I sigh. ‘No, it’s fine. I’m fine. Let’s not talk about me not talking, okay?’
Mum holds up her hands in submission. ‘Okay. I’m sorry, sweetie. Let’s enjoy dinner.’
‘Do any of your teachers have handlebar moustaches?’ asks Dad.
I laugh and shake my head, suddenly guilty for my outburst. I’ve put my parents through enough shouting and tantrums over the past few years. The problem when you don’t speak all day at school is that when you get home all the anger, frustration and tension explodes out of you. Anyone standing too close is hit by the flames. My parents should have third-degree burns by now. My eyes prick with tears.
‘Do you think I should grow a moustache?’ says Dad.
‘No one says moustache any more,’ says Tilly, rolling her eyes.
‘What do they call it?’
‘A mo.’
‘Can I grow a mo?’ says Evie.
‘If you get a black marker, I can draw one on you,’ offers Jackson.
‘No one is drawing on anyone,’ says Mum.
Dad rubs his freshly shaven face. ‘I had a beard when I was at uni.’
‘Don’t even think about it,’ says Mum.
Tilly screws up her face. ‘I’m never going to kiss a guy with a beard.’
‘You’re never going to kiss any guy,’ snickers Jackson.
‘Agreed,’ says Dad.
Tilly folds her arms. ‘I will when I’m in high school.’
‘I’ve kissed a boy,’ says Evie.
‘Dad doesn’t count,’ says Jackson.
‘Yes, it does.’
‘No, it doesn’t.’
Sometimes it’s hard to get a word in with my family. It goes on like that for the rest of dinner. After that, we have Family Fun Night. It’s incredibly lame. We take turns each week choosing a different board game. It’s my turn to choose, so I pick Dad’s favourite, Settlers of Catan. Because it’s only a four-player game and there are six of us, we play in teams. I partner with Evie, which probably isn’t a good idea. She doesn’t want to sell our sheep for wood because they are too cute so we are stuck with no wood and a flock of sheep. If anyone walked in the door at this moment, they would see a seventeen-year-old girl who speaks and shouts and occasionally gets told to shut up.
My last period of the next day is modern history. There’s something comforting about ending the day with lessons about some other past than your own. When I eventually find the classroom, the teacher is already starting to quieten down the class. ‘Good morning,’ he says cheerfully when I walk in.
I feel like every eye in the class is on me. Do I hand the teacher my ID card so he knows who I am or quickly sit down? I step forwards and hold it out to him, since it’s already in my hand. A few seconds pass before he takes it and looks at it. ‘Okay, Piper, thanks for that,’ he says, handing it back with a smile. ‘You can sit down. We’re about to get started.’
All the tables at the back are full so I have to settle for a place in the front row next to a boy who has his head buried in a manga book. He doesn’t even look up as I sit so I figure that I don’t need to unpack all my unnecessary stationery.
‘Listen up,’ the teacher announces. He writes his name – Mr Hill – on the board and explains that our usual teacher is unwell today and he will be teaching us instead. I feel my insides twist. Casual teachers are my worst nightmare. They never get told about me. What type of teacher is sick on the second day of the year?
‘James Baldwin once said, “People are trapped in history and history is trapped in them”.’ Mr Hill writes out the quote on the board and turns back to the class. ‘What do you think he meant by this?’
No one raises their hand. Mr Hill waits another minute. His eyes roam the classroom until they settle on me. ‘Piper,’ he says excitedly. ‘Can you tell me what you think this quote means?’
I look around. He can’t be referring to me, can he? He’s looking at me. He nods, encouragingly. My heart beats so fast it feels like one continuous noise. I shake my head.
‘There’s no wrong answers,’ says Mr Hill.
I don’t know why teachers always say this. What they should say is that there are lots of right answers, but there certainly are some wrong answers too. If I said that Baldwin meant that donkeys make great cooks, I would be dead wrong. Teachers expect certain answers, just like they expect that everyone can speak.
