Along Came Jordan

by Brenda Maxfield

  I patted my bed. "Sit."

  She sank down beside me. I pushed her hair behind her ears. "Don't be so hard on yourself. You tried, and you deserve some credit."

  Her eyes were full of tears. "No, I don't."

  How could someone not talk if they wanted to? It didn't make any sense. If you wanted to say something, you simply opened your mouth and said it. What was wrong with her?

  "Yes, you do, Sarah. It shows you care. It's important to try a little bit at a time. Don't worry. It'll be fine."

  I was blathering and I knew it. I had no idea if what I was saying was true. Sarah nestled against my side. She seemed to believe me, anyway.

  "Want to play Boggle?"

  We hadn't played for months, and we used to play quite a bit. Sarah was good at it, too. She often beat me.

  She sat up straight. "Can we?"

  "Sure, why not? Don't have anything else to do right now."

  She ran to my closet. All our games were on my top shelf, arranged by size. Boggle was at the top. She couldn't quite reach it, so I went over, stood on my tiptoes, and grabbed it.

  "Okay, girl, let's see what you've got," I said.

  She smiled. Not her stretch-across-the-face smile, but a smile, nevertheless.

  After an hour and losing two games, I took her to her bedroom and tucked her in. I bent over to kiss her on her cheek.

  "Emili…"

  "Yeah, Sarah?"

  "Thanks."

  I pulled the blankets up under her chin. "Nothing to thank me for, kiddo."

  She grabbed my hand and held it to her cheek, and my heart felt as though it would crack open. I bent to kiss her again. She let go, and I walked to her door and turned out the light. As I left the room, I pulled her door quietly shut behind me. Mom stood at the end of the hall watching. Her face was poised, as if she wanted to say something. I paused, but she turned away and went back into the living room. I didn't move for a minute. A lump grew in my throat, closing off the air. I swallowed hard.

  I went into the living room where Mom sat stiff as a new pair of shoes, her feet placed flat in front of her like she was waiting for her turn at the doctor's office.

  "She's okay," I said. "She's asleep now."

  Mom nodded, a small formal movement. I nodded back, turned, and retreated to my room.

  ****

  On the bus Monday morning, Sarah seemed somehow better. When we pulled into the middle school, she got up without a push from me. Progress.

  I wondered if she was talking at school. She still wouldn't talk to anyone at home but me. Was she mad at Mom and Dad? Was her anger strong enough to keep her silent for weeks? She told me she would talk, but then she didn't — couldn't. It made no sense.

  Note to self: Search Internet for answers.

  The library at Edgemont High had a bank of computers in the back. I could go at lunchtime. Possibly, I'd have some extra time to job hunt. Neither Margo nor Sally had my lunch period, so it wasn't as though anyone would miss me in the cafeteria. Since the first day when I'd eaten at Laine's table, I'd staked out a semi-permanent spot in the farthest corner I could find, which worked, for the most part. I'd only had to move twice when some senior girls had gone back there to host a massive gossip fest.

  The bus pulled into the high school lot, and Sally and Margo were walking up the steps. If I hustled, I could catch them. They saw me coming before I hit the ground. "Hey, Emili, hurry up," Sally said, motioning me over.

  My heart lightened — it was beyond great to have someone happy to see me. I flew to catch up.

  "Hey guys," I said, a bit breathless.

  "Hey back," Sally said. "How was your weekend?"

  "My sister ran away."

  Both Sally and Margo stopped short. "What?" they asked in unison.

  "Yeah. My sister Sarah. She's in fifth grade. We found her, though."

  "Where'd she go?" asked Margo.

  "To our old school, but it's okay now."

  "Here I thought my weekend was exciting because I went to the mall after practicing all morning." Sally snickered and fingered her chin.

  "I drew all weekend. A dateless Saturday night, like usual," Margo said.

  "Sarah doesn't talk."

  "What do you mean?" Sally blinked and wrinkled her brow.

  "She doesn't talk to anyone, except me. At least, I think it's only me."

  "Is something wrong with her voice?" Margo put her hand on my arm, her expression all concerned.

