by Mia Kerick
Seven sighs heavily. “Were the kids teasing you about the stutter?”
“You do know this is incredibly boring, right, frangin?” Morning asks. “You’ve cracked the shell. The kids teased him. Stop pestering and let’s go on a road trip.”
Seven ignores his sister, looking at me hard. His eyes seem to see things in my expression I’m completely oblivious to. I wonder what he’s reading in my eyes?
“If it were only a matter of children acting like children, wouldn’t he have outgrown the mutism? Or, at least, speak when he’s comfortable?”
Morning sighs. She is sitting on my window seat, one bare leg crossed over the other, her phone in her hand. It buzzes constantly.
“Are you comfortable, Renzy?” Morning asks without raising her head.
I nod and she flicks a glance my way through her waterfall of straight blonde hair.
“Are you able to speak?”
I shrug. The answer is… probably. I haven’t tried.
With them looking at me, yeah, I’m starting to get nervous, but it’s more than that.
I don’t need to speak. They understand the heart of what I’m saying just fine and besides, my speaking or not speaking seems like such a private thing. It’s not meant for anyone else.
“Do it,” Seven commands as if I am his servant. “Speak.”
Wow.
Okay, no.
Maybe he doesn’t think of me as a servant, maybe I’m a dog instead?
I slide off my bed and walk over to the old CD player sitting on top of my dresser. I smile at the siblings, so alike in their features that they might as well be twins. I play Rachel Platten’s “Stand by You.” If there’s a vinyl, I don’t know about it. Morning mouths along to the music, not making any sound so as not to seem uncool, but it’s obvious she knows every word.
The whole time Seven watches me, his eyes following me when I make the slightest movement. The song finishes and I hit pause.
After a very long moment, Seven says, “I thought you were going to talk.”
I just did. Why doesn’t he understand that?
I frown and look to Morning who sighs. “It’s pretty straightforward, brother.”
“So what did he ‘say?’” His scare quotes are so thick they practically drop out of the air.
“That pop-crap was meant for me. He’s here for me through thick and thin and so on and so forth….” She drops her head again, but I catch the stain of pink in her pale cheeks. Whether it’s a blush of appreciation or a flush of annoyance I don’t know, and I end up blushing in return.
Seven sighs heavily. “That isn’t speaking.”
Frustrated, I march over to the bed where I’ve left my paper and scrawl:
“You’re just stealing someone else’s thoughts. Even if it’s ‘perfect’ it didn’t come from you.”
Have you ever tried arguing with someone via a piece of paper? Is too! Is not! Is too! Is not! It’s really frustrating.
“Are you telling me you wrote that song?”
When I look up, Seven’s eyes are cold, and I really don’t know why.
“Morning, let’s go.”
“Finally,” she moans, standing up and stretching. The heavy silver bangles on her wrist clank together. “Where should we go? I want to drive. St. Louis? It’s hardly London, but I’ve heard there’s good shopping. Are you coming Renzy?”
“You’re welcome to come,” Seven agrees slowly.
St. Louis? It would be hours before we got there, and we’d never make it back in time for school tomorrow, but… what if we did? What if we jumped in the BMW and we went on a road trip? Fuck it. I’m not graduating anyway, I’m really not. And I don’t care, because this is something far greater than graduation, at least for me. I’ve been waiting all my life to hang out with someone, even though I knew it was never going to happen. How do you hang out when you’re invisible? But that never stopped me from wanting to hang out.
So the Moreau-Maddoxes asking me to skip school and go to St. Louis? Um, yes. Definitely, yes.
“We could get adjoining hotel rooms,” Seven says, continuing to look at me with those intensely blue eyes. God, his face breaks and rebuilds me—when did the crush become so expansive? But Seven’s expression is still odd. He’s looking without looking. He isn’t tracing my face with his eyes the way he did in the car. He’s just staring at me. “We’d pay your way, of course.”
“Of course.” Morning’s voice mirrors her brother’s, though she seems interested in Seven’s expression now, as well. She steps around and puts a hand to her dainty hip. “What is it, brother?”
