A Quiet Kind of Thunder

by Sara Barnard

  I feel like I’m hovering on the edge of some kind of epiphany, but it’s just out of reach. I carry on drawing, sketching out a beetle friend for my caterpillar, letting my mind whir as the pencil moves. If I really did have agency, wouldn’t I be the one choosing about going to university, not my parents? Why am I letting them act like it’s their choice to make?

  And Rhys. Being with him is my choice – my choice and his – and maybe that’s part of the reason my parents are so angsty about the whole thing. Maybe they’re used to making decisions for me, and I’ve just let them for so long they don’t know what to do with this new, agency-having Steffi.

  I should do something, I think. Make a choice that is so definitively mine they’ll realize that I really am my own person, and it’s fine to let me be that. That they can trust me not to fall apart. (Can they trust me not to fall apart?) (Yes. Yes they can, Steffi, and so can you.) Then I can go to university. And then my life will really begin.

  The bell rings and I close my notepad, already standing up and reaching for my bag. Across the room, Anthony leans on to the corner of Cassidy’s desk and starts talking in a low voice while she makes a show of ignoring him.

  I leave the classroom and head down the hall, pulling out my phone as I go. There’s a message from Rhys telling me to meet him by the school gates, and so I pick up my step. I see him first and take a second to appreciate his figure, leaning against the gatepost, looking at his phone.

  I slide my hand through the crook of his elbow and smile when he turns to look at me. Hey, I mouth.

  Rhys kisses me and then holds out a small paper bag, a pleased smile on his face. Hi, he says. Happy Friday.

  I take the bag and look inside it, already thrilled even if it contains nothing but cotton wool or pencil shavings or thin air. It’s a chocolate cupcake adorned with an obscene amount of green icing. Thank you, I sign, raising myself on my tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek.

  ‘Get a room!’ a boy yells.

  I blush, but Rhys is oblivious, signing something to me about girls and cupcakes. I nod as if I’ve understood him, then take a bite.

  Do you need to be anywhere? Rhys asks me. Want to go for a walk or something?

  I have to go to Mum’s to babysit Bell, I say. But that’s not until five. A walk sounds good. How was your day? We begin walking away from the school.

  He shrugs. OK. You?

  I mimic the shrug. OK. I was thinking, we should do something together.

  Crinkles appear around his eyes as he smiles. Something? Like what?

  Something like . . . I think about it. An adventure. We should have an adventure.

  He nods. Definitely. I’d love to have an adventure with you. A big one or a small one?

  Both! My mind is already alive with impossible ideas. I’m imagining the two of us in a hot air balloon, scaling Everest (note to self: what’s the British Everest?), kayaking down a river.

  I could drive us somewhere? he offers. How about somewhere on the coast? Or we could go to Brighton? There’s can get a train direct from Bedford.

  Maybe, I hedge. Is that an adventure, though?

  It would be if I was with you, he says, and I immediately crack up. His face falls. I mean it!

  I know! I try to control myself. I’m sorry. That was just too cheesy to be real.

  He gives me a little shove. I was being romantic. Fine, no Brighton.

  Think bigger, I say, exaggerating an excited expression. Think a road trip around America. The Northern Lights. The beach in Goa!

  He laughs. Skydiving in New Zealand?

  Yes! A safari in South Africa. Hitchhiking across Europe! We both come to a stop at the edge of the road, waiting for the traffic lights.

  I didn’t know you had these kinds of dreams, Rhys says.

  I know he hasn’t meant it in a bad way, but the words make me sad. Do I really seem that small? To Rhys, who by now knows me so much better than most? How must I look to everyone else, if even he thinks this?

  Of course I have dreams, I reply. Don’t you? I want the world, I think. Even if it scares me. Doesn’t everyone?

  Rhys smiles instead of answering, taking my hand again as we cross the road. I can’t promise lions and tigers and bears, he says when we’ve reached the other side. But I’ll think about it. I’ll find an adventure for us.

  ‘Rhys and I are thinking of going on holiday,’ I say.

  Mum blinks. ‘Really?’

  I nod. ‘Any suggestions? Somewhere close, obviously, because we don’t have that much money for travel and stuff. You can get cheap flights to basically anywhere in Europe now, right?’

  ‘You’re thinking of going abroad?’ she says, her eyes widening. ‘Oh, Stefanie, I don’t know. I don’t think that’s a good idea.’

