by Helen Rutter
I don’t think Sue really gets how bad my stutter is in real life. Outside the small office with the two-way mirror, I asked her once if she’d ever had a stammer and she said, “Everyone stutters sometimes, but, no, I have never had a stutter that has impacted my life.”
I need to get her off the screen now, so I force myself to say, “Th-thanks, Sue. I will s-s-see you s-s-s-s-soon,” and click the little button so that we both disappear.
I can’t do this. The stutter is not going away by Monday, that’s for sure. I tear the list from the pin board and rip it into pieces. As I look back up at the board I see the words Ways to Get Out of the ME ME Speech. As I am running through the options, there is just one possibility left. I grab my backpack and start packing.
Maybe it’s time to resort to number seven.
I pack enough socks and pants for a week and some chocolate that I’ve had hidden in my wardrobe since Easter. I shove in my sleeping bag and throw on my backpack. Standing at the top of the stairs wondering how to sneak out, I hear Mom and Dad laughing in the kitchen. They sound so happy. As I creep down the stairs, I start to feel really sad and scared. I tiptoe to the side door and silently take the spare key from the top of the picture of a cow. It turns effortlessly in the lock as if it’s making my escape too easy to turn back on. Part of me wants them to catch me leaving, to hug me and tell me that I don’t have to do the speech, that I don’t even have to go back to Bannerdale ever again, but I know that won’t happen, so I step out into the rain.
When I stand on the pavement, I realize that I have no idea which way to go, so I just stand there getting wetter and wetter. Eventually I sit down on the curb and let the water trickle down my neck, drenching my T-shirt. I can’t even run away the right way, I think as I look back at the house, wondering when they will even notice that I’m gone. What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I do anything right?
I must sit there for about an hour, since by the time I admit that I’m not going any farther, I’m shivering with cold and every inch of my body is soaked. I would feel even lonelier on a park bench. Imagining myself in my sleeping bag on a bench in the rain is too much. It’s hopeless. There is no way out of it—I stand up and head back towards the house.
When I quietly let myself in, I can hear Mom and Dad still talking in the kitchen. No one even noticed I was gone; that’s how invisible I am. I stomp up to my room and sit on the bed, my bag still on my back. I can hear the rain pouring outside. I have to do the ME ME speech. All I have to do is stand up in front of the class. They are going to find out about me sooner or later anyway, if not in the show-and-tell, then some other way. I was stupid to think that I could keep it hidden. I don’t know what I’m going to do, but suddenly I feel exhausted and all I want to do is sleep. So I take off my backpack, lie down in my wet clothes, and dream of nothing at all.
* * *
As soon as I wake up, I’m thinking about the speech. I decide to give the tea one final chance and sneak another cup upstairs. As I’m sipping the revolting stuff and looking at my blank paper, the pen sitting on top waiting to write, I’m thinking about what Sue said. What do I love?
Then it happens, like a bolt from the sky.
An idea.
I laugh out loud. This can’t be it, can it? Is this the thing that will save me, that will make it all okay? Maybe, just maybe, if I can do this, then everything will change. I won’t have to be silent anymore. I won’t have to run, from Blakemore, from Skyla, from the restaurant, from my home. I’m always running away—maybe I can stop running and start facing everyone, like I’m facing myself now in the mirror.
“You can do this, B-Billy,” I tell myself, and for the first time in a long time, I believe what my reflection is saying. Maybe it was the tea, maybe my prayers and my chat with Sue did it. I grab my joke book off my shelf and my favorite green Sharpie and run downstairs to get some cardboard. It’s exciting to have a project. If I don’t finish it before soccer I will do the rest tonight. I’ve got until the morning, even if I have to stay up all night to finish it!
How did the soccer field end up as a triangle?
Somebody took a corner.
