by Helen Rutter
In drama with Mrs. Gallagher today we are all sitting in a circle and she asks us to say a joke, a riddle, or a fact. Brilliant! I think as I mentally start sifting through all of my jokes from my latest top ten list.
I am near the end of the circle, and as everyone’s taking their turns, I’m getting more excited and impatient. I’ve thought of the perfect one that I haven’t tried out on anyone yet. I read it in a joke book in the library. I’m just editing it in my head to make it sound more realistic.
Today over breakfast, my husband my dad asked, “Have you got a bookmark?” and I burst into tears. I’m forty-two twelve years old and he still doesn’t know my name is Sarah Billy.
I’m going over and over it in my head trying to get the wording just right, deciding what voice to do for the crying bit. Yasmin starts telling a riddle about a horse and gets muddled up and tells people the answer by accident. Everyone starts giggling, and she starts looking really embarrassed. All of a sudden, a massive sense of dread pops into my head. I can’t do this. Everyone will laugh at me. At that same moment, Mrs. Gallagher says, “Billy?”
I try to ignore the doubt and rush into the joke.
“T-t-t-t-t-t-t-t-t-t-t-t-t—” I take a big breath in and try again. “T-t-t-t-t-t-t-t-t—” I try a soft t like Big Softie says, Oday, but then I get just as stuck on the m. I can see everyone’s awkward faces, a couple of people trying not to giggle. Mrs. Gallagher waits for ages, but I don’t make it past the word book before I give up and sit down, my head on my knees. I just want to run away and hide.
I feel bad for the rest of the day and try not to speak to anyone. I sit in silence at lunch with Skyla.
“You okay, Bilbo?” she asks.
I nod and pack away my tray without saying a word. Then I walk around the hallways on my own instead of going to the Music Lounge. I can’t wait until this stutter is gone. I HATE it.
When I get home, the first thing I do is check my emails and there’s one waiting for me from the stammer school!
Dear Billy,
Thanks for getting in touch.
I’m afraid our courses are not suitable for someone as young as twelve years of age. Our courses were developed to help adults who stammer. Our approach would be too intensive and too physically, psychologically, and emotionally demanding for a twelve-year-old. We have had some success with teenagers, so feel free to get back in touch in a year or two.
I’m sorry I am unable to help further at this stage. Maybe the Stuttering Foundation could suggest a suitable therapy option in your area? Their website is www.stutteringhelp.org.
Best wishes,
Brian
When I read the email in my bedroom, I get really hot and angry. I slam the iPad down and scream at myself in the mirror. My face goes red and I look really scary. Scared and scary. Thoughts running through my head. Too many thoughts. They feel loud and as if they’re coming from somewhere else, not from me. I see the list on the pin board with only one option on it.
It’s like it’s laughing at me. Saying it over and over. Take the stammer course, take the stammer course, take the stammer course. I grab it and crumple it up into a tight ball in my fist, so hard that I see my knuckles turning white and red. The thoughts filling my brain. Louder and louder. I put my hands over my ears, but I can still hear the thoughts.
So that’s it, then. You will be stuck like this forever. Not even able to tell a joke in a stupid drama class let alone onstage.
I slump down on to the bed. What if it’s just going to get worse and worse? I can’t wait “a year or two.” I have to fix it now. The thoughts keep coming.
You can’t make your mom and dad proud of you.
You are not funny. You never will be.
You told Ellie that you were getting rid of your stutter next week. She’ll think you’re a liar.
You will be bullied by Blakemore forever and there is nothing you can do about it. You are pathetic.
What about the talent show? You have promised Granny Bread. She will be so disappointed.
I imagine telling Granny Bread and the look on her face. I can’t cope with the image and start rubbing my head hard like I’m trying to get it out.
I start crying at my reflection, and when I can’t look at myself anymore, I grab my joke books from my bookshelf and throw them all in the bin, Skyla’s beautiful drawing facing up at me. Then I throw myself onto my bed and put a pillow over my head.
