisha, you’re new to our group today. Would you like to speak on this topic?” The girl with dreads lifts her head, and I see the exact same look in her dark eyes that I saw in Morning’s light ones eight months ago. On the morning after it happened. Leisha shakes her head slowly and looks back down at her hands folded on the table.

  “Him.” Morning is speaking before I know what’s happening. My aloof and brooding sister is actually volunteering her opinion to the awkward discussion occurring between this strange little group of survivors. “I’m not alone… and I’m still here… because of him.” She glances at me and places a slim palm on my forearm. Although her hand is cold, a wave of raw, heated emotion nearly knocks me from my chair. I grip the edge of the table to steady myself.

  Morning just recognized me. She knows I’m here for her.

  “That’s very good, Morning. Thank you for contributing.” Ms. Allison draws the attention from us, and I’m irrationally thankful. I do not care to air my ugly emotions on the public laundry line. “Renzy, do you have something to offer the group today?”

  My gaze darts toward the young man who has done nothing in this meeting but stamp fingerprints and scribble in his damn notebook as if he’s some sort of eccentric Parisian artist from out of the nineteenth century. Upon hearing his name, Renzy looks up and scans the group. Then he stands with his notebook in hand, so very gracefully that I’m reluctantly captivated. And in the manner of a silent dancer owning his limelight, he steps over to Leisha and shows her what he’s just drawn. Her eyes widen, and she unfolds her hands to touch the paper with a single finger.

  He’s not shy. Or embarrassed. Or a shrinking violet, as I somehow expect him to be. Renzy holds his shoulders down and back and wears an expression of serenity. He floats from person to person to show the art he created during this very meeting. Finally standing before Morning and me, he watches us closely as he turns the notebook so that we can see the picture.

  On the page is a rather exceptional resemblance of this room, and in it, each of us is fashioned upon one of his fingerprints. Our images are somehow not round and plump and comical as fingerprint people tend
to be, but are wispy and delicate and ethereal. Connecting each of the individual people are tiny strands of outlined hearts. He has made a web of these strands that all interlace like string. And there’s a tiny heart—the only solid image on the paper—between Morning and me. He understands my commitment to her and her appreciation of it.

  It’s so touching and perfect that my mouth falls open. Morning simultaneously places a hand over her pale, O-shaped lips.

  Renzy then tears the page from the notebook and places it on the table, directly between Morning and me. He points to each of us and then clutches his heart with both hands. I know this gift is ours to keep.

  Without words, he has spoken very clearly and said so much.

  Chapter Five: Renzy

  “MR. CALLEN. You’ve missed quite a bit of class lately. So far your mother has excused all your absences, but you know the school’s policy. More than nine absences—excused or not—and you’ll be making up lessons in summer school if you want to graduate.”

  I chain paperclips together while he talks. Slip the curved top of one up under the edge of the next, navigate the maze of metal until they are joined like a pinky promise. I’m sure Mr. Little thinks this is disrespectful, but it’s not meant to be. If I raise my eyes and he actually looks and sees what I’m saying behind them, then it might be considered disrespectful.

  Right now, I’m just considering his words and making links.

  Summer school isn’t much of a threat.

  I already know I’m going to fail Trig.

  We all have things we’re good at and others we aren’t. I’m good at drawing pictures, at recognizing voices, at keeping secrets. I’m good at forgetting, at being quiet, at thinking. I’m not good at utilizing my vocal cords, and I’m not good at understanding math. And you know what’s real hard to do? Pass a math class when you aren’t comfortable enough to raise your hand and utilize your vocal cords for the thirty-five seconds it takes to ask for clarification on a problem.

  So I’m going to fail the class and I won’t graduate.

  My other teachers don’t care if I’m here or not. It’s not like I can do presentations or answer questions. I am pretty badass at dry-erase board illustrations, though, if anyone ever wants to see. But I’m never chosen for groups. No one ever wants to partner with me. In psych class, when pairs were required for the egg-baby assignment, I was a single parent.

  It was cool, though. Egger and I sat up in my room and listened to old Shawn Phillips records and thought about life. We’ve both considered becoming monks. He thinks the monastic lifestyle will help him clear his yolky brain, and I just want to beat life to the punch. I’m pretty sure I’m going to die a virgin, so why not choose chastity?

  Anyway, the thing about academics is, I’m not dumb. Really, I’m not. I’m smart enough to know I have a world more to learn. I just don’t know that this building is the place for me to do that learning. I think I can learn more about life in my vinyl collection; I think I can learn it living in the shadows of other people’s lives; I think I can learn it in the dusty stacks of the library.

  When I was a little kid, they all liked to call me dumb. Moron, idiot, retard. The other kids, my relatives, even the school counselors—in their own way.

  We think Lorenzo might just not have the mental capacity to articulate verbally.

  I’ve been held back twice already, thank you, Mr. Little.

  I raise my eyes. The balding man with the faux I-want-to-help smile is staring at my paperclip chain. After a moment I toss the links back into the little mesh cup on his desk.

  “As I was saying, Mr. Callen.” He clears his throat. “These are your options: make up absences by doing Saturday school, refrain from missing another day for the rest of the year, or we’ll hold your diploma until you’ve made up your classes in the summer.”

  I nod.

  Gotcha. Understood. Doesn’t make a difference.