  ‘Why not?’ I ask, surprised. I honestly thought she’d be pleased that I was even considering such a big step.

  ‘The two of you are very young, for a start.’

  ‘Rhys is eighteen. He’s an adult.’

  ‘And with your . . . difficulties . . .’

  ‘Oh, thanks.’

  ‘It’s probably not a good idea for you to go away without some kind of support.’

  ‘Support?’ I repeat. Even though this is my mother, and we’re standing in her kitchen with no one else around, I feel embarrassed. Almost ashamed that this is how she sees me.

  ‘Why don’t you go away with Tem?’ she suggests, brightening.

  ‘Because I want to go away with Rhys,’ I say, frowning.

  ‘Tem could go with you,’ she says promptly. ‘And maybe some of Rhys’s friends too.’

  ‘I don’t need you to organize my social life for me.’

  ‘You asked me for suggestions.’

  ‘For locations.’ I try – unsuccessfully – to hide how irritated I am. ‘I meant, like, “Paris or Amsterdam?” kind of thing.’

  ‘Amsterdam?’ For a second, Mum looks almost panicked. ‘Oh no, Steffi. No, this isn’t a good idea at all. Look, why don’t you wait until the summer holidays? We’re all going to Cornwall for a week. Rhys is welcome to come. If he doesn’t mind staying in a separate room, of course.’

  ‘Mum,’ I groan. I can’t believe she’s trying to turn my first ever couple holiday into a separate-rooms family trip to a Cornish cottage. Except I can believe it, because it’s Mum.

  ‘Have a think about it,’ Mum says. She picks up a dishcloth and starts wiping the counter, which means she thinks the conversation is over. ‘But the two of you going away alone is just out of the question, love. It’s just not a good idea.’

  I stare at her, mute with frustrated annoyance. I can’t even argue, because she’s being so unreasonable it’s bordering on ridiculous. Finally, I manage, ‘Remember how you always wanted me to be more . . .’ I trail off, trying to find the word. ‘More . . . just more?’

  Mum pauses, her fingers stilling over the dishcloth. But then she recovers herself, scrubbing harder at an imaginary stain on the countertop. ‘I wanted you to be able to talk. I like Rhys. You know I like Rhys. But I don’t think you want to go away because you’ve suddenly become braver and want to try new things and meet new people. I think it’s because you think it doesn’t matter any more, because you have him.’

  There are a lot of things I could say to this, but none of them makes it past my lips. I swallow. ‘Are you telling me I can’t go?’

  ‘I’m not telling you,’ she says. She’s not looking at me. ‘I’m giving you my advice. As your mother.’ There’s a long pause and then she lets out a sigh that I hear from across the room, tosses the dishcloth on to the counter and turns to face me. ‘Steffi, I know I can’t make decisions for you. I know how exciting first love can be. But I worry that this relationship is making your world smaller, not bigger.’

  I frown. ‘Smaller? How can it be smaller, if I want to see more of it?’

  She shakes her head. ‘Maybe you’ll understand when you’re older.’ The most frustrating sentence in the entire wor
ld of parents and teenagers. ‘But I’ve said my piece now.’

  I steam about this conversation for the next few hours. Have I suddenly become braver? No, but who the hell cares? Doesn’t the fact that I do the things I never did before matter more than the reason why I do them? Do I think talking doesn’t matter now I have him? No, but I definitely think it matters less than I used to think it did. Of course we have our own little bubble. But it’s a bloody nice bubble. Why can’t she just be happy for me? Who cares how big or small my world is, so long as I’m happy?

  By February, Rhys and I haven’t made any progress on our adventure-seeking. At least, not in the real world. In fantasy land, we’re well away. Rhys has drawn a series of cartoon sketches of the two of us trekking the Inca Trail, piloting a space shuttle, discovering Atlantis, kayaking through the Bougainville Strait. We are Bronze and Gold, intrepid explorers, bound by nothing, cowed by no one. In our cartoon world, everyone speaks BSL.

  In the real world, I sit on his bed doing my homework while he plays video games with the door open. I’m allowed in his room now, but his mother has a habit of coming in unannounced every twenty minutes or so. She always has a reason for this, albeit a flimsy one: she’ll bring us tea, then collect the cups. Ask if we want snacks, come back and ask are we sure.

  Mothers, Rhys says, rolling his eyes.