“STUPID STUTTER. S-S-STUPID STUTTER. STUPID S-S-STUTTER,” I shout into the pillowcase.
I’m hitting the pillow hard, trying to beat the stutter out of my brain. Surely there is a way to get rid of it. I need it out of my brain. NOW.
That’s when I remember the newspaper article. I find it hidden among my lists. Maybe I can do this. Get rid of it on my own. All I need is to get a current into my brain to reprogram it. Shock it into being normal.
I jump out of bed and grab my alarm clock and rip the batteries out of the back. I need to put them in my head. I need to DO something. I feel frantic now, wild and completely out of control. I put one battery on one side of my forehead and the other one on the other side and press as hard as I can. “Work! I n-nneed you to work!” I wait.
Nothing.
Then I remember my circuit science kit and grab it from the shelf. Using tape I stick the ends of the wires to my temples and attach the crocodile clips to the batteries. I feel like a mad scientist creating a new invention. I shout to the ceiling, “Please, gods, m-m-m-make it work!” and flick the little switch. I feel nothing, but maybe the current is still going in.
I remember the people on the DVD putting straps around themselves, so I find a belt and wrap it around my chest and pull it tight. I flick the switch on and off, stare into the mirror, and scream, “Work! Do something!”
Mom must hear the screaming. She comes running in and grabs hold of the batteries, pulls the wires off my head, throws them across the room, and holds me tightly. “What are you doing to yourself, my beautiful boy?” She keeps repeating it again and again as she gently undoes the belt. “What are you doing to yourself, my beautiful boy?” She is crying now and so am I. Eventually I show her the crumpled piece of newspaper.
So that’s it. It’s over. I can’t do it. My dream of being a comedian and doing the talent show is over. No more jokes. No more theater.
I can’t even think about Granny Bread now without wanting to scream and cry. I have broken my pinkie promise. What happens when you break a promise? Maybe I am about to find out. A shiver runs down my spine at the thought.
I told my friend that onions are the only food that can make you cry.
He threw a coconut at me.
Skyla’s off school again today, so I don’t have to pretend everything’s okay to her. She always knows when I’m lying. Once at lunch when we were telling each other weird facts about ourselves, I tried to make her believe that I could Hula-Hoop for an hour, but she totally knew I was making it up. I don’t know how she does it. What gives me away. When I told the same thing to Josh to see if I could work on my lying face, he just said, “Awesome!” and kept jiggling. Then I felt bad for lying, so I said, “I’m only joking. I can’t really.” He stopped jiggling for a minute and said, “Billy, sometimes your jokes make no sense,” and then rubbed his hands together.
I must look terrible this morning since Alex knows that something’s wrong as soon as I walk into class. I say that I’m not feeling well, but he looks at me right in the eyes with this funny expression on his face. He has his eyes crossed and his tongue lolling out. He doesn’t stop until I smile. It’s nice having Alex around.
Before lunch I run straight down to the office to cross my name off the talent show list. I haven’t told Mom anything about that. She would only try to make me do it anyway. She doesn’t understand. No one does.
Just as I’m scribbling over my name, I feel someone standing behind me.
“What ya doing, Billy Plimpton?” It’s Blakemore. My stomach flips
over a thousand times as I turn to face him. I look at the office desk, and the lady with the mole isn’t there. “You entering the talent show?” he sneers. “What a brilliant idea!” He looks really pleased with himself.
“N-N-N-N-N-N-NO,” I say, shaking my head fast. I’m ahead of him. I know this isn’t good.
“You ARE entering the talent show, aren’t you, Billy? Oh, look, there seems to be a mistake. Your name’s crossed out. Let me fix that for you.”
Then he grabs my hand and forces me to write my name on the list. As my hand is being moved around the paper and I see my name appear, I want to scream. I don’t have the strength to fight him, so I just let him.
“I wanna see you on that stage, Billy Plimpton. If I don’t see you on that stage, I’ll be really upset. You think you saw me upset on Wednesday, don’t you, Plimpton, but you were wrong.”