“Well, I was thinking that St. Louis is an awful long way from here. It will be hell playing twenty questions, MP3-style, with a guy who won’t talk.”
Not won’t talk, just communicates differently. I don’t know why I can’t make him understand this. It seems so simple to me.
Morning glances my way, and I’m reminded again of something beautiful and breakable. The sad glass eyes of a doll.
“If you want to come with us, Renzy,” Seven says, “perhaps we should ask something from you?”
I open my hands, a sort of “I don’t really have anything to give, but go-ahead” motion.
“I want what I asked for before. I want you to speak. Right now. With your lips, tongue, and teeth. Make a sound with your vocal cords. I don’t care if you stutter. I won’t mock you. I don’t care if you sound utterly ridiculous, even. What’s utterly ridiculous is having to play pen pals with you when we’re in the same room. So, if you are interested in being friends with my sister and me, you’ll try.” His face is set firm.
“Seven?” Morning whispers, her light-colored eyebrows knitting together. She looks perplexed, and then her expression becomes distressed.
I’m suddenly so uncomfortable, so nauseous, that I have to sit down on the bed and put my head between my knees. This is what I’m supposed to do, right? Or is that for nosebleeds? Or something to do with childbirth?
Oh God, the room is spinning.
Isn’t it?
Or is it me who’s spinning?
Speak?
No one has asked me to speak like this since Mr. Little was still working at the middle school, and he told my parents I wasn’t intelligent enough to come up with anything to say.
I can hear Morning hissing at Seven, but I don’t understand what she says. He walks over to me and grabs my shoulder, shaking me so that I look up at him. His face is blurred through my tears.
“I can see it in your eyes. You can do this,” he says sternly, shaking me again. It’s a command and some sort of bastardized pep talk. “Say something, Renzy. You just need a breakthrough. I’ve read all about this.”
I’ll have to do a bad thing to you if you don’t shut up please, Ren-Ren.
I can hear it so clearly. A woman’s voice.
“Come on, you want to go on a trip with your friends, right, Renzy?” Seven asks. His smooth voice is like an ice cube sliding down my spine.
They will hear you! So shut up, or next time I’ll have to get my knife. Chop and slice… Chop and slice… No more tongue. Please stop crying for them. Your Mommy and Daddy aren’t here, Ren-Ren. I’m here.
Who in the hell is that? What am I remembering?
Seven leans his face in close to mine so that I can smell his shampoo and his cologne. His newly shaved cheek presses against my stubble. I can feel his breath on my ear and I swallow. “Say something for me, Renzy. Just for me. And perhaps we can share that hotel room.”
Oh Jesus. The room is spinning. It’s a Tilt-A-Whirl and I can’t get off! There’s no air in here, just pressure coming from every direction and Seven is so close to me.
“No pad and paper, no art, no weird songs, just
say something.”
“Should I leave?” Morning snaps. I can hear her, but it’s like she’s far down a tunnel. “It looks like you’re about to push him down on the bed and—” She breaks off, a huff of disgust.
“C’mon, Renzy, I know it’s in there. Stuffed down inside of you. Your voice. Just speak. Just make a sound. I can fix this. I know I can. Trust me. I can fix you.”
Fix it? Nothing is broken. Nothing is stuffed down anywhere except… breakfast.
I try to stand up, but Seven holds on tight, misunderstanding my need to get away.
“Say something. Anything. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t have to mean anything.”
Don’t you get it? It won’t mean anything, Seven! Please don’t make me do this. Please, please, please.
I look up at him, trying not to cry. He leans over and kisses me, a little too hard. It doesn’t help anything.
“You’re almost there, you’re almost there. I can feel it.”
I’m so dizzy I’m going to pass out. I’m going to—
“I’m… not…. Don’t… make me…. I don’t like this, Seven.”
What the hell was that noise? It sounded like the basement stairs made love with the patio door hinges. A croaking, groaning, hideous noise. It’s still in my ears. I hate it! Get it out of my ears! It’s almost worse than the woman’s voice I heard in my head just a minute ago.
