About the Book
‘I hate the label Selective Mutism - as if I choose not to speak, like a kid who refuses to eat broccoli. I've used up every dandelion wish since I was ten wishing for the power to speak whenever I want to. I'm starting to wonder if there are enough dandelions.’
After losing her best friend that night, Piper Rhodes changes schools, determined that her final year will be different. She will be different. Then she meets West: school captain, star soccer player, the boy everyone talks about. Despite her fear of losing everything all over again, they fall in love without Piper ever speaking one word to West. But can a love mapped by silence last?
A story of doubt, love, friendship, and the power of words we say and those we don’t.
CONTENTS
1. Forgetting
2. Doubting
3. Wishing
4. Escaping
5. Dreading
6. Supposing
7. Blurring
8. Wandering
9. Listening
10. Experimenting
11. Feeling
12. Accepting
13. Seeing
14. Enduring
15. Jumping
16. Running
17. Trusting
18. Regretting
19. Joining
20. Expecting
21. Singing
22. Wanting
23. Imagining
24. Hoping
25. Connecting
26. Remembering
27. Voicing
28. Longing
29. Knowing
30. Hesitating
31. Ending
32. Fracturing
33. Missing
34. Denying
35. Waiting
36. Praying
37. Giving
38. Promising
39. Sharing
40. Breathing
41. Freeing
42. Finding
43. Believing
44. Speaking
Acknowledgements
About the Author
To Steven, for being my infinity
Now that I’m here, standing at the top of Peace Rock, I’m not exactly sure what to do next. The wind rushes around me, whipping my hair across my face and rippling the surface of the pool below. I glance down at the exercise-book-turned-journal in my hands. I started writing it here, so it makes sense that I destroy it here. A burning would be preferable, if it weren’t for the fire ban in the national park. I could bury the journal, but someone might unearth it. The only other way I can think to make it disappear is by tearing it to pieces. It’s a good thing it’s windy. The journal was psychologist-number-three’s idea. Over the last few years, I’ve imprinted myself on its pages. And the simple fact is, I don’t want to be that Piper Rhodes any more.
I push a twig off the edge of the rock with my foot and watch it twist through the air until it hits the surface of the pool. The water is the colour of dawn today, that soft blue-gold when the sun first appears. It looks inviting, even with the clouds of the predicted summer storm around. It’s the long weekend and the last days of freedom before school goes back. Since it’s still early morning, I’m the only one here. Later on, this place will be packed with people queuing to jump off Peace Rock and into the water. It’s like a scene from a soft drink ad. The council has put up one of those yellow signs with the little man diving into the water and hitting his head on a submerged object, but that doesn’t stop people from jumping. Sometimes I swim off the bank but I don’t jump. I’ve never jumped. I’m not afraid of heights or hurting myself. I stand up here all the time, but I can’t make myself step over the edge.
The actual name of this place is Mackenzie’s Pool, though I don’t know why. Everyone calls it Peace Rock because of the big peace sign graffitied on the front face of the rock. Considering that the graffiti sits about five metres above the water, that’s quite an artistic achievement. I don’t know if the graffiti gave the rock its name or the rock’s name inspired the graffiti. Or it could simply be because this place is peaceful.
I breathe in the familiar eucalyptus smell of the bush that surrounds the pool, and close my eyes, listening to the sound of the waterfall. On some days the waterfall gushes, making it impossible to hear your own thoughts. Other times, like today, it trickles into the pool. I can sit here for hours. This is the only place where no one expects anything of me, the only place I can’t disappoint anyone.
With a deep breath, I open the journal and grab hold of the first few pages. The binding is tight and I have to wrestle them out. Things would be a lot easier if it was a nice spiral-bound notebook instead of a plain exercise book. Dr Hayes said because it was so plain, I’d feel free to write without fear of making a mistake. Clearly, she didn’t consider the implications of her choice on any future journal-destroying undertakings.
I was against the idea of the journal in the beginning, like journal-must-die sort of against it. It was the most unoriginal idea I’d heard, not only because Dr Hayes was supposed to be an expert in cognitive behaviour therapy – which at first sounded to me like a WWII experiment – but also because the sessions were costing more per hour than a dinner at one of those expensive restaurants whose menus are full of words like jus and fondant. So I gave it a go for my parents and all the jus and fondant they sacrificed.
The first few journal entries contain the word fuck a lot. I tear them in half, then in half again. The wind carries the squares of paper out of my hands before I even have a chance to outstretch my arm. I watch those weeks of my life get swept away over the water and disappear into the trees.
I flick through the next few pages of the journal. A lot of them are tear stained. I don’t believe in wiping tears away, I believe in letting them fall. What’s the point of crying otherwise? Looking through these pages, I realise how much I wrote, despite my initial journal-must-die feelings. In fact, I wrote almost every day, most of the time here at Peace Rock. It isn’t just words that fill these pages; there are pictures I’d drawn, photos I’d taken, useless things I’d found and kept. Beautiful, painful and tragic. And now, all of it has to go.