  But I don’t mind his mother. She’s taken to calling me Stefanie, which I love because no one else calls me that and it feels affectionate, and she learned how I take my tea after only being told once. I think she actually likes me, which is more than a lot of girlfriends get from their boyfriend’s mothers.

  Aside from me and his mother, the other girl in Rhys’s life is Meg. I don’t see as much of her as I’d expected I would when we were first introduced, given that they’re meant to be best friends. But I quickly learned that their best friendship isn’t like mine and Tem’s – co-dependent – but far more chilled. They treat each other like family, dropping in and out of each other’s lives with the easy entitlement of siblings.

  We pick up where we left off, Rhys says when I ask him about this. She’s like a life friend, not a day-to-day friend.

  But still, in the handful of times we’ve met since Rhys and I got together, I’ve come to like her a lot, and being around her feels easier than it does with Rhys’s male friends.

  It’s the second week of February, and Rhys and I have agreed to meet Meg for a drink in the pub near Rhys’s house. We make it a lunchtime drink to avoid me – the only one under eighteen – getting ID-ed on the door.

  She’s running late, Rhys says, looking at his phone and pushing it back into his pocket. Typical. Let’s get a drink and a table.

  The guy behind the bar looks a little familiar, and I squint at him as he serves the girl in front of us. He has ginger hair and a face that is all angles. A smile that sparkles.

  ‘Hey,’ he says to Rhys as the girl takes her drink and leaves. ‘What can I get you?’

  Rhys opens his mouth to reply, but it’s me that speaks, and I do it in a burst of recognition. ‘Daniel?’

  The barman looks at me and his face jolts in surprise. He slaps his hand on to the bar and then points at me.

  ‘Steffi?’ he half exclaims, half asks. ‘Little Steffi Brons?’

  ‘Oh my God,’ I say. ‘Hi.’

  It’s Daniel. Daniel Carlisle, one of Clark’s old friends from secondary school. He was around our house so often he called my dad by his first name. He came to the wedding when my dad married Clark’s mum.

  Daniel, who I haven’t seen since Clark’s funeral, and even then it was from across the room. Clark. Clark, who would be twenty-three.

  ‘Hi yourself!’ He puts both hands on the bar and grins. ‘Holy hell. Little Steffi Brons. You grew up.’

  ‘I guess I did,’ I say, laughing. Rhys taps my arm and looks questioningly at me. This is Daniel, I explain quickly. For some reason I can’t quite bring myself to explain that I know him because of Clark, so I skip over it and turn back to Daniel instead. ‘This is Rhys,’ I say, gesturing. ‘My boyfriend.’

  ‘Cool,’ Daniel says, nodding. He leans over to shake Rhys’s hand. ‘All right, mate?’

  ‘He’s deaf,’ I add, but to my surprise Rhys shoots me a look of annoyance. Am I not supposed to tell people this? That’s new.

  ‘You doing OK?’ Daniel shifts his attention back to me. ‘Damn, how long’s it been since I saw you last?’

  ‘Three years? Four?’ I hedge.

  ‘Christ. And now you’re in a bar,’ he says. ‘And you’re talking.’

  ‘Oh, that.’ It’s true – the words are coming far more easily than I would have thought they would if I’d imagined this scenario. But I’m not going to question it. ‘Yeah, I talk now.’

  He smiles, wide and sincere. ‘Awesome. What do you both want to drink? It’s on me.’

  ‘Aw, thanks, but you don’t have to,’ I say automatically.

  Daniel shrugs, flashing a wider grin. ‘Course I do. Least I can do for Clark’s little sister.’

  My heart clenches. Am I still a little sister if the older brother is dead? For one crazy moment, I want to ask him. Instead, I force myself to smile. ‘Go on, then. Just a Coke for me. And . . .’ I look to Rhys. Beer?

  He nods, but his expression is unusually unreadable.

  ‘And a pint for Rhys,’ I say.

  Daniel pauses, his gaze flicking over to Rhys. ‘Is he eighteen?’ he asks me.

  ‘Yes,’ Rhys says.

  ‘Oh, sorry, mate, didn’t realize you could talk,’ Daniel says, and I wince, glancing at Rhys, wondering if I should tell Daniel that he’s being rude. Rhys looks back at me, his eyes unusually fiery, and I take the hint and say nothing. ‘Greene King?’ Daniel’s already holding the glass in front of the tap. ‘Hey, Steffi, how are your parents?’

