Say What You Will

by Cammie McGovern

  You could read a speech someone else had written (people circulated famously brief ones), or you could write your own speech. Amy wanted to write her own. She wanted to explain what it was like not just to be her, but to be her right now. To feel as if new doors were opening up. To have real friends for the first time, people she said more than hello to. She wanted to say, I know this is old news to many of you, but it’s great, isn’t it? To really be able to talk to someone? To joke around? If she struck the right balance, she hoped to achieve a message that was subtle, but not cloying. Appreciate it, people. Having friends is great. She wrote a few drafts and tried the first one on her mother, who laughed politely throughout and afterward asked if the assignment was meant to be comedy.

  “NO. I WANT TO MAKE IT LIGHT, BUT I ALSO WANT TO MAKE A POINT.”

  “Oh!” her mother said. “It’s just that comedy is so hard anyway, and your Pathway can’t really do the timing it takes. That’s all, sweetheart.”

  “YOU’RE NOT HELPING,” Amy screamed.

  “Why don’t you read one of your old essays. Those were so good. This one, I’m less sure what you’re trying to say.”

  Amy cut most of the jokes and added a different point—something she wanted to say to all of her peer helpers about how grateful she was, how thrilling it felt to hear about their lives and tell them about hers. It was what she’d wanted to say to Matthew for months but hadn’t found the right opportunity. Maybe this was it. Then she went a step further and added another point, something she also wanted to say to Matthew. She didn’t read this draft ahead of time to her mother. She didn’t want anyone to stop her. She wanted to just say it.

  The day of her speech, Amy’s Public Speech class of thirty swelled to include six extras: her parents and all four of her peer helpers. Two people spoke before her: one pretty good, one not so good. When it was her turn, Matthew stood up and walked over to where she was sitting. She could have walked up alone, but she was nervous enough to be grateful for his hand as she climbed the three stairs to get to the stage. At the last minute, he squeezed her elbow. “You’ll do great,” he whispered, seeming more nervous than she was.

  To simulate the heightened pressure of a speech-making situation, a single light shone on an otherwise darkened stage, where she stood behind a lectern—both hands holding the sides for balance, her Pathway placed on the lectern, a microphone pointed directly down toward it. She looked out at the audience and pressed Play. She listened as the automated voice spoke:

  “We who are disabled know what it’s like to have our bodies behave in unpredictable ways. Some mornings I wake up surprised by some new change. A knee that won’t bend. A fist clenched tighter than it was the day before. What’s this? I think. Yesterday I was fine. Now I’m really disabled.”

  It was meant to be a joke, but only two people laughed—her parents.

  “Making peace with a disabled body is a daily struggle. When I am out in the world, I must not only get from point A to point B, but I must also wear a face that says, ‘Don’t worry! I’m okay!’ Failing to do this means I’d move through a world of concerned strangers offering unwanted help. Making peace means forgiving both my body and the world. For the disruption I will make to any room I walk into, for the conversations I must have about it over and over.

  “Oh, to meet someone and not have our first conversation be about my talking board! It would be my greatest wish, but I’ve started to think recently, maybe it’s the wrong one. Talking with my computer, about my computer, I’ve had a thousand versions of the same exchange but I’ve also made surprising discoveries, like this one: we never move from that conversation onto the weather. My obvious struggle opens a door and makes other people more honest about their own struggles. After three years of high school, I understand this is rare.”

  She let her head drop so her hair hung in front of her face. She couldn’t look at her peer helpers for the next part.

  “For the first time in my life, I’ve gotten over the barrier of my body and I have made what I consider the first real friends of my life. Doing this has taught me a lot about the world of able-bodied people. I have learned that some people who look fine are more crippled than I am, by fears they can’t explain. Other people are held back by shyness, or anger. In making friends, I see the way some people handicap themselves. I believe there are choices each of us make every single day. We can dwell on our limitations or we can push ourselves past them. I may be a nonverbal girl delivering a speech, but I am no braver than a shy person walking up to their crush and asking them out. Or a socially phobic person going to a party. I have learned not to judge people by their limitations, but by the way they push past them.

  “I have learned that many people have disabilities they must make their peace with.”