I know, I don’t seem like the kind of kid to play soccer. I’m not. Dad was the one who made me join the team in the first place. Every week he says the same thing: “It’s good to be part of a team.” I’m not so sure. It’s only good to be part of a team if the team wants you to be a part of it, surely? My team, the Hartwell Heroes, don’t really have a choice. They needed extra players so Dad signed me up last season without even asking me! We ALWAYS lose. I’m not even joking. We have NEVER won a match. Last season we were so desperate to score, we started practicing a team goal celebration. After each game, we would spend ten minutes adding new moves. It started with Martha doing a backflip, and then everyone added their own stuff. It took us eight matches before we scored, and by that time it was a dance routine. Luckily I got out of it because I’m in goal. You would not catch me dancing around a soccer field when the final score is 10–1 to the other team.
We watched the World Cup on the TV together last year. That’s what gave Dad the idea to sign me up for the Hartwell Heroes. He wasn’t away filming the World Cup for a change and was really excited about watching it together. It was fun. We had a big chart that we wrote all the scores on.
I like watching soccer but am not so keen on playing it. I avoid the ball. Not a great tactic for success, but good if you want to keep your shins in one piece. I don’t think I’m being weird here.
These are some things kids are always told:
Do not hurt anyone.
Do not get too physical.
Do not take things without asking.
Always share.
Do not shout at each other.
Then all of a sudden it’s okay to shout and shoulder barge each other out of the way in order to “keep possession.” It’s fine to “attack the ball” and “get in there.”
Parents turn into attack dogs when they watch soccer. Once, I heard Jay Riley’s dad tell him at halftime that he was being “too polite.” (Jay had apologized for bumping into someone who had the ball. But that’s just good manners!) Then I heard him say, “Take the ball. Don’t give them a chance! It’s not their game, it’s yours.” (It definitely was their game. We were losing 8–0.) Jay did not look convinced, like his dad might be tricking him, so his dad went further, saying, “Jay, it’s okay to get involved. You don’t need to say sorry. In fact, even if you foul someone it’s okay.” He was getting excited with his speech now. He had Jay by the shoulders and was holding him a bit too hard. “It’s more than okay.” I could see he was building up to something; he looked around and whispered, “You know what, buddy, if you foul someone, I’ll give you five bucks.” Jay looked around to see if anyone was listening and whispered, “Are you serious, Dad?” I put my head down and pretended to sort my shin pads out. “Yeah,” his dad went on. “I’ll give you five if you foul someone. Go on, son, get in there. Make it count.”
When I told Mom all this, she said that it was “terrible parenting,” but she laughed at the same time, so I’m not sure if she meant it. Jay got a yellow card in the second half for a sliding tackle. I don’t know if he ever got his five bucks. I hope he did.
When our coach realized that I would always be “too polite” for the game, he put me in goal. You would think that it’s the worst place to be when we lose every single week, especially at my height! But weirdly I quite like it in goal. When I see someone heading my way, it’s like time slows down and all that matters is the ball. Obviously I let a lot in, but I stop a lot too and my goal kick’s really coming along. I can nearly get it to the halfway line now. The others think I’m okay too. Either that or they just really don’t want to be in goal, so they are being kind to make sure I don’t leave.
Mom can’t watch the matches anymore; she says it’s “too stressful.” Dad loves it, though. When he comes he shouts all the way through, “That’s it, Billy
. Hold your position! Put some pressure on!” I don’t know why he shouts so much—it’s not like anyone’s going to listen to what he’s saying. You can’t learn new skills when you are in the middle of a match. It’s like trying to tell someone how to cook a lasagna when it’s already in the oven. It’s too late.
Chloe’s here today with her stupid pom-poms. I tried to ban her—it’s too distracting—but she cried and Mom said I was being cruel. I can hear the rustling and see the pink strands bouncing about out of the corner of my eye. It’s too busy. It feels like she’s going to cheer all my mistakes. I wouldn’t be allowed to go and put her off in gymnastics, so I don’t know why it’s okay for her and her pom-poms to put me off. Sometimes things really are not fair, but Mom and Dad don’t seem to get it.
As I’m on the bench getting my shin pads on, I hear a voice above me.
“Hiya, Billy.” It’s Alex from my class, wearing a blue Beeston Rovers top. I feel really strange seeing him here, like school and soccer are two totally separate worlds. I don’t know what to do, so I just nod and smile.