  "I don't know. I'm gonna look on the Internet during lunch."

  "We'll help. You have first lunch, right?" Margo asked.

  "Yeah."

  "I've got study hall. I'll meet you in the library."

  "No fair. I've got yearbook. We're in the middle of pages. Ms. Tucker will never let me go."

  "I'll represent us both," Margo said.

  A rush of warmth swept over me. "Thanks. Both of you."

  Sally grabbed me in a quick hug.

  Margo gasped and put her hands on her cheeks, shifting the mood. "Ay, I forgot my mascara. Why didn't you tell me?" She hit Sally on the arm.

  "I don't know. I assumed you forgot on purpose."

  "Like I'd forget on purpose? Come on, hurry." She grabbed both of us and pulled us into the school, making a beeline to the girls' bathroom.

  We nearly fell through the restroom door, all of us giggling over Margo's crisis. She stared in the mirror. "I have no eyes. Sally, I'm gonna kill you for this."

  "Me? I didn't do anything."

  "You should've told me."

  Sally turned to me, shrugged, and grimaced. "She's my best friend, so I guess I have to dress her and put on her makeup, too."

  Margo was digging noisily in her purse. "I know it's in here somewhere." She rummaged some more. "Aha! Here it is."

  She pulled out some mascara and began layering it on. "Better. Much better." She turned to us and fluttered her lashes.

  "Gorgeous, Margo." Sally shook her head and rolled her eyes. "You're vain and pathetic."

  "I am not. I just like to have eyes on my face, is all."

  I opened my purse and took out a small bottle of perfume I'd made a few months earlier. "Want some scent?"

  Margo grabbed it from my hands. "What's this?"

  Sally took it from her. "Emili makes perfume. I forgot to tell you." She unscrewed the lid and took a whiff. "Hey, it's nice."

  Margo leaned in and sniffed. "Kind of fruity."

  "It's a mixture of orange and honeysuckle. Like it?"

  Sally put some on her wrists and behind her ears. Margo snatched it back and started dabbing away on her neck.

  "We're gonna smell like twins," she said. "My tía would love this."

  "Your tía?" I asked.

  "My aunt. She runs Cosas Preciosas."

  "Which is…?"

  Sally took the perfume back from Margo and replaced the lid. "It's a small-ish boutique on Markel Drive. It's actually kind of cute. Clothes, jewelry, and stuff."

  "Does she need help?"

  "Meaning…?" Margo asked.

  "A job. I need a job."

  Margo fluffed her hair, which wasn't possible, because it must've weighed at least ten pounds dry. "Sometimes I help out for free, so I don't think there's an opening. Maybe. I could ask."

  "Will you?" Inside, hope bubbled at the thought. This was turning into a great day.

  "Sure. It'd only be minimum wage, you know."

  "Minimum's fine," I answered.

  ****

  I went straight to the library at lunch, and Margo was already there. The librarian glanced up as I entered. She didn't look much older than me, with her long brown ponytail and bright orange capris — even though it was freezing outside. She wore a navy sweater thrown over her shoulders as though she was fresh off the tennis court at a country club. I was always amazed sweaters worn like that didn't fall straight to the floor, but the librarian managed it fine.

  "Research?" she asked in a perky voice as I walked by.

&n
bsp; "Yeah. Is it okay?"

  "Knock yourself out," she answered and flipped another page of her magazine.

  Margo saw me coming. "I've already searched 'my sister won't talk'. All I'm getting is useless stuff about family feuds."

  I plopped onto the heavy oak chair next to her. "I'll log into this computer, and we'll both search."

  "Okay. I'll try something else. How about 'not speaking', or 'closed mouth'?"

  We tried everything. I kept glancing at the clock — twenty minutes of lunchtime was gone.

  Margo started clucking her tongue. "Ay, Emili, mira, look at this."

  I peered at her screen. She had a site up called "Selective Mutism."

  "It's a childhood anxiety disorder," Margo said. "Look here. It says there also might be developmental delays. Has it lasted a month? Because it's not selective mutism unless it's been a month."

  I didn't answer. My eyes raced over the page, devouring the words.