“I’ve f-f-figured out a waaay t-to help y-y-you,” I say, “w-w-with algebra.” Even as I’m saying it I know that I sound ridiculous, desperate. Blakemore howls with laughter.
“I’m a lost cause, Plimpton, and you know it.”
“Well, I m-m-may as well try. W-w-we h-h-have to do it anyway.”
“Okay, fine. If you teach me how to do algebra, before the talent show, you can cross your name off this list.”
“Fine!” I say.
“See you Wednesday, Plimpton.”
Just then the office lady comes back and smiles. “Brave boy!” she says as Blakemore bounces away down the corridor.
I take a big breath in and look down at my name on the list. I’m shaking. I can’t do my stand-up routine at the talent show. Not now that my plan to get rid of my stammer has truly failed. I need a new plan. Maybe like in the show-and-tell I can think of a way to do it without speaking.
In the Music Lounge, Mr. Osho brings in his box bass from home and lets everyone have a try. Mom called the school and told him that I tried to “electrocute” myself. That’s the word she keeps using, but I told her that’s not what I was doing. She makes it sound way worse than it is. Mr. Osho keeps asking if I’m okay and watching me.
The box bass is really cool. It’s like a big wooden box that you sit on, and it has one long string attached to a handle made from a broom. It sounds a bit like a real big double bass. He made it himself out of an old whiskey crate. Everyone tries to find a rhythm and play along to Aretha Franklin. Moving the broom handle to make different notes on the string. Matthew looks funny sitting on the box, his knees up near his chin. It looks like he might break it. Alex is pretty good, but Josh is the best. He’s amazing. He jiggles his knees along to the music the whole time and somehow knows how to play.
Mr. Osho dances like he’s totally forgotten we’re here, his head down, nodding from side to side, and his hands in little fists in front of him. I sit on my own on one of the beanbags, too busy thinking about Blakemore and the talent show to join in. But then … when I look up and see them all laughing and dancing, Josh keeping the rhythm, I start to feel an idea forming in my brain. When the song ends and Mr. Osho stops dancing, he says that we are “true jazz heads” and that he’ll bring in his trumpet one day for a real jam.
I have to bribe Matthew with a Mars Bar but the others seem up for it without chocolate-based encouragement, especially Josh; he’s really excited. We are going to do the open rehearsal as a jazz band … and then I’m going to convince them to do the talent show! That way if I can’t teach Blakemore anything, which based on last Wednesday seems likely, it won’t matter. I can do the talent show anyway.
I’m going to be a drummer instead of a stupid comedian! Apparently “drummers are always in demand”—that’s what Mr. Osho says. As a drummer I don’t have to speak. Blakemore didn’t say what I had to do onstage, just that he wanted to see me there. Granny Bread will still see me on the stage too. It all makes sense.
As soon as they all say yes, I feel a little bit better. Excited, even. We’re going to practice at my house after school. We ask Mr. Osho what song we should play for the open rehearsal.
“You entering as a band?” he says. “Surely you need to be up there telling your jokes, Billy?”
“N-no, I have given up on the j-j-jokes,” I say.
“Really? That makes me very sad,” he replies.
“I w-w-want to b-be a d-drummer now,” I say, trying to sound confident.
“Maybe just leave the door open, Billy. Never give up on something you love.” He pats me on the back. “You’re one funny boy—don’t forget that.”
“I j-j-j-just want to f-focus on music for a while,” I whisper, looking down at the floor, trying to sound casual.
“Well, that I can definitely help with.” He gives me a wink and then writes a list of songs for us to listen to, but says, “Just go with the flow. For the rehearsal it’s just a practice run to see how you all sound together.” He even says he’ll come along and play the trumpet with us! When I get home, I go to my room and listen to everything on the list:
As I listen I know there’s no chance of us playing anything like this!
Just as I’m googling “Take the A Train,” I notice my joke books are back on the shelf, next to my microphone, Skyla’s beautiful drawings looking out at me from the shelf. Mom has obviously found them in the trash. I don’t want to look at them. They just remind me of everything. I don’t want to tell jokes. It’s not who I am anymore.
