𝐏𝐔𝐃𝐃𝐋𝐄𝐒 | ✍︎︎

𝗖𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝟭𝟲

The past few weeks have been awkward, between Zara and I.

I don't know if it's me making it awkward, with the fear that Zara will hate me, but I don't like it none the less.

I sit in front of Usok, who is behind his desk looking rather intimidating in his pristine black suit.

He clears his throat, making my head snap to him instead of the picture on his desk in which is a younger Usok and a baby who looks strangely similar to me.

"You've been here for 2 months," I have?

"Which means I have to be giving you some sort of education, or else I could go to jail," My eyes nearly pop out of my head, but Usok holds his hand up as if trying to silently reassure me not to worry.

"This in mind, there's a very good elementary school near us. I'm not sure what your education level is, which you could always take online school if you want to. I'm sure that would be much easier." Usok gestures toward the laptop he randomly bought me, an apple in the middle of the silver opening part.

I grab my white board and marker, opening the cap familiarly and write on my board.

I want to go to school

It's a no brainer, seeing as I wasn't aloud to go back when I lived with my mother. I want to be normal.

Usok reads over the board, nodding, "You sure, Puddles?"

I nod, straightening my posture and folding my hands, as to seem as proper as him.

The corners of his lips twitch upward, he nods again.

"Alright, we can get you a test to fill out just to see what grade you'd be in. Most 9 year olds are in 4th grade by now, although some start school earlier or younger." Usok leans back in his chair, glancing at something behind me.

I'm not worried, though, because Thiago and I were homeschooled by momm- my mother when we lived there. Before he died.

I still remember the blue and red flashing lights, and the many people carrying him away. I remember the made up story my mother made, and how she somehow didn't get arrested.

"Clailea?" I snap out of my trance, looking to Usok.

"You can talk to us, you know. We won't judge you or punish you for talking. You used to ramble like Coco, you had such a pretty voice." He seems to be reminiscing in a memory, probably one of me speaking.

I don't plan on doing that.

He chuckles, "You know, Papa tried so hard to find a speech therapist for your little stutter, it was barely there, but you expressed your annoyance for it far too often. I remember one of them telling you to try and rid the fear of stuttering, and you won't. It worked, you know."

I'm completely taken aback, they know of the stutter? They know that I have one, I always have, and they don't care?

The urge to speak is practically eating me alive, but I don't.