by Helen Rutter
“Hi, and welcome to Uncle Sam’s. What can I get for you?” she asks.
I go for cheese fries; I just point at the menu and she writes it down.
Mom knows something’s wrong with me by now. I haven’t eaten any desserts all week. When she asks if I want a milkshake, I try to look as sad as possible and shake my head. It’s not easy. I can see pictures of chocolate milkshakes with ice cream, wafers, and toffee sauce. They look so tasty, but I just close the menu, push it away, and keep focused on the plan. Mom frowns but doesn’t say anything. This is the moment the dessert plan is going to come together. I can feel it.
When she finishes her coffee, Mom makes this funny face and takes a breath in, and I know she is going to talk about something serious. I think, This is it—she’s going to find out about the speech and let me get out of it. For some reason my mind starts going through every other possible thing that she could say. What if it’s got nothing to do with the dessert plan? If not, then why does she look so serious?
Then she says, “Billy, Mr. Osho called me today to let me know how you’re getting on.”
“Wh-wh-what?” I say. “WH-WH-WHY?”
“He says that you’ve barely said a word all week.”
“So?”
“He didn’t even know about your stutter, Billy.” She looks disappointed when she says this.
Before I started at Bannerdale, Mom had wanted to tell all my teachers about it. I told her that I definitely did not want that, no way. I didn’t want all my new teachers doing the frowny/smiley thing. I didn’t want more attention on me. So I told her that I would tell them myself. I told her that she needed to let me grow up, which totally worked.
“We talked about the show-and-tell presentation on Monday,” she continues.
Oh no—she knows about the speech. This is not the way this is meant to be happening. My dessert plan is ruined, and now she thinks I’ve been lying to her.
“Wh-wh-wh-whaaaaaaat diiiid he saaaaay?” I ask. Even the idea of the ME ME speech makes my stammer worse.
“He said that you don’t have to do it if you don’t want to. He said you could just take something in to show but you don’t have to talk.”
Mr. Osho just went from being nice to being the best teacher that ever lived in the whole wide world. My head falls back and I pump both my fists in the air. Mission complete. Then Mom continues.
“But, Billy, I’ve spoken to your dad and to Sue.” She looks into her empty cup and keeps going. “We all think it might be a really good idea for you to try it. To face your fears. Sue said that if you want to talk it over you can give her a video call over the weekend. It can’t be as bad as you imagine—it just can’t. You can’t go on not talking, sweetie. Anyway, won’t all the kids notice if you’re the only one who doesn’t do it? I think you might be making things worse for yourself.” She pauses, and I know something bad’s coming. “So I told Mr. Osho that you would give it a go.”
My throat starts feeling really sore and tight, like I have a fist in it. Tears begin forming in my eyes. I look at her, wondering if I can Go Nuclear. If Mom and Dad ever ask me to do something I don’t want to do I have the ultimate dealbreaker. I’ve figured it out. If I use the words stress and not listening in the same sentence I always get my own way. It’s like magic. It started after Sue once said that “stress and not feeling heard are the two main triggers for disfluency.” Disfluency is another word for not speaking smoothly. She also said that in order to lessen stress levels I should “try to speak as much as possible in situations that may be challenging.” That bit is not so helpful, though, when I’m trying to get out of something, so I just use the not listening part.
I call it Going Nuclear. I don’t use it very often as it feels a bit mean, to use my stutter against them. Anyway, if I do it too much, they’ll catch on, but this time I think I need it. If they would just stop making me do things I don’t want to, then I would never need it, would I?