I feel a bit sick, so I grab the books and the microphone, wrap them up in some toilet paper, and put them all in the bathroom trash can. I need to forget all that now and focus on the band.
What do you get when you cross a dog and a calculator?
A friend you can count on.
Another stupid speech appointment. I’m really annoyed because we’re making apple crumble in food tech and I’m missing it. It feels pointless going to speech therapy now, but Mom says I have to. “We need to give the DVD back anyway!” she says. I should have put the stupid DVD in the trash with the microphone and the joke books.
I’m meant to be in a pair with Josh for food tech. We’ve written out the recipe and everything. I told him I was going to the doctor and so wouldn’t be in today. When he asked why, I made up a lie about having headaches, but I could feel my face going red as I said it. I don’t want anyone at Bannerdale to know I have speech therapy. It’s embarrassing. All anyone would think is, Well, it’s clearly not working, is it?
I don’t talk the whole way to Sue’s. When we pull into the parking lot, Mom asks, “Are you okay, honey?”
“I’m fine! Wh-wh-why do you a-a-always ask me thaat?”
“It’s just you used to love our mornings coming to see Sue.”
“I juuust want to be at school, th-that’s all.”
“Well, that’s great, hon. That’s all I needed to know. You have to tell me things or I have no idea what’s going on for you.” She looks really sad and lost. I feel bad, so I say sorry as we get out of the car.
Sue’s waiting for us in the little office with the two-way mirror. She looks a bit different. Her hair is down, and she has light pink lipstick on. I know she’s going to say something important when we sit down. I can just tell.
“So I want to start this session by telling you my news.” She seems a bit nervous. I wonder what on earth she’s going to tell us. I immediately start listing the possibilities in my head.
She puts her hands together on her knee and continues, “I’ve handed in my notice and am moving. So, Billy, this will be my last session with you.” She smiles a kind of frowny smile and breathes out of her nose loudly. I don’t know what the appropriate way to respond is, so I don’t say anything. “I have really enjoyed seeing you grow, and it has been a real pleasure getting to know you over the years, Billy. I know you’re having a tough time, so now isn’t the best timing. I’m sorry for that. You are a remarkable young man, Billy.”
Again, I’m unsure what I’m meant to do. Should I be smiling or not? Does she want me to cry? I like Sue. She’s very frien
dly and kind, but I don’t feel like I need to cry. She looks like she might cry, though. I realize that I definitely need to say something now, as the room has been quiet for too long.
“Why are you g-g-going away?” I ask.
She laughs. “We’ve always wanted to live by the sea, and when I saw a job come up, we realized that if we did not do it now we might never do it. If there’s one thing that this work has taught me, it’s that you need to be kind to yourself and follow your dreams.”
That’s two things, I think to myself. “Wiiill I have to see s-s-s-s-s-someone else, then?” I ask.
“Well, that’s what we need to talk about today.”
Then she looks normal again and tells me all about another lady named Jo who will be taking on her clients. I stop listening as she’s talking about a book Jo’s written, and I start to picture what’s on the other side of the magic mirror. I imagine myself telling jokes into my microphone, but like the sound is turned down. Talking through a mirror and no one being able to hear it. My jokes ending to total silence. Then I realize that there’s another silence that I am clearly supposed to fill.
“I don’t think I want to have speech therapy anymore,” I say.
On the way back to school, Mom says that I can change my mind if I want to. She says it four times. On the fourth time, I think I’m going to keep count. I bet it will be up to fifteen times by Christmas. I won’t change my mind. However many times she asks me. I don’t want to go back. I don’t want to meet Jo. There’s no point anymore if I’m not going to be a comedian after all. I can just be a drummer with a stammer. I’m glad Sue’s going to live by the sea. She must have gotten bored in that room, looking at that mirror all day long. Wondering if anyone was behind it. I hope she swims in the sea every day and sees an octopus.