“I didn’t know you played,” he says.
I’m not sure whether to answer him or not. Can I speak outside school? I occasionally talk to the kids on my team, but they’ve known me for ages. Luckily he just keeps talking.
“I’m only ever a sub; they never let me play more than five minutes. I can’t blame them—last time I played I scored two goals in our team’s net! One would have been okay, but two?! That’s how bad I am.”
I laugh then without thinking, and hearing the sound of my laugh is awkward. It’s okay to laugh, though, isn’t it? You can’t stutter when you laugh. Maybe I need to add that to my ways of not stuttering. I make a mental note to try to laugh some words out into the mirror when I get home to see if it makes a difference.
“Anyway, good luck! I hope you’re better than me! Watch out for Blakemore—he’s pretty rough. I think he would probably foul me if he got the chance, even though we’re on the same team!” He’s laughing at this, but I’m too busy scanning the field, panic rising in my chest.
Sitting on the grass in a number 7 Beeston jersey, getting his cleats on, is William Blakemore. I had no idea he played soccer! Standing over Blakemore, eyes fixed to his phone, is an older kid who looks just like him. The same oversize frame and big features. He looks even meaner than Blakemore, his face set in an angry frown. I decide it must be his brother, and thank my lucky stars that he’s not playing too. As Blakemore gets up, I see the older and meaner version grab at the back of Blakemore’s shirt and pull him back, forcing him into a tight, painful-looking hug and saying loudly, “Good luck, bro. Break a leg!” And with that he shoves him on his way, kicking out at the back of his legs so he stumbles.
I see Alex looking over at me. I nod to him, duck behind a picnic bench, and wait there, pretending to do my cleats up, until it’s time to start the match. When Blakemore’s far enough away, I sneak into goal without him seeing.
Luckily he’s in goal too, so we’re as far apart as we can be. It isn’t until halftime, when we’re losing 10–0, that he sees me.
“Billy Plimpton! I wondered why their goalie was so bad. It’s you!” Then he hugs me so tight that I can’t breathe and slaps me on the back really hard. Anyone looking must think that he is genuinely pleased to see me. When my coach calls me over, Blakemore lets me go, adding another hard slap on my back as I go.
When I’m back in the goal and the whistle’s being blown for the start of the second half, I can still feel the shape of his hand on my skin. He is playing up front now, so he is much closer to me.
I can hear Chloe shouting, “BILLY! BILLY! BILLY!” at the top of her voice as she shakes her pom-poms. I desperately want her to stop. Blakemore gets the ball and copies her, “BILLY! BILLY!” as he’s heading towards me. I don’t know whether I should try to save it or not. I don’t want to make him angry with me. Luckily I don’t have much choice as he kicks it high over the net. He comes towards me, and for once I can’t run.
“How long have you been playing, BILLY PLIMPTON?” I hate the way he says my name. I just look at the ground. “Answer me, then,” he spits. I don’t say anything; my cheeks are burning. “Are you an idiot? Why can’t you speak?” he says. Then the ball comes back to me for the goal kick.
As I place it down, the referee shouts for Blakemore to give me some space. He walks past me and shoves me hard, pretending that he’s bumped into me by accident. His hands raise high in surrender, a fake look of apology on his face. As I land on the ground, the referee blows his whistle and shows Blakemore a yellow card. I look up, and Alex is smiling at me sadly from the bench. At least he isn’t laughing.
“Did BILLY PLIMPTON just get me a yellow card?!” shouts Blakemore at the top of his voice. “Don’t worry, Billy. I’ll see you at school tomorrow. See what you’ve got to say about it then!”
What object is king of the classroom?
The ruler.
As I’m heading out of the door, Mom hugs me tight. “I am so proud of you for doing this, Billy. I know it’s not easy, but we’re okay, aren’t we?” I nod. “You haven’t even told me what you’re going to talk about!”
I smile and say, “I wiiill t-tell you later,” and grab my bag.
“My amazing boy.” She always says things like that: Amazing. Incredible. Remarkable. Wonderful. Astonishing. According to her I’m all of these things. I don’t really want to be any of them, though. I just want to be normal.