  I’m nineteen. I’ve been here too damn long already.

  Maybe I don’t need to graduate.

  Maybe I can find work full-time. It’ll have to be a place that hires mutes without their diplomas, right? I cringe at the thought of the sort of work I might find.

  Well, all right, maybe I will finish, but I’ll do online school or the GED program.

  I glance pointedly at the clock and Mr. Little’s eyes follow as well.

  “Ah, yes, it’s getting late, isn’t it? Could you please sign this for me and hand it to the receptionist on your way out?”

  He pushes a pen and a piece of paper across the desk. The paper has been photocopied off other copies so many times the ink looks more gray than black.

  “This says that we spoke and you understand that your graduation is in jeopardy.”

  He does not expect me to read it, but I do. Every word. When he sighs impatiently, I read even slower, finally signing and dating at the bottom.

  I PASS Morning as I’m leaving Mr. Little’s office and we stop to say hello.

  “Renzy? What are you doing here?”

  Failing. What about you, Morning?

  I point to Mr. Little’s office, make the blah, blah, blah motion with my hand, then poke my chest with my thumb, and then mime being hung, my head lolling to the left.

  “He makes me want to die too.” She says this so airily that for a moment I pause. That wasn’t quite what I was saying. Man, I’m bad at talking with my hands. I still haven’t gotten used to this having-an-acquaintance thing.

  I shake my head, hold up a finger to ask her to wait, and walk back to where I laid my signed paperwork in the receptionist’s inbox. I take it out and give it to Morning who quickly reads it.

  Then I sign to myself again, the being hung.

  Her glossy lips form a perfect little O and she looks back at me.

  “You skip a lot of school, huh?”

  I wink at her.

  More than you know.

  “To go to the Take Back Our Power group?”

  I nod and then shrug, spreading out my hands. I’ve never been embarrassed about going to the various group therapy sessions at Heart Aflame. I go to lots of things: funerals, weddings, sometimes slip into church services. I go to the places where people are, and I listen to them.

  “I’m glad I got to talk to you,” Morning says. “I was a bit low today, but then you were here and….” She takes my hand and gives it a friendly squeeze. “It’s been hard. But you’re all right, Renzy.”

  I smile as she disappears into Mr. Little’s office.

  Even though I had to sit in the counselor’s office when I could have been napping in the concourse, I’m still smiling as I walk down the hall. Even as Morning’s shadow appears around a corner, I don’t stop. I just tip my imaginary hat to Mr. Seven-Ate-Nine.

  I think my smile startles him silent because he doesn’t immediately begin hurling lofty insults at me.

  I wish he would say something, though, and believe me when I say that’s not something I’ve ever thought before.

  I mean, what right do I have to wish someone would speak?

  But the longer Seven doesn’t speak—I fidget a bit—the longer I have to notice how dark his eyebrows are. I know, what a stupid thing to be attracted to, right? But I love eyebrows.

  And I like the eyes that are under them. Blue like…. Oh man. My head’s jumbled with clichés. The ocean? Sapphires? Crystal gem orb stones of power and light? They’re really blue, okay?

  I half wave.

  Please shut me up, Seven.

  The bell rings. Students start to cut through the hall, dividing us, giving me a chance to stop being so stupid.

  Okay, yes, he’s cute, but I already knew that. European-model good looks, remember? European-model good looks and knows it. That’s the important part: and knows it. I still haven’t forgotten the night Egger and I decided to become monks.

  I start to walk away and suddenly he has a voice.

  “Renzy?”

  It would be so easy to keep walking. I’
ve walked away from so many things in my life. I’m afraid if I turn back, I’ll notice other things about Seven.

  I stay still as he cuts through the crowd.

  “My sister has taken a liking to you. Don’t get any ideas about what that means.”

  I grin and shake my head, nope, no ideas, I promise. Apparently smiles aren’t welcome in Seven Land, though, because his look is foul. I let the grin slip away.

  “Rhonda and Edgar, our parents, are out of town God only knows where. We’ve the house to ourselves.”

  I realize his dad’s name is Edgar, and it strikes me as really funny. Edgar. Egger. I don’t know. Am I having a stroke? Maybe.

  Seven eyes me suspiciously, and I try to get my laughter under control. “If you’re done? I’m inviting you to have dinner with Morning and me. If she isn’t too tired and I can still stand your company after we’ve eaten, maybe we’ll do something else together. A movie? Be at this address: 224 Fox Run Road, in Riss Valley—do you think you can remember that?—at six thirty tonight. And don’t be late.”

  I thumb my chest, tap my wrist, and shrug. I’m never late but maybe that’s because I’m never trying to get anywhere on time. Seven repeats himself.

  “Don’t be late. Oh, and can you pick up a decent loaf of bread?”

  Decent loaf of bread? What the hell does that mean?

  Fancy, probably. I can only think of one bakery that sells breads at prices no sensible person would pay, and it’s all the way across town. If I’m going to make it there and back and not be “late,” then I’ll have to leave after sixth hour. That means I’ll be skipping art—just about the only class I truly love and also the “one more absence” that will push me into summer school—but Seven is inviting me to spend time with him and his sister. How the hell can I say no?

  This is the first time in my life that someone other than a cousin has invited me to go anywhere for any reason. And the cousins were always forced to invite me—they told me to my face.