  "Does she have sleep problems?" Margo asked. "It says—"

  "Margo, I can read," I snapped, and Margo stiffened. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be rude. And here you are helping me."

  She touched my arm. "It's okay," she said in her lilting voice. "You're worried, is all."

  I gave her a look of pure gratitude, and then we turned back to the screen.

  "Why is your sister so anxious anyway? It's the main cause."

  "New school, and it started super bad. The kids made fun of her every day, and they still do, I think."

  "That's bullying. Have your mom go in and complain."

  "My dad's been in. Not about bullying, though. At least, I don't think so. Yeah, maybe they could go talk to the principal."

  "Umm, Emili, read this part." Margo pointed.

  Effective treatment is of utmost importance for the child with selective mutism to improve. Otherwise, it could lead to chronic depression, emotional problems, social issues, and growing anxiety.

  I rested my head on my hand. "Great. Just great."

  "Yeah, but now you know what it is."

  "Treatment costs money, right?"

  "Everything costs money."

  "That could be a problem. Can I print this off?"

  "You get five copies free, then you have to start paying. You should already have an account from the day you enrolled."

  "I don't think I have one, but if I do, this is under five copies so I'm going to print it." I pushed print as the bell for fourth period rang.

  Margo got up and gathered her things. "Look, I was logged in. It'll go to my account. Don't worry about it. I've got lunch now, so see you later."

  "See you. Thanks, Margo."

  She brushed off my thanks with a flick of her wrist. "We're friends, aren't we?"

  Moisture sprang to my eyes. I nodded and looked down at the keyboard. She'd already seen me tear up the other day, and she didn't need to see it again.

  Chapter Nine

  By fifth period, my stomach was growling. Three minutes between classes wasn't enough time to eat — my lunch sat neatly in my locker on top of my folded backpack. Skipping lunch had been worth it, though. I grasped my printouts from the library. Now I had some information, and maybe I could get Sarah the help she needed.

  Fifth period was history with Mr. Dobson. He was an okay teacher, a bit boring, but nice enough. We were studying the Vietnam War. Mr. Dobson must've had an art epiphany or something, because he assigned us a poem — which, judging from everyone's groans, was out of character. We were to write a poem about the war, put some kind of symbol on it, and share it with a classmate.

  I couldn't concentrate. My mind was fixated on Sarah. Laine was in history with me, and when the poem was assigned, she turned and motioned with her hand indicating we'd be partners. Great. Exactly what I wanted.

  I started my poem, trying to think of images of warfare in a steamy jungle, but what came out of my pencil were images of an eleven-year-old girl who didn't speak. I could pass it off as a war poem because I figured children in war could be traumatized into not speaking.

  Once I started, I was a faucet — the words spilled from me. They gurgled forth with no effort, which was curious, since I wasn't a writer. I was surprised when Mr. Dobson told us our time was up. I read over my poem.

  Days too long

  Too hard

  What do I feel?

  Words stick.

  Granite in my throat

  Scratching

  Tearing, ripping

  Holes formed

  Truth seeps out

  Falling

  unnoticed,

  on the dirt path

  at my feet.

  I'd never written a poem before. Well, one time in seventh grade, Mrs. Enid insisted the class make a poetry book. My poem had been a sorry mess. I'd written down any rhyming word I could think of and had never shown my parents. The book had sat under my bed, until I'd crammed it into the recycling bin sometime during the eighth grade.

  This Sarah poem was different. Getting the words down on paper made me feel better — if only for a few minutes.

  Laine was waving her arm. "Emili, are you coming? We're supposed to be sharing."

  I walked over and sat in the empty seat on her left.

  "Okay, here's mine," she said, pride oozing from every gesture.

  War is bad.

  It's sad when people die

  Helicopters fly looking for those

  Who hurt, it goes over

  And over the land watching

  To give a hand to save

  Their fellow man.

  "Did you notice the internal rhyme? It classes it up," Laine said.

  I didn't even know what internal rhyme was, but I knew better than to contradict Laine. "It's nice, Laine. Good job."

  "Let me see yours." She yanked my paper out of my hands.