* * *
William Blakemore hasn’t brought anything in and so “shows” his bookbag and says how “important” it is to him. Then he throws it up into the air, and it lands on the floor. Some kids laugh as he takes a massive bow as he picks it up.
“Well, thank you, William,” Mr. Osho says. “They always say you can tell a lot about someone by their … bookbag. It must have taken you a long time to come up with that.”
“Hours, sir.” Blakemore grins. I’m shaking. I try not to think about what Blakemore will do to me after this.
“Next up,” says Mr. Osho, looking at his register, “is Alex.”
Alex shows us his hearing aids. He tells us that he lost his hearing when he was four and that he mostly uses lipreading but his hearing aids mean he can hear a little bit in his left ear.
“But,” he says, “if you’re not looking at me, then I probably won’t hear you. Either that or I’m just ignoring you!”
Everyone laughs when he says that. He high-fives Josh and Matthew as he sits down, and smiles at me. He seems proud. I wish I could be more like that. I try to breathe in some of his confidence.
Everyone else has brought in computer games, teddies from when they were little, or photos of their pets. When it’s Skyla’s turn, she shows us a tiny silver bracelet that was her baby sister’s, who died when she was an hour old. Even though I’ve been at school with Skyla for so long, I didn’t know about this. I think it’s a really brave thing to talk about. Mr. Osho looks like he’s going to cry, but Skyla seems okay. She says it had happened a long time ago. It makes me feel bad for being so nervous. If she can talk about that, then surely I can do this.
Yasmin Ohri is up before me. She’s brought in a photo of her family and is talking about how important her friends are, how they are like her family too. Then she makes a heart shape with her hands at the end. The girls all whoop and clap. I’m sitting with my cardboard between my knees, still trembling with fear.
I wish my name wasn’t Plimpton. It means I’m always near the end of the class list, so I have longer to worry.
Mr. Osho waits for Yasmin to sit down and then says, “Next up is Billy?” He gives me a little wink and starts a round of applause. I stand up and slowly go to the front. I avoid looking at William Blakemore. No plan, however good, will stop him from making me nervous. Instead I focus on Mr. Osho and Skyla because they are smiling at me. I take out my favorite joke book, 999 Jokes for Kids, and hold it up for the class to see. Then I raise my first s
ign. In big chunky letters it reads:
MY NAME IS BILLY PLIMPTON AND I HAVE A STUTTER.
I see my hand shaking like it doesn’t belong to me. I put down the card and pick up number two, and then number three:
I BROUGHT IN A JOKE BOOK …
… I LOVE JOKES.
The room is so quiet. Five more signs to go.
UNFORTUNATELY I CAN’T TELL YOU ONE TODAY.
IT’S HARD TO TELL A JOKE WHEN YOU CAN’T GET TO THE END OF A SENTENCE.
I hear a couple of the girls say “Ahhh,” and “Bless him.”
THE END.
I bow and then hold up the last two signs.
NOW YOU CLAP AND CHEER …
They are doing it! They’re actually clapping and someone whistles. I look at Mr. Osho, worried that he’ll think I have cheated, that my signs are only showing and not telling, that he’ll ring my mom and tell her that I didn’t speak. But he has a big smile on his face and I know it’s okay. I hold up my final sign.
… AND I BECOME THE COOLEST KID IN THE SCHOOL.
Everyone laughs hard at the last sign, and I take another bow and go back to my seat. Alex holds his hand up for a high five, and then Josh and Matthew do the same. My head’s fizzing and my ears are getting hot. It feels good, though. People really laughed! I’m almost relieved. I don’t have to hide my stutter anymore.
When I look up, I see William Blakemore staring right at me. I try to pretend that he isn’t, to lie to myself and enjoy the moment. For now all that matters is that I’ve done it! I’ve done the speech, and it was okay! Better than okay—they laughed! Maybe next time I’ll try to say the words out loud.
On my way out of class Mr. Osho calls me back and waits for the classroom to empty.
“How are you feeling, Billy?” he asks, smiling.
“Okay, I think.”