  ‘They’re doing OK.’ This is mostly true, I think. ‘How is everything with you?’

  ‘Can’t complain.’ He gives an easy shrug. ‘Air in my lungs, and all that.’ A sad smile flickers on his face, but it’s quickly swallowed by a grin. He puts two glasses in front of me.

  ‘It was good to see you again.’

  ‘You too.’ He gives me a brotherly wink and I suddenly miss Clark so much I almost start to cry.

  I take the two glasses and begin to turn away, taking a deep, quiet breath.

  ‘I’ll get it,’ Rhys says, frowning, touching my wrist. I look at him and see he’s holding his debit card between two fingers.

  ‘It’s covered,’ Daniel says. ‘No worries.’

  Rhys looks at me, a frustrated crease in his forehead. I don’t want him to pay for your drink, he signs.

  I can’t sign with the two glasses in my hand, so I just shake my head. I try and say, Don’t make a fuss, with my eyes.

  ‘You just look after this one,’ Daniel says, gesturing to me with a jovial, oblivious smile on his face.

  Rhys still looks perturbed. For God’s sake. Bloody boys. ‘Come on,’ I say, injecting perkiness into my voice. ‘Thanks, Daniel,’ I add, smiling as I turn away.

  We get back to the table and Rhys takes his pint glass from me, taking a swig without meeting my eyes. I watch him, wondering if he’s annoyed with me and, if so, exactly why. I put my Coke down on the table. What’s wrong?

  Rhys looks at me, twists his lip between his teeth, then sets his glass down beside mine and pulls me in for a hug. I settle into it, resting my head against the steadiness of his chest. I feel him press a kiss to the side of my head.

  When we break apart, we both sit on the same side of the table, on the bench that’s set into the wall. I curl my legs up on to the seat so I can face him. I think about telling him who Daniel is, but that would mean talking about Clark, and I just don’t want to do that. Even seeing Daniel and remembering the two of them as boys has made my heart feel chafed. So I don’t. What was all that about?

  He doesn’t try to pretend he doesn’t know what I mean. Sorry if I was grumpy.<
br />
  But why? I hesitate, then go ahead and ask anyway. Do you have a problem with me talking to other boys?

  To my total relief, he laughs. An easy, genuine laugh. No, he says, definitive. He shakes his head, smiling. Sorry to make you think that. He pauses, his eyes lifting up as he thinks. I can tell he’s trying to decide how to express whatever it is he’s feeling. It is difficult to watch you talk, he signs finally.

  I frown. What?

  It makes me feel distant from you, he signs carefully. Like we are . . . separate.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ I say out loud. Frustration, and something a little like guilt, is building in my chest. Like maybe my subconscious knows exactly what he means, even if the rest of me hasn’t caught up yet.

  When you talk to other people, you seem to forget I’m there.

  I swallow. That’s not fair.

  His face scrunches. I’m not blaming you. I’m just trying to tell you. How it feels for me. It was the same at the Halloween party.

  I find talking really hard, I sign. I can feel my face starting to redden. You know that. How can you say this to me?

  His signing starts to become faster and more desperate as he tries to explain himself. I know you do. That’s part of the problem.

  Problem?

  Not problem. That was the wrong word. But the thing is that you are getting better, Bronze. You already talk more now than you did just a couple of weeks ago. And I’m scared that . . . he stops.

  Say it.

  That there’ll be no place for me. That you won’t need me. I’ll always be deaf. I can’t learn to hear. We’ll be . . . uneven.

  My hands are shaking. I take a sip of Coke and give up trying to use BSL right now. ‘Are you saying you think I only like you because you can’t hear and I can’t talk?’

  No! he signs, in a way that makes me sure he means yes. That isn’t what I mean.

  ‘Because that’s really insulting.’ My voice is shaking too. ‘That’s a really hurtful thing to say to me.’

  Rhys looks agonized. Bronze.

  ‘And for the record my not talking is a problem, but you being deaf isn’t,’ I continue. The words are coming out fast, way faster than if I was using BSL, and his eyes are now focused on my lips as I talk. His expression is tense and slightly panicked, and it’s a face I recognize from school when anyone is talking to him, and though I feel a reflexive guilt at making him lip-read, I can’t quite stop myself. ‘I know you can’t bloody learn to hear, I’m not a moron.’