The last time I went nuclear was when we were all supposed to go horse riding for Chloe’s birthday. I can’t even be in her room full of toy ponies, I definitely don’t want to get on a real live horse. They kept telling me that I would enjoy it. I hate it when someone tells you to try something that you will clearly hate, like avocado. I can’t even keep track of the amount of times Mom has asked me to eat cucumber. I did start counting; I had a tally chart up on my pin board but got lost after about the fiftieth time. Just the look of their warty greenness freaks me out; I don’t want to put any in my mouth! Even the word is horrible. Cucumber. It takes me a long time to get to the end of that word. Mom just goes on and on, “You might be missing out on something you love! At least try it once for me, Billy. Go on.” Like she actually can’t believe that anyone can think differently from her. I went nuclear on cucumber too, the last time she snuck some under my tomatoes. She looked a bit sorry when I shouted, “You never LISTEN to me! I feel so S-S-S-STRESSED out,” and shoved my plate away. She’s never done it again. I felt bad, but she just would not stop offering me cucumber. What was I supposed to do?!
Now I take a breath in, then quietly whisper, “Mom, the idea of standing in front of the class makes me feel really STRESSED.” I pause and take another deep breath. “I feel like you’re NOT LISTENING to me.” I feel really proud of myself for getting to the end and then I sniff and wipe my eyes for effect and look at her.
Something’s wrong. I know straightaway it hasn’t worked. Has it lost its power? Have I used it too many times, like the tapping? She looks strong and stern and says, “I know it’s stressful, and me and Dad will listen to everything you want to say about this. But I’m afraid we’re not backing down. You know what Sue always says, avoiding speaking situations only makes it worse in the long run. You can find a way to do the speech in your own way. You’ll be brilliant.”
I feel like I’m going to faint. She has never sounded more sure of anything. Her face is set, and for the first time in my life I know I’m not going to get my own way, no matter what I say. Then the tears start falling down my cheeks, and I don’t even try to stop them. I think about how scary the last week has been at Bannerdale. Always hiding and running away, constantly alone. I think about how scary it will be once everyone knows my secret, how much worse it will get, and the tears pour down my face. She tries to hold my hand, but I pull away.
“You can’t avoid these things, Billy. Not forever. What kind of life would that be?”
“A b-b-b-b-b-better one than this one!” I scream. I don’t care one bit that everyone can hear me. I’m not going to stay silent now. Not about this. I squeeze out of the booth and storm out of the diner. I can see Mom trying to squeeze out from behind the table, getting her purse to pay and then follow me, but I’m too fast. I dash out and then run down the path between the shops.
When I know she’s not following, I stomp all the way to the park and sit by the lake watching the fishermen. Tears still streaming. Rage and fear in every muscle. Thinking how much better everyone else’s lives are than mine. Why can’t I just be normal? Or at least just have a problem that everyone understands, like having to wear glasses, or warts on my feet. At least you can look good in glasses, sometimes people even wear fake ones. No one would pretend to have a stutter, would they? You would think that no one would ever want warts either, but in elementary Ash once had one and had to wear a funny sock when we went swimming. I thought it was really cool wearing a sock in the pool, and so I pretended to have a wart too. When Mom looked closely at my foot she saw that it was just a dot of Sharpie on my toe and called me “a very odd creature.” I am an odd creature. I bet no one on this whole planet would want to be like me.
It starts raining, and I realize that I can’t stay here thinking about warts all night. It’s too far to walk all the way home, and I don’t know what number bus to catch. I look through my bag for my phone, but I know it’s not in there.
Most kids love having a phone, but I hate it. Talking on the phone is the worst thing ever for me. It mak
es my stammer ten times worse, so even having a phone stresses me out. The idea of it ringing and me having to answer it is horrible. The person on the other end just hearing my grunting silence without being able to see what’s happening. Even when other people’s phones ring it makes my heart go faster. I always think they might say, “They want to speak to you,” and then thrust the phone at me. Even people who don’t know me. I have talked to Sue about this and she says it’s really common to hate talking on the phone, which is why today when I actually need the stupid thing it’s sitting in the drawer at home with no battery.
When I run out of ideas, I slowly head back to Uncle Sam’s. On the way, I walk past a shop called Beanies. In my rage I must have missed it on my way to the park. It’s a health food shop—and in the window is a huge stack of different herbal teas! I can’t believe my eyes. Sometimes when something happens that feels like it’s a sign you have to just go along with it.