  I watched her expression as she read. For a moment, I thought I saw a flicker of interest, perhaps even appreciation, but I was wrong.

  "Emili, you didn't even attempt to rhyme. What's with the cement in the throat? What a disgusting image. I don't think you wrote what Mr. Dobson wanted at all, and you used a dorky mouth as your symbol."

  I didn't care if she liked my poem or not. Writing it had made me feel better, and I was only too eager to grab whatever relief I could get.

  Mr. Dobson was circling the room. "I'd like to hear some of your work. In fact, there's time enough to hear three or four pieces before the bell rings. Any volunteers?"

  Laine raised her hand. "I'll read mine, Mr. Dobson." She walked to the front of the class, cleared her throat, and adjusted her posture. I hated to admit it, but whenever Laine adjusted herself, she was a knockout.

  When she finished reading, there was a smattering of applause. Laine's eyes narrowed — not the raves she'd expected. Mr. Dobson nodded. "Thank you, Laine. I appreciate your willingness."

  He didn't say it was good. Laine must've noticed the omission, too, because I saw her expression harden.

  "Why not have Emili read hers?" she said.

  I gave her the evil eye. Why did she have to take it out on me? Did she want Mr. Dobson to reject mine, too?

  "Miss Jones?" he asked. "Will you share?"

  "I'd rather not."

  "Oh, come on, Emili. Your poem's so good." Her sarcasm was lost on Mr. Dobson.

  "Miss Jones, please share. We have a couple of minutes."

  I got up, walked to the front, and read my poem. Again, a smattering of applause. Mr. Dobson reached over and took my poem from me. "I'd like to read this again for all of you."

  I looked around, not knowing whether to stay or to sit back down.

  Mr. Dobson's voice was deep and smooth, and as he read, my words became a melody. I stared at him. It sounded magical when he read it. When he finished, the room was still, as if everyone were holding their breath. I felt all eyes on me, and knew my face was turning red.

  "Emili has captured the anguish of a war victim with insight and grace," Mr. Dobson said. He face
d me and held out my poem. "Well done, Miss Jones."

  A flush of pleasure coursed through me, and I walked back to my original spot. I glanced at Laine, who was busy gathering her belongings as if accomplishing the most important task in the world. The bell rang, and I got up quickly to leave. Laine brushed by me, nearly toppling me over.

  "Oh sorry, Emili. Didn't see you," she said sweetly on her way out the door.

  I stood still for a moment and then headed for my next class. My better day had flipped fast enough. I could always count on Laine to take me down a peg, yet as I walked to sixth period, I still felt a kernel of satisfaction inside. My poem was good. Who cared if Mr. Dobson and the whole class thought it was about the Vietnam War? It was my secret tribute to Sarah.

  Sixth and seventh period were boringsville, which was fine with me. Sometimes boring was the safest way to go. After school, I dashed to the bathroom for a pit stop before heading out to the bus. When I pushed through the doors, a group of girls were huddled in front of the mirror. One of them was sticking on false eyelashes.

  "Rhonda, you look like — well, you know, one of those girls," said a girl with short black hair.

  "Yeah, there's the look I was going for," was Rhonda's answer.

  "Well, you do." The girl noticed me from the mirror. "Aren't you Emili?"

  I nodded and headed for a stall.

  The girl called Rhonda stopped mid-lash. "I need to talk to you. Come over here."

  I paused with my hand pressed against the stall door. "Why?"

  "I need some algebra done tonight. What's your rate?"

  "My what?"

  "Come on, the buses are going to leave in a couple minutes. Don't play dumb. I need your rate. I have ten bucks." She left her eyelashes dangling and started digging in the open purse on the ledge.

  "I don't know what you're talking about," I said.

  "Laine told us you'd deny it," said the girl with the black hair.

  "There's not much time. We know you run a… well… Shall we call it a homework service? I stink at algebra. So, is ten dollars enough for the week?" Rhonda held the money out and waved it at me.

  "Laine said I run a cheat ring?"

  "No, no, of course not. Cheat rings don't exist at Edgemont High. Right, you guys?" Rhonda asked her friends.