The woman leaves the counter and Mum comes over to me. ‘She’s gone to print your timetable and work out your locker number. I have to drop the rest of the kids off or they’ll be late. Will you be okay?’
I nod. Sometimes I feel like I’m one of those little dogs that sits on the dashboard of a car and nods its head all the time. Occasionally, I shake my head too. But most of the time, I just agree.
‘Have a good day. Remember, nobody knows you here,’ whispers Mum. ‘You don’t have to be the girl who doesn’t speak.’
I look away. Even after all these years, my own parents still don’t fully understand. Mum gives me a kiss on the cheek and leaves. The office lady returns a few minutes later. Her badge says that her name is Anna. Four letters, two syllables that I doubt I’ll use anytime soon. I swallow the lump in my throat.
‘Here’s your timetable and student diary,’ she says, handing me a piece of paper and an A4-sized diary. ‘There’s a map of the school on page five. Your locker number is 148, which is down the hallway on the left. Mrs Diaz, your year coordinator, was hoping to meet you this morning, but she has been caught up. I’m sure she’ll pop in and see you later. You’re in science lab 4 for homeroom. If you need any help, just ask.’
She freezes, then bites her lip, as if she’s said the wrong thing. People are always saying wrong things around me, and the worst part is when they realise their mistake. I feel sorry for them, really. I’m sure blind people get told, ‘Look at this,’ all the time, or deaf people get asked, ‘Did you hear that?’ Slips are forgivable. The only way I can let Anna know it’s okay is to smile.
Her face relaxes. ‘Why don’t I get a student to take you there?’
I shake my head and grab my stuff. I don’t mean to be rude, but it comes with the territory. She’ll get used to me. I offer her another quick smile before retreating.
As I walk through the hallways, I watch the students hanging around their lockers or walking past. No one seems to give me more than a quick glance. My breathing is slow and controlled. I’m doing this. As soon as I find my locker, the bell goes. I put my bag away and attach my lock. I’m fairly good at reading maps, but the one the school has provided is like a poorly drawn diagram of a theme park. It takes me five minutes to find the science labs and, by that time, I decide not to go in since homeroom will be over at any moment.
Finding room 12 for German proves just as difficult. I pause outside the door to take a deep breath. My impulse when I step inside is to walk straight to the back of the room and take the seat closest to the window, but I force myself to approach the teacher at the front. She has short, bright pink hair, like a German pop star, the ones that end up on Eurovision.
‘Hallo,’ she says in a convincing German accent when she sees me. I lower my eyes as I hand her my student ID card, without saying anything, of course. She glances at it and, thankfully, a look of recognition flashes across her face. ‘Welcome, Piper. I’m Frau Fortunat. Please take a seat.’
I smile gratefully and walk towards the back of the classroom without making eye contact with anyone. It’s a small class, which is a good thing.
‘Nein, nein, nein,’ Frau Fortunat calls before I even have a chance to put my things down. ‘You can’t sit all the way back there. Why don’t you sit next to Herr Kennedy?’
It’s not like I can argue, but I give Frau Fortunat a pleading look. She just nods enthusiastically and indicates to a table where a boy sits in the second row. I walk slowly over to the table. At least it’s near the window.
‘Hey,’ he says, when I reach the desk.
I give him a quick glance and a smile, which seems an adequate substitute for ‘hi’ in most instances. My mistake is looking at him. It’s either his eyes or his dimples that make me forget who or where I am. The last thing I need with my hamster wheel of anxiety is to sit next to a boy with dimples.
Keeping my eyes averted, I sit down and busy myself with arranging my books on the table and unpacking things from my pencil case. It always helps to carry lots of things that need unpacking because people are less inclined to talk to you while you’re organising your school supplies. It’s also useful for those things not to be interesting, like boring white rubbers instead of strawberry-shaped ones or a standard wooden ruler instead of one from Sea World. No one’s really going to ask about a white rubber or a wooden ruler.
This boy tries to strike up a conversation anyway. ‘I’m Herr Kennedy,’ he says. ‘But call me West.’
I smile at him.