  Amy wasn’t sure what to make of the silence that followed. Her Pathway had no sense of theater. No way to raise its voice to indicate a conclusion. No one clapped. Maybe they didn’t realize it was over. Finally a light applause started from the general direction of her parents’ seats. Others joined politely.

  Suddenly it was obvious.

  The problem wasn’t her computer voice; it was her speech. She felt her face go warm as her legs froze. She had to take two steps from the podium to her walker, but she was afraid she wouldn’t make it. Then she knew she wouldn’t. She couldn’t even turn in the right direction.

  How long would it take someone to come help her? Who would it be?

  Anyone but my mother, she thought.

  Matthew, she thought. Come save me from this.

  Then the lights came up and she saw: his seat was empty. He was already gone.

  “I think Matthew was kind of upset,” Chloe said afterward. “Not that it wasn’t a great speech, Aim. Seriously. But he might have thought you were talking about him or something.”

  Sanjay, standing next to her, rolled his eyes. “Gee, Chloe, why would he think that?”

  Chloe didn’t realize he was being sarcastic. “You know. He’s the locker tapper. He’s got his issues, and Amy just talked about them in front of everybody.” She was trying to whisper, but too many nights in loud clubs had left Chloe unable to moderate her voice.

  Amy felt her breath go short. Why hadn’t this occurred to her? Other people had watched Matthew, too. She had written the speech hoping to make a private point between the two of them. We both have problems and we have to be brave. Look at me up here. If I can do this, you can, too. She imagined it leading to all sorts of breakthroughs. Matthew getting help, starting medication, showing up at her front door one day to kiss her in gratitude for the inspiration she provided with her speech. “I think he’s pretty pissed,” Chloe said.

  Sanjay whistled. “I’d call him rip-shit mad myself.”

  For the rest of the day, Amy didn’t see Matthew. That night she texted him from home:

  I’m sorry, Matthew, if you took my speech the wrong way. It wasn’t about you.

  She pressed send and kept going.

  It was about all my peer helpers. They all have secrets they don’t show the world. I was trying to make a point about friendship. That if we’re all honest, we can help each other.

  That’s all I wanted to say.

  Matthew?

  Are you seriously not talking to me?

  Matthew?

  For three days she didn’t hear from him.

  On Monday, she looked for him all day at school. Unfortunately he knew her schedule well enough that he could easily avoid her, and her helper that day was Sarah.

  “DID YOU THINK MY SPEECH WAS BAD?” she asked at lunch.

  “No,” Sarah said. “I actually thought you were talking about me for most of it. Then I looked over at Matthew and thought, Oh right—it’s got to be him.”

  Just as she was wondering if Matthew would ever speak to her again, she got another surprise: there he was after school, waiting for her outside the classroom door for yearbook. “Were you saying Sarah and the others have secret proble
ms no one knows about?”

  She was so happy to see him that she couldn’t help it: she squealed a little. She collected herself and turned on her Pathway. “EVERYONE DOES, MATTHEW.”

  “But it was me you were talking about.”

  “NOT ONLY YOU.”

  He stared at her. “The others have fears they need to face?”

  She could tell by his tone that he didn’t believe her. “SORT OF.”

  He shook his head. “You shouldn’t have done that. What we talked about was private, and you announced it to the world.”

  Amy thought about Sanjay and Chloe, how quickly they understood the problem. “DO YOU REALLY THINK IT’S A SECRET?” He didn’t say anything. “PEOPLE NOTICE, MATTHEW. THEY CALL YOU THE LOCKER TAPPER.”

  “That’s terrible.” He shook his head and looked away. “Why would you tell me that?”

  “WHY NOT? IT’S THE TRUTH. WHY IS THE TRUTH SO TERRIBLE?”

  “It makes me never want to come to school again.”

  “YOU COULD DO THAT, OR YOU COULD GO TO A DOCTOR AND GET HELP.”

  “Why do you keep saying that?”

  “BECAUSE YOU NEED IT.”

  “I’ve read three books. I’m doing what they say. I have a mild case that isn’t that bad.”

  Amy didn’t say anything. “It’s helping. I’m getting better.”

  “FINE.”

  “You don’t believe me.”

  “NO.”