What would Dr Hayes say if she saw me now? She would ask how I feel. As much as I love Dr Hayes, I hate this question. All psychologists ask it. The answer is never as simple as they’d like to think. Feelings don’t line up in neat rows all nicely categorised, like my shoe collection. They are more like my little sister Evie’s shoes: chaotic and unorganised. You can’t walk down the hall without tripping over them.
The last time I visited Dr Hayes was at the end of the year, before she left for the UK to see her daughter and new grandchild. A colleague is filling in for her while she is away, but I refuse to see anyone else. So until Dr Hayes comes back in November, just after my eighteenth birthday, I’m on my own. When I walk back into Dr Hayes’s office, I want to be unrecognisable. So how do I feel now? I feel less like Piper Rhodes already.
My efforts make me breathless, so I stop for a moment. The birds chatter noisily in the trees around me. My parents think that I come to Peace Rock for the silence, but the bush is never silent. It’s the noise that makes it so peaceful. The birds, like the waterfall, never stop. When I was younger, my grandfather took me on walks and taught me to identify different bird calls. My favourite is the superb lyrebird’s because it can mimic birds and other sounds, even a camera shutter. It has a spectacular tail of fanned feathers that are twice the length of its body. I’ve heard them out here but never actually seen one. I spent most of the summer holidays wandering through the national
park with my camera, but, like me, they’re good at hiding.
I turn my attention back to the journal and continue tearing out pages until I reach a photo. That’s how I know I’ve come to the ‘Cassie Pages’. Her friendship was so unexpected, like a sunshower. I didn’t realise how lonely I’d been until she came into my life and we became best friends. In one photo we’re dressed as zombie cheerleaders for our End of the World party at Cassie’s house. It was one of the first photos we took together. The first of many.
Then I went and ruined it all.
My fingers grip a handful of pages and pull them taut. I wish I could slip into the pages of my journal and rewrite everything that happened on that night. I’d always needed Cassie far more than she needed me, and then I betrayed her. Afterwards, I tried to tell her how sorry I was, but she didn’t want to hear it. I tried to tell her what sort of guy he really was, but it was too late.
My hold on the journal tightens. It’s better to erase that part of my life, pretend that Cassie was never a part of it. I tear the pages, including the photo, into the smallest pieces possible. The wind carries them away like ashes. As I watch them lift higher and higher, I remember the last thing Cassie said to me. I never want to speak to you again. There was no way I could go back to Springwood High, not after that. This way is best for everyone; Cassie won’t have to see me and I won’t have to see Liam.
My parents didn’t take too much convincing to let me change schools. I couldn’t tell them what really happened with Cassie. The words I just need a fresh start were enough. They have such big hopes that this year at St Mark’s will be different. That I will be different.
‘Please don’t let me disappoint them too,’ I whisper into the wind.
The sound of laughter makes me freeze. I look towards the bush track that comes down from the car park, but I don’t see anyone. I listen carefully, but when I don’t hear it again I figure it must’ve been a bird. It would be around nine o’clock now. People will start arriving soon with their towels and picnics. I need to finish this. There are only a few pages left clinging to the spine of the exercise book. There are a few recent entries I wrote over the summer holidays, followed by a couple of crisp white, lined pages.
This year can be different. It has to be different, because if it’s not, then what sort of future will I have? How could I go to uni? How could I get a job? I shake my head. I don’t want to think about it right now. All I want to think about is forgetting the past, starting over.
In one chunk, I tear out those final pages, rip them up and, like that, they’re gone, dancing through the air.
I should say something to mark this moment, but everything I think of sounds stupid in my head. The word that comes out of my mouth surprises me.
‘Jump.’
I stand up and move forwards until my toes touch the edge. I look down at the still water below.
‘Don’t think, just jump,’ I say.
But I can’t make my feet move any more than I can make myself just speak.
What was I thinking? Why did I think I could do this? I stare up at the ceiling, my heart pounding in my chest, my breathing rapid. It was just a dream. I know that. But the fears are real. It’s not the images from the dream that haunt me. It’s the voices. What’s your name? Where are you from? Did you hear me? How many times am I going to be asked those questions today?
I force myself to focus on my breathing, going through an exercise Dr Hayes taught me. Slowly, my heart rate starts to return to normal, but I’m still covered in sweat. I kick off my blanket. It’s going to be okay. It has to be. Changing schools is my only option.
What would I be doing right now if none of it ever happened, if Cassie and I were still friends? I’d probably be texting her to find out if we have the same class for first period or if she can bring some of her mum’s amazing biscotti to school for recess.
I look over at my new uniform laid out on my chair. My schoolbag is next to it, already packed. I can’t just lie here, going over the same doubts and regrets. With a heavy sigh, I make myself get out of bed and start dressing.
The difficult part, except for actually getting up, is the school tie. I spend ten minutes trying to outmanoeuvre it with the knowledge gained from watching YouTube videos over the holidays. I’m not used to wearing a school tie, or such a long skirt. I don’t even want to think about how much the whole ensemble cost my parents. I would’ve been happy transferring to another public school, but the only other one in the mountains, without having to travel all the way down to Blaxland, was Katoomba High. And Katoomba didn’t have all my subjects. That’s the problem with changing schools in Year Twelve.
