When I Couldn't Talk: A True Story

Part 1

I'm in the car, on the way to school. My mom is driving, and the radio's on. We're talking. I'm talking. 

The car pulls to the curb. I open my door and get out, and my mom drives away. I carry my books up the path to the building, walk through the doors... and I can't talk. 

***

It's morning, and the bell hasn't rung. Various groups of friends are occupying various spots in the halls. They're talking. But I can't talk. 

I need to go to my locker, but I can't get to my locker. Little Miss Popular's locker is next to mine, and the huge crowd that basks in her glow is gathered around it. What should I do, just try to squeeze around them?

Say "excuse me"?

Say "I need to get to my locker"?

Say "get out of the way"?

I don't say anything, because I can't talk. 

So I pretend like that's not my locker, I wasn't walking in that direction. I escape down the hall and up a flight of stairs. Down another hall and another, and back downstairs. When I get back to my locker, I'm hoping hoping hoping the crowd has dispersed, but it hasn't. So I repeat the trip: down the hall, up the stairs, down another hall, and back downstairs. The bell is about to ring, and I don't have my history book. I'm either going to be late, or go through class without it. Luckily, the path to my locker has cleared. I walk to it and open the lock as fast as I can. 

***

"Why don't you ever talk?"

I shrug, as if to say, "I don't know."

"Why are you always so quiet?" 

I shrug, as if to say, "I don't know." I don't actually say I don't know, because I can't talk.

"I think you should just talk!"

Well, you've just solved all my problems.

***

I'm in my math class, and I need to sharpen my pencil. 

Is all right to get up and go to the pencil sharpener, or do you have to ask? If I just get up, I might be breaking the rules. But if I ask and didn't have to, will I ever look stupid. I can't ask anyway, because I can't talk. 

So I try to whittle down the point of my pencil with my fingernails. I do this in my lap, where no one can see. Tiny slivers of wood are poking into my skin, and it hurts. But finally, I have a barely-usable pencil.

***

"Do you talk at home?"

Yes, I talk at home. I can say whatever I want at home. 

"Why don't you ever talk?"

I can't talk in school. And I don't know why. 

***

I'm in my English class, and the teacher has passed out mimeographed sheets of paper. On the paper is a list of words. You're supposed to get the thesaurus out of your desk, and compile synonyms and antonyms for each word. Everyone else gets out their thesauruses and sets them on their desks. But my desk doesn't have a thesaurus. 

I can't say my thesaurus is missing. I can't raise my hand. 

So I leave my desk drawer open. I pretend the thesaurus is in the drawer, and I prefer to work that way, instead of setting the book on my desk. I pretend to look up words. I do my best to compile synonyms and antonyms just using my brain. But I don't know what most of these vocabulary words mean, so I can't do my work. I don't turn in my paper. 

***

I'm at a table in the cafeteria. Everyone is talking, but I can't talk. I can listen. I can nod my head, or shake it back and forth. I wish I could talk. I wish I could tell everyone what I think, how I feel, what's happened to me today. I wish I could talk about movies and shows and music I like. I wish I could say the funny and amusing things I sometimes think. 

But I can't talk. I can't express myself. And it makes me lonely. 

***

"How many counts does a whole note have?" 

I know the answer. Four counts. I've known that since third grade.

But I can't say it. I can't say anything. So my teacher thinks I don't know. 

***

My class is going on a field trip. The entire seventh grade is in a hall, waiting for the busses to arrive. A teacher is standing near the outside doors, with a clipboard in her hands. When she calls your name, you're supposed to say "here." You have to say it loud, to be heard over hundreds of kids. When she calls my name, I raise my hand. 

She doesn't see me. 

A girl standing next to me says, "Just say 'here.'"

"Just say 'yo,'" another girl advises.

"You have to tell them you're here," someone else says. 

But I can't. 

***

The day is over, and my mom picks me up. I wonder, again, why I can't talk in school. I wonder why I can talk at home. 

If my family found out I don't talk in school, it would be terrible. Horrible. Embarrassing. 

If everyone at school found out I did talk at home, it would be even more terrible. Horrible. Embarrassing. 

***

It's Saturday night, and I'm at a roller rink. Neon lights are flashing, music is playing, and I'm gliding along on a slick floor with dozens of other people. I see a woman skating backwards. A group of little girls is several feet away, and the backwards-facing woman can't see them. If I don't say something, she's going to skate into them. But I can't say anything. The woman crashes into the group of girls, and one of them falls on her face. She emerges from the floor wailing in pain, tears rolling down her cheeks. If I had just said something, it wouldn't have happened. I can't talk, and this time it made someone get really hurt.