Mr Hill takes a step towards my table. ‘Have a go,’ he says. He’s trying to sound friendly, but there is a hint of annoyance creeping into his voice.
Ask someone else, I plead with my eyes. My throat feels blocked. I can barely breathe, let alone speak.
‘Do you think it’s funny to ignore me when I’m speaking to you?’
Someone at the back giggles. My eyes sting with tears. I look down and blink them away. A few other people start to laugh.
I can’t stay here any longer.
Even though my legs feel like rubber, I manage to stand up and grab my things off the table. I run – yes, run – past Mr Hill and out of the classroom.
‘Piper?’ he calls after me from the doorway, but I’m halfway down the hall. I keep running, unaware of where I’m going until the books I’m holding slip out of my arms and hit the floor. I stop, slightly out of breath and drop to my hands and knees to gather them.
‘Are you okay?’ I look up. It’s West, the boy from my German class. He bends down and picks up my maths textbook near his foot. I stand up, brush the tears off my cheek with the back of my hand, and nod.
West takes a step closer. ‘No, you’re not. What happened?’
I laugh dryly. God, I wish I had the words ‘Selective Mutism’ tattooed on my forehead. It would solve so many problems. West will know soon enough, I guess. It won’t take long for word to spread about the strange girl who refused to speak to the casual teacher and then ran out of the room, crying. A lump forms in my throat. I knew I’d get found out eventually, but I was hoping I had a bit more time before everyone labelled me as the girl who doesn’t speak.
‘Have you ever had a cronut?’
I look up, a bit startled by this question, but shake my head in response. I don’t even know what a cronut is. It sounds like something to do with car tyres.
‘Well, it’s time you tried one. I’m on a study period.’
This is not part of the plan.
I was supposed to be avoiding West. But then, Mr Hill wasn’t part of the plan either. What else am I going to do until it’s time to catch the bus home? I’m less likely to be questioned about being out of class if I’m with the school captain. And maybe a cronut, whatever it is, will help me forget what just happened.
The hallways are quiet, except for the noises coming from the classrooms as we pass. I find myself nervously looking around, still worried that I might get caught. We step outside and cross the quad. There’s no one else around. I’m guessing the other seniors who are on study periods are in the library. Even in this quiet open space, away from Mr Hill, my hands are still shaking. Damn fight-or-flight response. Damn Mr Hill. I know it’s not all his fault. I should have reacted better. I should’ve tried to explain myself with a note or something. Or at least made myself stay and hold my ground.
Dr Hayes likes to explain things in graphs. There was one graph that shows the bell curve of anxiety levels in stressful situations. The basic idea of the graph is to show that anxiety peaks at the point where the person is most uncomfortable and then drops. Take someone who is afraid of heights. Just looking at a balcony might make them a little anxious. If they step out onto one, their anxiety rises. The longer they stay out there, the higher their anxiety will go. But if they manage to stay on the balcony long enough, their anxiety will eventually peak then start to drop when they get used to the situation and realise they’re actually okay. The hard part is to get to the peak and not give in to the flight response, such as running off. The thing with balconies is that they’re not standing there in your face, demanding something of you
, unlike teachers.
We reach the canteen, but the roller door is shut. Of course it’s closed; it’s almost the end of the day. West walks around the side of the building and knocks on a flyscreen door. I hear movement inside, then a woman appears and opens the door. ‘Hi, Mrs Smith,’ says West. ‘You’re looking very lovely today.’
She smiles at him. ‘Hi, Mr Kennedy,’ she says.
‘This is my friend, Piper. She’s new.’
I wave awkwardly.
‘Can I, by any chance, grab two cronuts?’ asks West.
Mrs Smith shakes her head. ‘Sorry, young man. The canteen is closed for the day.’
‘Just two cronuts? I see them on a table behind you. Just this once. Please?’ West flashes her a smile, but it doesn’t work.