Seven is smiling. Why is he smiling? Didn’t he hear that? That awful, creaking noise?
Oh shit…. Oh shit, that was me. That was me, wasn’t it?
“I told you that you could do it.” Seven beams. He smiles triumphantly, and I lose my breakfast all over his Italian leather loafers.
Chapter Twelve: Seven
MORNING DOESN’T stick around for cleanup duty after this wild party. She’s out the bedroom door in a flash, but I don’t miss her shrill departing accusation. “Who’s the fucking rapist now, Seven?”
The smile of victory I wear feels suddenly like the foolish grin of a clown. My teeth are overexposed, and two spots of red burn my cheeks as I suddenly realize I’m not the friendly circus clown, but the evil killer clown who steals people’s hopes and dreams, and then their very lives, with a snicker of glee.
Have I forced Renzy to give up something nearly as precious as Morning’s virtue had been? Unintentionally, or at a minimum, with the best of intentions, I find I have.
I’m able to resist the urge to follow Morning from the room—to chase her down and make things right—only because of what I realize I’ve done to Renzy by stealing his silence. He’s curled up on the floor, his eyes closed and his body far too still. I drop to my knees, right into the nasty mess for which I’m responsible, and place my hand on his chest to see if there exists even the slightest rise and fall.
“What did you do to him?”
Still groping his chest for the swelling that indicates life, I turn and stare at a brown-haired girl, barely a teenager, who is looking at me with a bleak combination of curiosity and condemnation. “I didn’t do anything to him, little girl,” I lie as my hands find his neck. “He just got sick. Make yourself useful and go get some towels.”
“I’m not a little girl, and you aren’t the boss of me. I’m gonna go get Mom,” she declares but doesn’t turn around or make a move to leave.
“No. No, don’t do that.” Ah, here it is—a pulse in the carotid artery. He lives. “What’s your name, little girl?” Shit, I’m channeling Lynyrd Skynyrd.
“I’m Flora… and are you the boy who was kissing Renzy in the car?”
Well, she certainly knows how to get to the heart of the matter. “I’m Seven, and—”
“Ha! You got named Seven? Like, between six and eight, that kind of seven?” She’s pointing at me and laughing.
I need this girl’s antics like I need a new pair of Salvatore Ferragamo Python loafers.
By this point, however, the dampness of Renzy’s stomach contents is soaking through the python leather so it seems I actually do need a new pair of Salvatore Ferragamo’s. “Just go get the towels, please, Flora.”
Thankfully, the little brat heads downstairs for the bathroom vanity or hall closet or wherever a typical small-town family like Renzy’s keeps their stack of freshly laundered bath towels.
“Hey, Renzy.” I have no idea what to say to him. I just want him to look at me.
Do I owe him an apology? Should I toss out a wisecrack? Or maybe tease him until he cracks a smile, and then flirt my way out of this sticky situation?
Renzy’s eyelashes flutter and then his eyes open. Not all the way, though—his lids remain at half-mast. “You feeling okay? You got sick, and I think you might have fainted.”
My new friend doesn’t look at me and blush with humiliation because of the mess that he’s made of my shoes and his bedroom floor. Nor does he allow the sweet smile to which I’ve become accustomed spread over his lips. Without so much as a slight shift of those gorgeous green eyeballs in my direction, he points.
“What? What are you pointing at?” I think I know the answer, but still I seek the humbling confirmation.
Renzy opens his mouth, and I swear he’s going to again speak. No, to scream—he’s going to order me to “go home!” like one would a stray dog. But he doesn’t say a thing—at least, he doesn’t speak with words. He struggles to his knees and again points to the bedroom door.
I stare at Renzy—kneeling and pointing and cold, and nothing like the boy-man I’ve come to know.
“He wants you to leave.”
I turn to look at the door and that annoying little girl is standing there again.