Mum appears at my door. ‘How are you going, sweetie?’
‘Great,’ I answer. I put on my best I’m-as-cool-as-a-freakin-cucumber face. I have to prove to my parents that this was the right decision, that I can handle this.
‘I’m so proud of you,’ Mum says, beaming. ‘We’ll be leaving soon, so you might want to have something for breakfast quickly.’
‘Okay,’ I say, even though there’s no way I can eat a thing.
Mum leaves me to finish getting ready. I lower my eyes to the top of my dresser, looking for a band to tie up my hair. The first thing I notice is that my nail polish bottles are out of line and my lipstick is lying on its side, which means Evie must have been in my room again. I pick up the lipstick. It’s the only one I own. My grandma gave it to me on my sixteenth birthday. Without thinking, I take off the lid. New beginning, I write in big crimson letters on the mirror. I smile at my reflection broken up by the red lines. I can do this. I need to do this.
When I get downstairs, no one is ready. Evie is looking for her lucky bracelet. Jackson is standing out on the verandah, under Mum’s instruction, to let the fumes of his deodorant diffuse so we don’t all die from asphyxiation in the car. Tilly is nowhere to be seen. As I wait, I feel my heartbeat starting to quicken. I can’t be late. I need to get to school early to collect my timetable, find my locker, find my classrooms; all that sort of stuff that is so much harder for someone like me.
Twenty minutes later, after a great deal of shouting from me and Mum, we’re almost all in the car. ‘Finally,’ I say, when Evie wriggles into the back. She reaches between the two front seats and hands me her lucky bracelet. ‘You can wear it today.’
I immediately feel guilty for getting angry with her. ‘Thanks, Evie,’ I say, slipping the glittery bracelet around my wrist and smiling at my six-year-old sister. I’ll take it off when I get to class but of course I don’t tell her that. Hopefully, in that short time, it will bring me luck.
Mum turns on the radio as she backs out of the driveway and the latest song from Taylor Swift comes on. Evie sings along at the top of her lungs.
‘Shut up, Evie!’ shouts Jackson, elbowing her in the side.
Usually, this is where I would join in with her, just to annoy Jackson, but I don’t think I could possibly get enough air into my lungs to sing right now. Breathing normally is taking enough effort.
‘At least change the station,’ says Tilly, sounding bored. Everything is boring to her lately. I don’t remember having nearly as much attitude when I was eleven. But then I was not a normal eleven-year-old.
‘I like this song,’ says Mum. ‘You know, Tilly, you were going to be named Taylor.’
‘That’s a boy’s name,’ says Tilly.
‘And Tilly’s a dog’s name,’ says Jackson. He’s three years older than Tilly and they fight three times more than the rest of us.
‘Can we get a dog?’ asks Evie.
Mum sighs. ‘Tilly is not a dog’s name and we’re not getting a dog.’
I look at Evie’s pouting face in the rear-view mirror. ‘Why not?’ I say.
‘Because a dog might scare off my clients.’ Mum’s a hairdresser. Her salon is out the back of the house, in the garage. She used to have a salon opposite the station in Wentworth Falls but this way she can scream at us to do our homework while
she’s styling someone’s hair.
‘We could get a non-scary dog,’ I suggest. ‘Like a pug.’
‘Pugs are ugly,’ says Tilly.
I’m ready to jump to the defence of pugs when I realise we’re almost at my new school. I’m the first drop-off because I made such a big deal about being early.
As we drive through the school gate, my heart rate starts to increase again. I wish we’d got here earlier. There are people everywhere. I glance at the clock on the dash. There’s thirty minutes till homeroom.
‘Are you okay?’ says Mum.
I nod.
Mum turns around in her seat. ‘Behave yourselves while I take Piper in,’ she says. Evie blows me air kisses, and Tilly and Jackson say goodbye in varying tones of disinterest.
We walk down the path to the office, past groups of students filling each other in on what they did in the holidays. Some glance at me before going back to their conversations. When we stop outside the office, Mum fiddles with my tie. ‘What did you do to this thing?’
I shake her off.
‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘You look lovely. Do you want me to come in?’
I nod because even though I can handle my own tie, I need my mum for things like this. But there’s only so far she can take me and then I’m on my own. With Cassie, I was never on my own. She filled in all my empty spaces.
The office is all tiles and glass, one of those places where everything echoes. A teacher crosses in front of us and walks through a door that leads into the area behind the glass window. There’s a group of girls, probably Year Seven or Eight, at the counter going on about something. I hang back while Mum walks over to the counter and waits to be served. Finally, the group moves off, with a few sideways glances towards me, and it’s Mum’s turn. I don’t hear what she says to the office lady, but the woman looks at me and nods her head, as if putting a face – my face – to a label. That’s a good sign, really. It means the principal has told her about me. Hopefully, my teachers have also been briefed.
The Things I Didn't Say Page 1