‘Piper. That’s a really cool name,’ he says.
Thanks, I want to say. West is a pretty cool name too. Is it short for something? Weston? Westly? I’m never lost for words. I know exactly what I want to say, but the words don’t come out. Just thinking about speaking causes my throat to tighten and my mouth to go dry.
West looks at me expectantly. ‘Nice bracelet,’ he adds. I look down at the glittery star-shaped beads around my wrist. I can’t believe I forgot to take it off. It should be easy to say that my little sister gave it to me but it’s not. It never is. I glance at West, trying to work out if the comment was sarcastic or genuine. His smile tells me nothing. I slide my hand under the table, out of sight.
Frau Fortunat claps loudly and everyone stops talking. ‘Welcome back to school, everyone. I hope you all had a wonderful break. We have a new student with us this year.’ The moment Frau Fortunat’s hand flies out in my direction, the hamster wheel begins to spin faster. ‘Could everyone please say “Guten Morgen, Piper”?’
‘Guten Morgen, Piper,’ the class choruses, as if we’re in Year Two, not Year Twelve.
I want to crawl under the table, jump out the window, anything to disappear. Instead, I force the muscles in my face into a smile and then look down at the table. Frau Fortunat draws the attention back to the front of the room with another round of claps. She reminds me of Mary Poppins, if Mary Poppins wore Levi’s and had pink hair.
‘If that doesn’t scare you away, wait until they sing you Happy Birthday in German,’ whispers West.
I laugh softly. Laughing is involuntary, unlike speaking.
Frau Fortunat begins a speech about this being our last year and how important it is that we apply ourselves. I like listening to teachers lecture about a topic. There’s nothing I dislike more than teachers who ask questions and expect the students to do most of the talking.
After her speech, Frau Fortunat plays a recording of a conversation in German. We listen to it and answer questions. I find the task easy, which is one of the reasons I chose to take German. When the principal here saw that it was one of my subjects, he thought it was a joke. I’ll admit it is strange that I study a subject that mostly requires speaking, while I mostly do not speak.
When I was eight, my family moved to Germany for a year for my dad’s work. I went to an English-speaking school, but German was a large part of the curriculum. I didn’t speak much at school, but at home I would stay up all night practising German until my voice went hoarse. I picked up the language quickly, as though I was meant to speak it. The sad part was that I forgot a lot of it when we came back to Australia. It was last year that I started to learn it again. In Years Eight and Nine at Springwood High, the only languages you could pick as electives were French and Japanese. German beginners was only offered as a senior subject for the first time last year thanks to a new teacher.
To complete oral assessments, I would video myself at lunchtime alone in a classroom, not just for German but for all my subjects. Pretty much every subject except maths has oral assessments. I still find speaking to the camera difficult but not impossible.
‘How did you go?’ asks West when the recording stops.
I shrug and keep my gaze on Frau Fortunat. The trick is to always look as if your attention is elsewhere. Only none of my tricks seem to be working on West. He glances at my paper. ‘Ah, that makes sense. I stuffed mine up. I mean why would the man be asking for the price of feet?’
I’m not
sure if he meant it as a joke or he really thought the conversation was about feet but I laugh anyway.
‘Herr Kennedy and Fräulein Rhodes, I would appreciate it if you stopped talking.’
Well, that’s a first. I’ve never been asked to stop talking before.
Frau Fortunat reads out the answers. Mine are all correct. West nods at me. The rest of the double period is spent conjugating verbs in a table on the board. Frau Fortunat makes a mistake with the future tense of ‘to eat’, but naturally I don’t say anything.
Finally, the bell goes for recess. The problem with having lots of things to unpack is that you have lots to pack up at the end of the class. I expect West to leave along with the others but he waits. ‘So what school did you come from?’ he asks, watching me pile my books together.
These were the questions I was dreading. I pretend not to hear.
‘How about I show you around?’ he says.
Still putting my things carefully back into my bag, I consider my options. If I shake my head, he’ll think I’m rude, which is not a good start, especially since I’ve already pretended to ignore him. If I go with him, he’ll probably try to make conversation and when I don’t reply he’ll think I’m shy, at least for now. I give West my answer with a slight nod and look to him to lead the way.