  “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

  “IT’S NOT A MILD CASE AND YOU AREN’T GETTING BETTER. I SEE YOU COUNTING ALL THE TIME. WHISPERING. TAPPING LOCKERS. IF ANYTHING, IT’S GOTTEN WORSE.”

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  ..................................................................

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  MATTHEW KNEW SHE WAS right. It had gotten worse. At first, telling Amy had been such a relief that he got the dizzying impulse to confess every irrational fear he’d ever had. For a while, he made funny stories out of the old ones. (“I used to be afraid of touching money,” he’d told Amy over lunch after he’d bought himself a milk. “I had to pay for my milk with little baggies of coins.”) At some point, though, a surprising aftermath hit. Something fired in his brain, like a seizure of panic. The voice returned angrier and more insistent. You think I’m a joke? Something to tell that girl about?

  It made him stop talking about it completely. If Amy asked how he was doing, he told her he was reading the books and learning a lot. He told her he was doing the exercises in the books, even though he wasn’t. Now he sat across from her in yearbook and thought about telling Amy the whole truth. What this was really like. How hard he tried to battle the worries. How he reminded himself, every morning: think good thoughts. How he had his own speech composed long before she delivered hers. Only his existed solely inside his head: Life is good. You are fine. No one will die because of you.

  What if he told her about the internal monologue that got delivered inside his head all day long: It’s just a faucet. It’s off. Life is good. It’s off. Don’t check. You’re fine. Okay. Check it once. Now. It’s off. It’s fine. No one will die or be hurt because of you. You checked the faucet. Amy is good. Amy is fine. Amy will not die or be hurt by that faucet. You checked the faucet. You can check again after Spanish but not before. If you check before you might get sick or Amy might get sick. She probably will get sick. So don’t! Stop! If there’s a quiz in Spanish you can check before the quiz because you haven’t studied for the quiz so you’ll need something to help. There is a quiz. Go! Go fast! Run out like you’re sick with no time for a hall pass. You are sick because you knew there was a quiz and you wanted a reason to come back and check. There. You’re fine. You’re good. No one will die because of you.

  Because Amy was looking at him funny, he didn’t say any of this. Instead he said, “It doesn’t help to have you stand up in front of the whole school and announce my problems!”

  “I DIDN’T.”

  “Yes, you did. I’m trying to deal with this. I am dealing with this, but it’s my thing to deal with, not yours. You think just because you’ve read a book, you know what will work for me better than I do. But this is my life. You don’t know what’s going on inside my head.”

  She deleted whatever she was typing and replaced it. “THEN TELL ME.”

  His breath went short. “I—I can’t. It’s not that easy.”

  “TRY.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  She pulled up what she was typing before. “IN EIGHTY PERCENT OF PEOPLE WITH OCD, SOME COMBINATION OF MEDICATION, TALK THERAPY, AND BEHAVIOR TRAINING HELPS. YOU’RE NOT DOING ANY OF THOSE.”

  He had no answer. She was right. He wasn’t. He felt his breath go shallow, like he might start to hyperventilate.

  “DON’T FREAK OUT. WHY DON’T YOU LET ME HELP YOU INSTEAD?”

  “How?”

  “I COULD GIVE YOU ASSIGNMENTS WITH JUST ENOUGH DIRT AND GERM EXPOSURE TO MAKE YOU UNCOMFORTABLE. THEN I’LL MAKE SURE YOU DON’T WASH YOUR HANDS, OR CHECK ANY FAUCETS. I’LL KEEP SCORE AND GIVE YOU MORE POINTS FOR THINGS THAT MAKE YOU REALLY UNCOMFORTABLE.”

  He couldn’t look up at her. He talked while looking down at his knees. “I don’t think I’m meant to include other people. I think this is a private thing.”

  She typed quickly. “YOU’RE WRONG. YOU’VE BEEN TOO PRIVATE. BEING SECRETIVE MAKES IT HARDER.”

  “How would you know?”

  “BELIEVE ME, I KNOW.”

  “How?”

  “GIRLS TRY TO BE PRIVATE ABOUT CERTAIN THINGS, TOO, AND IT DOESN’T WORK.”

  “What are girls private about?”