When I walk in, the man behind the counter looks at me suspiciously, like he thinks I’m going to steal something. Especially when I am looking in my bag for my pocket money. I’m sure it’s in here; I remember putting it in. My rummaging gets frantic, and I start to lose hope, start wondering if I should prove the suspicious man right and just steal the tea. Then I find it in a tiny pocket. I feel relieved, I don’t think I would be a very good thief.
When I eventually find the tea, there are three types and I don’t know which one to get, so I count my money and realize that I can only afford the cheapest. That’s fine by me. I pay the man, shove the box in my bag, and skip out of the shop.
I can’t believe this is happening. Maybe it is a sign. Forget the stupid dessert plan; maybe that was wrong all along. Get back to the big plan. Drink the tea, get rid of the stammer NOW. In time for the speech. Show Blakemore that he was wrong, that there is nothing to bully me about, that he must have imagined it. Then I can get on with telling everyone my jokes and becoming a normal, popular kid.
Eventually I find where we parked. Mom’s pacing up and down by the car on her phone. She looks like she has been crying and grabs me into a tight angry cuddle.
“Don’t you dare do that to me again. I was so worried about you,” she whispers, and then strokes my hair roughly and kisses me on top of my head. I wait to see if she says anything else, but nothing. She definitely doesn’t look like she’s changed her mind about the speech. She gets into the car, and I slide into the passenger seat. All of a sudden I’m aware of how puffy my face must be.
We don’t look at each other, and then, as she turns on the engine, I say, “I h-h-h-hope they s-s-s-s-strap themselves in. Iiiit c-c-c-could bbe the longest sh-show and tell of th-th-their l-l-lives.”
Mom laughs hard then. In a way I haven’t seen before. Not with me anyway. I’ve seen her laughing at Dad the same way. When he dressed up as a fish for New Year’s Eve, she laughed like that. But she has never laughed like that at me. When I tell my jokes, she laughs along with me, like she’s doing me a favor, or like she’s laughing for show.
This is different somehow. I should feel cross with her for laughing at me, but it feels good. Making her laugh. Like it will feel when I’ve drunk this tea and got rid of my stutter. This is what I want—to make people laugh. Just like this.
I start laughing too. It takes us ages to stop. She wipes her eyes, ruffles my hair, and we head home. I can feel the shape of the tea box through my bag, and it makes me feel happy. I can’t wait to get home and drink some.
Why is a stutterer like a tea bag?
You only know how strong they are when they are in hot water.
When we get back Dad repeats everything that Mom has already said to me about “running away.” It’s so annoying when they both feel like they have to call me out about the same thing, like hearing it again will make any difference. If anything it makes me listen less because it’s boring the second time around. Plus, he wasn’t even there! All I’m thinking about, as Dad’s shouting at me, is the tea. The quicker I can get him to believe that I’m listening, the quicker I can have a cup. I look at him right in the eyes and make a really sad, serious face. He clearly thinks I look sorry enough, because he stops going on at me and starts looking at his phone.
I sneak into the kitchen and fill up the kettle. This could be it. The potion that cures me forever. The kettle sounds louder than normal. I have never even noticed it boiling before, so why all of a sudden does it sound like it’s taking off? I’m desperately trying to think about what I will say if they come in and catch me. They know I don’t like tea; I tried it once, and Mom got really miffed when I spat it on to her favorite skirt. Luckily they don’t come in, so I quietly take my Star Wars mug out of the cupboard and put it by the kettle. I think my ears may be playing tricks on me when opening the tea box sounds excruciatingly loud as well. The rustling from the cellophane sounds like thunder. I cough and do it as quickly as I can and then shove a bag in the mug and pour on the water.
I cover over the cup with my jacket, which I think is a genius idea, and head to my bedroom. As I’m closing my door, I hear Mom downstairs saying, “What on earth is that smell?” I breathe in, my nose over the steaming cup. It does stink. But it will be totally worth it. I close my eyes and take a sip.
