SPEAK

Chapter 17: For Now... That's Enough

Three months.

That’s how long it’s been since I was told Mr. Davis… well, died. Honestly, I thought I’d be talking by now, like somehow his death would just unlock my voice. But nope—still nothing. It’s funny, isn’t it? I spent all that time thinking he was the reason I couldn’t speak, that all my words were buried under the weight of what he did. But now… now I think maybe I wanted to be silent all along. Like my body and soul had this secret little meeting and decided, “Yep, we’re just not doing that ‘talking’ thing anymore.”

Guess his actions were the final push, but the truth is, I’d been inching toward that cliff on my own. My own personal rebellion, if you will. Who needs words when you’ve got all this, by which I mean anxiety, selective mutism, and the ability to run out of rooms like an Olympic sprinter?

And on top of that, it’s been three months since Oren showed up. Yeah, Oren, who I now realize came back for a divorce. After thirteen, no, wait… fourteen years? (I’m not great with timelines, clearly.) Mom’s been screaming into the phone every other day, and she’s angrier than ever. I swear, even if I dropped a spoon, she’d launch it across the kitchen like it insulted her ancestors.

Anyway, here I am, in class. Mr. What’s-his-face was yammering on about something—probably history? Or math? Honestly, who knows—and suddenly, he’s called on me. Of all people.

“Asha, come up and answer the question,” he said, like I’m a functioning human or something.

I sat there, blinking, my heart doing its usual gymnastic routine. Everyone’s staring now, waiting for me to do something—anything. I had no idea what the question even was. But, like, even if I did, hello, I wasn't not going up there.

“Asha?”

I blinked again, tilting my head. Nope. Not today, sir.

“Do you think this is funny?” he said, looking like he just got a whiff of something gross. “Speak up!”

Ah, there it was—the irony. Me. Speak. Good one, What’s-his-face. You’d think by now teachers would know that’s not happening. But he kept going, insisting I answer the question, like my silence was some kind of personal insult.

Oh boy. The class felt like it was shrinking, like the walls were coming closer, and everyone was staring harder. I was still frozen, doing that thing where I hoped maybe I’d just vanish into thin air.

And then Hale stood up and walked towards us. Oh great—He’s not having any of Mr. What’s-his-face’s nonsense today.

“Ya cain't force her ta speak," Hale said, all righteous and dramatic. Honestly, I kind of appreciated it. At least someone gets it.

Mr. What's-his-face looked like he was about to pop a vein. "She needs to participate! I can't believe you all act like she has some kind of mental issue. I know her type—just looking for attention because she didn't get enough of it at home."

I slinked further into my seat, wishing I could just dissolve into the floor, and Hale was still going. “She don’t need ta answer yer dang question.”

This was my life now. Silent, sarcastic, and apparently a magnet for classroom drama.

"Both of you, detention now!"

Detention. Mr. What's-his-face actually said detention. I haven't been to detention in months—last time I was there, it was the "silent treatment" saga. You know, when I first... stopped speaking. That phase of my life when all the teachers were collectively losing their minds over the fact I wasn’t making a sound. It was like they thought if they stared at me hard enough, words would magically spill out of my mouth. Spoiler: they didn’t.