‘If I change the rules for you, I’d have to change them for everyone.’
‘But remember that time I saved your life?’
‘No.’
‘You don’t remember?’ West shakes his head, as if disappointed. ‘It was last year. You were carrying a crate of bread rolls from the car park and saw a bee flying around your head. I ran over and swatted it away before it could sting you. You could be allergic to bees without knowing it. So I kind of saved your life.’
Mrs Smith laughs. ‘Okay, but only because you remind me of my grandson. Such a shame he lives in America now. I don’t get to see him much any more.’
‘I’m sure he misses you. I don’t see my grandparents either.’ Something catches in West’s voice and he gives her a sad smile.
Mrs Smith disappears into the canteen and comes back a minute later, holding two white paper bags. West reaches into his pocket. ‘Don’t worry,’ she says. ‘Fix me up with the money tomorrow. I’ve already put all the cash in the safe.’
‘Okay, no worries, Mrs Smith. Thanks heaps for the cronuts.’
‘She’s awesome,’ says West as we walk away. ‘She’s been the canteen lady since I was in kindy.’
I follow him over to a table under a large tree and we sit down. ‘Here you go.’ He hands me one of the paper bags. ‘A cronut. It’s a cross between a croissant and a doughnut.’
It looks like an ordinary doughnut on performance-enhancing drugs. I lift it to my lips and take a bite. I moan. It’s sweet and buttery, flaky and doughy all at the same time. This is the ultimate comfort food. I’ve almost completely forgotten about Mr Hill and the philosophies of James Baldwin.
West laughs when I moan again. ‘I wasn’t lying when I said they were good. So what’s your story? What school did you come from?’
I’m still chewing when I take a pen out of my pocket and pull the cronut’s paper bag towards me. To West, it must look like I’m so wrapped up in the trans-fatty goodness that I’m unable to muster a verbal answer.
Springwood High, I write and slide the paper bag to him.
West reads my answer and picks up the pen. He doesn’t say anything; he just writes. Grinning, he slides the paper back to me. That’s how the note writing begins.
‘Here you are,’ says a voice. I look up. It’s one of the Royals, Indiana, I think. Her hair is twisted into a loose bun at the top of her head. ‘I thought we were meeting in the library,’ she says to West.
‘Sorry, Indie. I forgot,’ he says. ‘I was helping Piper with something.’
She leans down and kisses him on the cheek. ‘You’re forgiven.’
West looks at me uncomfortably.
‘I’m on my way there now, if you want to come with me,’ says Indiana. ‘You did promise to help me with my maths homework.’
West looks at Indiana then at me. Why does he need my permission to leave with the popular girl who actually speaks?
The paper bag is still in front of me. I pick up the pen and write two little letters. It’s better that he goes with her. For a while there, I forgot that West is the type of guy I shouldn’t be spending time around, even if he’s only been nice to me so far. I push the paper towards him. West reads it and stands up. ‘Will you be okay?’
I nod and hold up the remainder of my cronut.
They are halfway across the quad when West stops and jogs back. ‘Forgot my pen,’ he calls over his shoulder to Indiana. When he gets to the table, he picks up the pen without saying a word. He pulls the bag towards him and turns it over. Sorry, he writes in the middle. He looks at me for a long moment and then leaves with my pen.
I wake up at four o’clock and can’t get back to sleep. All I can think about is Mr Hill and how much I don’t want to go to school today. What if people are talking about the incident? What if I run into Mr Hill? But what can I do, except maybe stay home and build a fort to hide in?
I take out my phone and open my contacts. I have Dr Hayes’s mobile number, in case of emergencies. It would be daytime in the UK, I’m guessing. This is an emergency, right? I know the answer already. I have to deal with this myself, or at least without an international text message to my psychologist. Maybe I could go to school in disguise. Mum has a cropped brown wig around the house somewhere. It could be fun. Though I’m sure a wig would count as a uniform violation at St Mark’s.