The hallway is largely deserted when we step out of the room. ‘What class do you have after recess?’
I open my student diary, take out my timetable and hand it to him. ‘You have maths in room 30,’ he says, examining the paper. He stops near a window and points to a double-storey building. ‘It’s in there, bottom floor. You’ve got Fitzy. But don’t call him that. He only accepts Mr Fitzgerald. He’s a good teacher, though. I had him for science in Year Nine.’
We keep walking. ‘You don’t say much, do you?’ says West, looking at me from the corner of his eye.
I shake my head.
‘It must suck starting at a new school in your last year. I’ve been here since kindy, which kind of sucks too. My old Year Three teacher still works here and every time I go past him he asks if I remembered to bring my toothbrush.’
I raise an eyebrow.
‘It was this stupid joke my friends played on me, and Mr Anderson got in on it too. They had me convinced that there was a Bring Your Toothbrush to School Day so I brought mine. Mr Anderson has never let me forget it.’
I laugh.
We reach the end of the hallway and turn right into a main area lined with lockers. It’s so crowded we have to weave our way around other students. Everyone notices West. Some stop him to say hi or ask about his summer holidays, others high-five him as he passes. Even with all the attention on him, most of his attention is still on me. He points out the library entrance and science rooms. I’m torn between wanting to be anywhere else and nowhere else.
‘Hey, West!’ shouts a tall girl with long brown hair, waving in our direction. She’s standing with a couple of girls and guys at the end of the hall. I know who they are immediately. They’re the Royals – the students genetically blessed in looks and athletic ability who rule the school. Of course West is a Royal. I mean, look at him. How could I be so stupid not to realise that? This is a mistake, a big mistake. I freeze. West stops too and a few of the Royals walk over to us. They exchange hugs and handshakes with West.
‘Hey, guys,’ he says. ‘This is Piper. She’s new.’
They all say hi more or less at once, so I don’t know who to look at. Now I would definitely rather be anywhere else. West points to the Royals one by one. ‘Indiana, Charlie, Taylor and Mark. Or Maylor as I like to call these two.’ Taylor wraps her arms around Mark and giggles.
‘Not funny,’ says Mark, kissing Taylor on the forehead.
‘You’re right. It’s not funny. It’s hilarious,’ says West. ‘Would you prefer Tark?’
‘Just wait until you get a girlfriend,’ says Mark, shaking his head. ‘I’m going to give you the worst couple nickname ever. So many possibilities . . . Nest, Zest, Pest –’
Indiana coughs, interrupting. ‘West, Mrs Diaz wants to see us now to talk about our school captain speech for Friday’s assembly.’ She flicks her long hair over her shoulder.
‘Now?’ says West. ‘I was going to show Piper the canteen.’
I look at him and shake my head, to say it’s fine, but he doesn’t notice.
‘Yep, now,’ says Indiana.
West sighs. ‘Tell Mrs Diaz I’ll be there in a few minutes. I’m just going to run to the canteen with Piper.’ He takes a hold of my arm and pulls me away before Indiana can protest.
‘See you, Piper,’ calls Mark.
We turn a corner, out of the Royals’ sight. ‘Sorry about that,’ says West. I can’t figure out why he is being so nice to me. Is it new-girl treatment? Is it because I look like I need saving? Is he trying to figure me out? There’s always a reason, especially when it comes to Royals; I know that more than anyone. And I’m not prepared to find out his.
Ahead I see two open doors that look out onto the quad. West stops in the doorway. ‘There it is, our fine canteen,’ he says, pointing to a building. Students are crowded in front of it in some semblance of queues. ‘Don’t let the appearance of the lasagne turn you off.’
He waits for me to laugh, but I don’t. I can’t. Every time I now look at him I think of Liam. They look nothing alike but they are both ‘that’ guy, not just a Royal but the Royal, the boy everyone talks about and wants to talk to.
‘Anyway, I should run,’ he says. ‘Mrs Diaz will be waiting for me.’
