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Speechless(22)

By:Hannah Harrington


                Invisible is preferable to what I get in next period, American                     Lit. Mrs. Finch is far less accommodating of my voluntary silence. When I show                     her my note at the beginning of class, she sends me straight to the guidance                     counselor, Ms. Davidson.

                The only time I’ve ever set foot in Ms. Davidson’s office was                     to fix my schedule—freshman year I’d picked French for my mandatory language                     credit without consulting Kristen, who’d chosen Spanish, so I went and convinced                     Ms. Davidson to let me switch over. Even though I’d been kind of excited about                     taking French, imagining that one day I would utilize it while showing my spring                     collection during Paris Fashion Week, it was more important to share as many                     classes with Kristen as possible. High school was now; my career in fashion                     design would come later, and there was always Rosetta Stone.

                Ms. Davidson sits behind her desk and reads the note I provide,                         hmm-ing under her breath. She’s quiet for a                     while, longer than what’s necessary to read my explanation. Poor Ms. Davidson. I                     can tell she’s mentally reviewing all of her training and schooling to see if                     there’s something she’s learned that is applicable to my situation, some proper                     protocol for dealing with the voluntarily mute. I’m pretty sure they don’t make                     pamphlets for that.

                “Chelsea,” she says finally, “what is it you hope to accomplish                     with this?”

                I shrug one shoulder and stare up at the ceiling. Even if I                     could explain it to her, I don’t want to. She wouldn’t understand. I don’t know                     what the big deal is. No one wants to hear what I have to say anyway. Not                     Kristen, not my teachers. Not even my parents. After I explained to them what                     happened that night, they looked so completely let down by me I thought I would                     be crushed under the weight of their combined disappointment.

                Running my mouth has hurt enough people already—the least I can                     do is shut up. Why can’t everyone see I’m doing the world a favor?

                Ms. Davidson sets my note down on her desk and folds her hands                     on top of it. “Well, I can’t force you to talk to me,” she says. “But this kind                     of behavior is unhealthy and unacceptable. And unreasonable. You can’t shut out                     the world. Your teachers need to you to communicate.” She pauses. “I’ll have to                     speak to your parents about this. In the meantime, you should return to                     class.”