Maybe someone else has a better idea. I open Facebook and click on a group that I’m a part of for people with Selective Mutism. It’s an online support group, a way for people to share experiences and ask for advice. There’s at least two hundred members of the group, mostly my age or a bit younger. I’m a lurker on the page. I read everyone’s posts but hardly ever comment or write my own posts. I’ve been tempted a few times, especially with everything that happened that night, but I just wrote in my journal instead.
I read through the latest posts, hoping to find something that might help me figure out what to do. Instead I get caught up reading about someone’s frustrations at being asked the same question all the time: why don’t you speak? I know how annoying this can be. It’s either that question or the more annoying variation: what happened to you? People seem to think there has to be a reason you don’t speak. You must have been traumatised, abused, raped or witnessed something horrific. Sometimes that’s true, but most of the time it’s not.
A lot of it has to do with the brain and a genetic disposition to anxiety. There’s an almond-shaped area of the brain called the amygdala, which I can never pronounce right. People with Selective Mutism have a ‘decreased threshold of excitability’ in this area. That basically means their almond gets worked up more easily than most people, like those annoying car alarms that go off when a leaf falls on the car. The almond’s job is to detect potential danger in fearful situations and set off a series of reactions that will help the person protect themself. So, say, if you come across a snake or are followed home by someone, your heart will start to race, your brain will tell you to run, and you’ll start to sweat and shake.
My almond is set off by normal things, like snakes and threatening strangers, but it also goes crazy in any situation that involves speaking. I know it’s irrational to be afraid of speaking, but I can’t help it. The whole idea of the cognitive behaviour therapy I’ve been doing with Dr Hayes is to change unhealthy thinking habits, feelings and behaviours. The problem is that I’ve been afraid for so long, it’s like trying to change the way I breathe.
I hate my almond.
I scroll down the page and stop at a post from a new member introducing herself. She’s thirteen and lives in Canada. She writes poetry and isn’t quite sure if she has Selective Mutism. She saw a TV program on SM and felt like it was about her, only she’s afraid to tell her parents. They think she’s just shy.
That’s the problem with SM, it can go undiagnosed for so long. I was always shy and quiet. When I started kindergarten, I began speaking less and less at school until I wasn’t speaking at all. At first, when my teachers brought it to my parents’ attention, they said I was just shy and I would grow out of it. When I didn’t grow out of it, everyone thought I was being stubborn and I’d soon get tired of it.
It wasn’t until I was twelve that my first p
sychologist, Dr Rankmore, finally diagnosed me with Selective Mutism. I can’t help wondering if I would still have this disorder at seventeen if I’d been diagnosed years earlier. I don’t blame my parents. Selective Mutism isn’t common. They’d never even heard about it before. I didn’t help the situation either. Every year I would say to my parents: I’ll talk when I’m eight. I’ll talk when I’m nine. I’ll talk in Germany. I’ll talk when we get back to Australia. I was making promises that I couldn’t keep, as if speaking was something I was choosing not to do.
It also didn’t help that my first two psychologists had no experience with treating Selective Mutism. I was their first-ever patient with SM. I only communicated with Dr Rankmore using notes. With Dr Bashir, I spoke a little, eventually. I spent far too long with both of them before realising that I was making no progress. Then we found Dr Hayes.
It turns out that a lot of people with SM take years to find the right psychologist. At least, that’s the conclusion I’ve come to from reading the personal stories on the Facebook page.
I’m still no closer to deciding what to do about school today so I do something I’ve never done before, I click on the Post button. I write about yesterday’s incident in history with Mr Hill. I finish the post with a question:
I tap the keyboard and watch the page for a few minutes, waiting for responses to start rolling, but then I remember the saying my grandma uses, that a watched pot never boils, so I toss my phone aside and flop onto my bed. The fort option is sounding better each minute. Maybe I could also fit in some episodes of Pretty Little Liars.
The Things I Didn't Say Page 3