This is where I would say thanks for showing me around, if the words in my head ever found their way out. I concentrate on the stiff muscles around my jaw and the shapes I know these words take. But the words remain stuck deep inside me.
When I get home I want to write in my journal, but then, of course, I realise I don’t have a journal any more. I can’t call Cassie either. It’s been almost three months and I still reach for the phone before remembering that’s not an option. So I lie on my bed and stare up at the ceiling. I wouldn’t know what to write, anyway, or what to say.
My day is a complete blur. I remember a few people asking my name. I had to write it down for them or point to my name on one of my books. Most of the time, they lost interest pretty quickly, figuring that I didn’t want anything to do with them. One girl asked if I was on exchange from Switzerland. I know I have blonde hair, but seriously?
And then there was West. It didn’t take him long to notice that I don’t say much. Something about him makes me nervous. I can’t figure out if it’s because he reminds me of Liam or because he didn’t seem to lose interest in me after his questions were met with silence.
I wonder how long it will be until everyone at school realises I don’t say anything, until I become that girl with Selective Mutism. 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.
It’s thought SM is linked with social anxiety. For me they’re more than linked, they’re like flotsam and jetsam. The only people I can speak to are my immediate family, Dr Hayes and, until that night forced us apart, Cassie. Whether I’m being greeted by the bus driver, being asked a question by a teacher or standing at the counter at McDonald’s, the words good morning, x=14, a Big Mac please, are always on my tongue but that’s where they stay.
‘Piper! Dinner’s ready!’ Evie says as she bursts into my room. She starts roaming around, looking at the things on my dresser, opening my drawers. My room is a constant source of fascination for her.
‘Can I wear this?’ she says, pulling out my favourite green wrap dress. I grab the dress from her, fold it neatly and put it back in the drawer.
‘Let’s go downstairs,’ I say, steering Evie towards the door. ‘You know how Dad hates dinner going cold.’
We’re o
ne of those families who sit around the dinner table to eat. There are six of us, so it’s quite a big table. When I walk into the kitchen, the smell of roast chicken and potatoes greets me. ‘Where’s Mum?’ asks Tilly, already sitting at the table.
‘She’s still with a client,’ Dad answers. ‘We can start eating.’
‘Great. I’m starving,’ says Jackson with a mouthful of potato.
‘I’m here. I’m here.’ Mum dumps the keys to the salon on the bench, looking exhausted.
‘How were your appointments today?’ I ask.
‘Great. I had a new client. She wanted a complete re-colour, so I gave her French roast with champagne highlights. She said it was magnifique.’
Dad kisses Mum on the cheek. ‘You are magnifique.’
She laughs and pushes him away. ‘How was your first day, Piper?’
‘Really good,’ I answer. ‘My teachers were all nice. The library is huge. I already borrowed a few books.’ It’s the same things I told Dad on the way home.
‘What about the students?’
‘They seem nice,’ I say.
‘That’s good,’ says Mum. ‘Did you speak to anyone?’
I feel heat rise to my face. ‘Why do you always have to go straight to that question? Why can’t you ask what the canteen food is like or whether any of my teachers have handlebar moustaches?’
‘Handlebar moustaches? Do people still have those?’ asks Dad.
Mum pours herself a glass of water. ‘Don’t get so worked up, Piper. I’m only asking because Dr Hayes said she thinks you are almost . . . better. And I thought being at a new school might make it easier to change old habits.’
‘Well, it’s not and I’m not almost better,’ I say, practically shouting.
Dad looks me in the eyes. ‘Maybe you should start seeing another psychologist while Dr Hayes is away? Or you could try hypnotism. I read an article about it the other day.’
When I was finally diagnosed at the age of twelve, after years of going down wrong paths, Dad read everything he could about SM. He even believes that he had it for a year when he was twelve, after his parents split up and he moved to Canberra to live with his mum. But once he settled in, made friends and realised that his silence wouldn’t get his parents back together, he started speaking again. I really don’t think it’s the same thing. He was choosing not to speak because he thought that would achieve something. I’m not trying to achieve anything with my silence.
The Things I Didn't Say Page 2