  “LOTS OF THINGS.” She typed quickly while he worked to catch his breath. “LIKE PERIOD STAINS. YOU TRY TO BE PRIVATE BUT THEN YOU REALIZE YOU HAVE A BIG, RED STAIN BETWEEN YOUR LEGS AND WHAT YOU REALLY NEED IS HELP.”

  Why was she telling him this? It made the back of his neck prickle. “Then you wash it away, right?”

  “NOT AT SCHOOL. WASHING IT WOULD MAKE YOUR PANTS WET AND WOULD LOOK EVEN WORSE.”

  He felt his throat tighten. He couldn’t bear the thought. He shook his head to clear the picture of the bathroom and sinks filled with bloody water. After this, I can go wash my hands, he thought. One quick trip to the bathroom. I’ll wash once because I’ve earned it, sitting through this talk. Or twice, in case the faucets are dirty. He had long sleeves on, thank goodness. That helped with faucet germs. If everyone turned faucets on and off with protection, there would be no problem with contamination at all. If the world could see—

  Something in his brain stopped the train of thought.

  A new thought materialized: Amy had done this on purpose. She’d brought up period stains knowing it would make him anxious. Knowing he’d hear it and want, first thing, to get to a bathroom and clean up. His hands were already damp and sweaty. He couldn’t wipe them on his pants, which were covered in chair germs and bus-seat contamination. The safest place was putting them in his armpits. Hopefully that would quiet his heart as well.

  Why would she do this on purpose?

  Then he realized she’d already told him. I’ll give you assignments that will make you uncomfortable.

  He was plenty uncomfortable now. His shirt was damp; sweat stains were blooming from his pits down to his waist. “You’re not going to let me go to the bathroom, are you?”

  She thought for a bit before she typed. “OF COURSE YOU CAN GO, BUT I’LL ENCOURAGE YOU NOT TO.”

  He started to rock. I’m okay, he thought. Amy is okay. No one is going to die or be hurt if I don’t wash my hands. I can do it later, after we leave, and everything will be fine.

  That’s when Amy’s computer started talking again. “YOUR OBSESSIONS AREN’T RATIONAL. YOUR FEAR MAY SEEM REAL BUT THE DANGER IS NOT. YOU’RE SAFE. YOU’RE ALL RIGHT. YOU’RE HAVING A PANIC ATTACK, BUT THAT DOESN’T MEAN YOU NEED TO WASH YOUR HANDS OR DO ANYTHING AT ALL. JUST RIDE
IT OUT.”

  He couldn’t look at her.

  He certainly didn’t want her to reach over and touch him. He couldn’t bear that. He’d fly apart or scream if she pushed this any further. She would let him go to the bathroom, but he couldn’t, not really. This was the therapy he’d been reading about and pretending to do on his own. Confront the fear. Ride through it. Don’t use a compulsion to make it go away. He’d thought about trying it. He’d imagined trying it, but no, he hadn’t actually tried it.

  Because it was hard. He felt like throwing up. He felt like a flu was starting in his stomach and tearing through his body. Like any minute he’d have period stains on his pants—or worse, poop.

  He folded himself farther over and put his forehead between his knees. He took a few breaths. His face went hot and red. His heart pounded. His brain snagged on one thought: Don’t cry in front of Amy. She’s seen a lot, but that would be too much. Just breathe in and out. Calm down. Find your voice. Say something so she knows you’re not going to cry. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. His tongue was dry as if all his saliva had turned into the sweat pouring from his armpits. He couldn’t speak. He coughed, which made the silence worse.

  He felt like they’d been there for an hour when her Pathway started up again. “YOUR FEAR MAY SEEM REAL BUT THE DANGER IS NOT. YOU’RE SAFE. YOU’RE ALL RIGHT. YOU’RE HAVING A PANIC ATTACK. YOU DON’T NEED TO WASH YOUR HANDS OR DO ANYTHING AT ALL. JUST RIDE IT OUT.”

  He remembered a suggestion he read in one of his books. Make a tape of your own voice telling your brain to relax. Replace the compulsive thoughts with reassuring ones.

  Oh sure, he’d thought when he read it. That won’t seem crazy at all.

  Now he understood.

  Replace one voice with another.

  Teach your brain which one to listen to. . . .

  • • •

  After it was all over, he felt light-headed and dizzy. The first words he said to Amy were, “I hate you. I really do.”