It’s the most disgusting thing I have ever tasted. Worse than the tea I spat at Mom. Worse than the time Ash made me drink some water from the fish tank in school. (We were cleaning out the tank with a long tube, and he double-dared me to suck on it. What was I supposed to do? It was a DOUBLE dare!) That fish water was delicious compared to this stuff. It’s even worse than the time Granny Bread made hot chocolate with salt instead of sugar. I tell myself it will be worth it and pinch my nose and take another big gulp. I can feel all the bumps on my tongue pop up as the heat from the water scalds my mouth. I should have added some cold water like Mom does into her peppermint tea at bedtime.
After blowing and waiting, I eventually finish the whole revolting cup. I look into the mirror to see if it has worked.
“Th-th-th-this b-b-b-better be w-w-w-w-worth a b-b-big throbbing red b-b-b-burned t-t-t-tongue,” I say out loud to myself, stammering even more than normal.
I feel disappointed and really, really silly. As if one stupid cup of disgusting tea was going to change everything. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Sometimes when you want something so much, you can make yourself believe it’s possible, even when it’s not. Like when England is in the soccer World Cup and the whole country goes nuts, putting up flags and singing songs, and then we get knocked out in the first round. It’s that stupid feeling again—hope. I hate hope.
I’ll keep drinking it, though, in as hopeless a way as I can. There are still three days until the speech. Maybe it takes a few cups to work.
* * *
The next day, I make another cup, sit down, and try to write something to say for the ME ME speech. I freeze. I don’t have a problem with writing. Actually, I like it. The feeling of writing. The feeling of someone reading my words and hearing what I have to say. Really hearing, with nothing getting in the way. But writing something that I know I have to stammer out loud feels very different. Terrifyingly different. I push the paper away and sip on the tea. It really does taste like sludge.
I manage to drink eight cups, until I can’t cope with any more. I barely leave my room all day apart from sneaking into the kitchen to boil the kettle. After cup number three, I stop testing to see if it’s worked in the mirror and just stay quiet. It’s clearly not working, I can’t cope with looking at myself and hearing my stupid voice anymore.
That night, I sit down with a blank piece of paper to plan what I might say. I get hot and my hands start shaking. It is not a good sign. The speech is going to be bad, I just know it. I look up at the pin board, and there is the list staring back at me: Ways to Get Rid of My Stammer. I look at all the options, angrily crossing them off as I go through them one by one.
Then as I’m scribbling out the words I remember what Mom sa
id in the diner, “You can give Sue a video call over the weekend.”
I look up to the sky and say, “Please, gods of speech, whoever you are, let Sue have found the answer.”
I run downstairs and get my iPad from the drawer and head straight back up to my room. Sue’s been wanting to Skype me for ages. She thinks that doing video calls is a good way to start dealing with my fear of talking on the phone. She gave me her Skype name and said, “If you ever have a question or want to discuss something between sessions then I will do my best to answer.”
I click the button to call and then see my face pop up in the corner. It’s a bit like talking to myself in the mirror, I think, and then Sue’s face pops up large underneath mine.
“Billy,” she says, “how lovely to hear from you!”
All of a sudden I feel a bit stupid. I haven’t even thought about what I’m going to say to her. I can’t exactly say, “Hi, Sue, just wondering if you’ve found a cure over the last week,” can I? So I settle for a simple “Hi” and let her do the talking. I’m sure she will tell me if they have created a new magic medicine in the last few days.
“I spoke to your mom yesterday and she told me about school and the show-and-tell on Monday.”
I nod. I feel a little bit like I might cry but I just squeeze my hands tight in a ball.
“Have you decided what you might want to show to everyone?”
I shake my head.
“Just think about something you love, Billy. Something you would love for people to know about you. When you have thought of something that you feel passionately about, the words won’t feel as important. Does that make sense?”
I nod, wishing I had never called her. There is no cure and no way out of this.
“Even if you just practice a few words in the mirror, a sentence or two, using all the techniques we use in our sessions, you will feel more prepared. You never know, you may end up wanting to say more!”