“Seven, if that’s really your name, Renzy wants you to leave his room.” I look from Flora to Renzy and back. And I realize that Flora’s not a little girl at all. She’s a teenager, maybe a year or two younger than Morning and me, just small-boned.
Angry, pointing, Renzy still refuses to look at me.
I get to my feet. “Calm down, I’m leaving.”
“You can’t walk through the house with those dirty shoes.” She tosses me a towel. “Keep it.” She tosses the rest of the towels she’s holding at Renzy’s knees. “And Seven, I hope you enjoyed the kiss you got in the car the other day, because it sure doesn’t look like you’re gonna be getting another one anytime soon.”
NOW, TO face the rest of the music….
After tossing the nasty-smelling bundle of towel-wrapped European loafers into the trash can at the end of the driveway, I get into my Bimmer.
Like Renzy, Morning refuses to look at me. She, however, mutters, “Not only are you an asshole, but you frigging reek.” As soon as I turn on the engine she rolls down the window, letting in a fine mist of rainfall that sprays her perfectly even features so they shine like glass. “I want to go home.”
It’s been a long time since I’ve seen Morning this isolated from the world… from me. She’s like a stranger. I have no choice but to go numb—to flash-freeze my heart and mind—because otherwise, I’ll melt.
Before I pull onto the road, Morning looks in my direction. Her expression is severe, and her blue eyes are the color of the North Atlantic in winter. “I don’t know you, Seven.” I attribute my sudden chill to the fact that I’m driving my car barefoot in March. I struggle not to shiver. “I thought I knew you, inside out, but I was wrong. Because that guy in Renzy’s room who looked like you, well….” Morning doesn’t finish her sentence. She really doesn’t need to.
She shakes her head.
I shiver.
I’VE TRIED everything to distract myself this week.
On Sunday afternoon I attended the second day of the Charlie Chaplin Silent Film Weekend Festival at the historical theater in downtown Redcliff Hills. Where I’d normally be in a controlled state of hysterics at Chaplin’s mocking escapades, I’m unable to so much as giggle.
On Monday after school, I booked a private tennis lesson with the far-from-humble owner of the local String Nation Tennis Club, which evolves, by my desig
n, into a heated tennis match. Even pulverizing the arrogant man who perspired so unbecomingly on the opposite end of the court brought me no satisfaction.
On Tuesday night I watched six episodes of Antiques Roadshow, one after another. A sloppily dressed middle-aged man from Poughkeepsie was shown to possess Boston baseball memorabilia worth close to one hundred thousand dollars, but even so, I didn’t experience my typical heart palpitations.
On Wednesday I attended school dressed for success, hoping that wearing my Burberry Blake checked bow tie in purple might give me a new lease on life. It didn’t.
On Thursday I revisited the Redcliff Hills Public Library, invested the twenty minutes it took for the librarians to conduct the necessary background check so I could get a card, and checked out three of my all-time favorites, The Great Gatsby, Life of Pi, and Lord of the Flies. I spent a quiet evening by the fireplace in the sitting room, poring over classic literature.
When F. Scott Fitzgerald can’t get your mind off your troubles, you are in a very bad way.
Now it’s Friday night. All is not well in my world. My eyes sting so severely from the sodium hydroxide in paint stripper that I can’t see straight. But in my mind’s eye I can still clearly see Renzy pointing at his bedroom door, demanding that I leave. I can see him moving coolly past me in the hallways at school, shoulder to shoulder with my similarly detached sister, both of them unwilling to catch my eye let alone to send me a smile. And all I have to do is turn my head to see the tall, white door that adjoins my room with Morning’s. It is closed tightly, as it has been all week.
My endeavor into furniture refinishing, like all of the other richly cultured activities of this week, has been unsuccessful in taking my mind from my troubles.
Why can’t they see that I sometimes go slightly overboard in my effort to fix things? To fix them?
I can tolerate the guilt and loneliness no longer. In my spot on the floor beside my now-stripped, no longer shabby chic, secretary desk, I pull my iPhone from the back pocket of my jeans and text Morning with a message I’m certain she’ll share with her silent other half.