Muffled

by Jennifer Gennari

  Suddenly two ninjas charge by, knocking me into a tree. “Ow!” I cry out.

  “Are you okay?” Mom asks, steadying me. “Oh no, your strap broke.”

  I blink, pushing away tears. “I want to go home.” My costume is ruined. Halloween is ruined.

  “Hey, Charlie!”

  I turn. It’s Madge in a tuxedo and quiet shoes, red mittens stuffed into her pockets and bare hands carrying her trombone. I am surprised to see her alone, with just her grandmother. Mom introduces herself to Oma, who is bundled in a heavy coat.

  Madge bends down and picks up something. It’s one of the waving-people photos from the back of my costume. “Here. This fell off.”

  “It doesn’t matter. My costume is wrecked,” I say.

  “What happened?” Oma inspects my broken strap. She pulls tape and a giant safety pin out of her pocket, and in fifteen seconds, my costume is fixed.

  “Oma’s always prepared!” Madge says with a grin. “Okay, where do you want to go?”

  I glance at Mom, who nods encouragingly. Maybe I should give Halloween another chance, this time with Madge. It’s almost like she and I planned to meet up all along. The thought makes me smile. I say, “I just did Jax’s building.”

  “Well, let’s go to your building, then!” she says.

  We cross the street and head inside. Mom and Oma, Madge’s trombone, and my wide poster boards don’t fit into the elevator.

  Mom laughs and turns to Oma. “Let’s let the girls go first. Would you like to come over for a cup of coffee?”

  Oma agrees, and Madge and I promise to stay together and meet them back at our apartment.

  We take the elevator to the top. As we rise, I wonder why Madge isn’t trick-or-treating with someone from school. “Why are you out with your grandmother?”

  “Oma worries I’ll bring home too much candy,” Madge says. “She shouldn’t! Tomorrow is All Saints’ Day, and Oma will make strudel that is even better than candy. It’s a tradition.”

  “My mom wanted to spend time with me.”

  “And we’ve escaped,” Madge says with a laugh.

  We make a plan. I will knock and say “trick or treat” like a song, and Madge will play it on the trombone—A, A, F—quietly, she says, with a glance at my muffs. And it works. It’s not too loud. It’s just right.

  We go from door to door on the top floor and work our way back down. Everyone says our voice-and-trombone trick or treat sounds great. Soon it feels like the best Halloween ever.

  When we reach Deb’s, her mom answers.

  “Who have we here?” She hands us two pieces of candy each.

  “I’m a famous trombonist,” Madge says, and blows a note.

  “I’m a CharlieCard,” I say. Isn’t it obvious, I want to add.

  “How clever,” Sue says in that way grown-ups do when they really mean the opposite.

  I’m glad Deb isn’t here.

  “I should have done a simpler costume,” I say after Sue closes the door. I could have dressed up as Melba. Then I wouldn’t be walking stiffly around corners.

  “No way!” Madge says. “You could never be boring!”

  “You’re a great musician,” I say. “You look—and sound—like a real one.”

  At last we get to my door. Madge and I do our trick or treat duet, singing and tooting in tune.

  The door opens. “I thought I heard a trombone!” Dad plops candy into both of our bags.

  “Dad, this is Madge,” I say.

  “Hello! We’ve been getting to know your grandmother.” He opens the door wide, and we both go in. Oma and Mom are sitting at the table, holding on to mugs, talking in low voices. Dad brings us two cups of hot chocolate.

  Madge looks around. “Is it okay to talk?” she whispers.

  I slide my earmuffs down. “What?”

  “I always thought your house would be like a museum,” she explains.

  “It is quiet, but not silent,” I say. “Talking is allowed.”

  Madge takes a sip. She is studying my head for so long, I wonder if something is wrong. I ask, “What are you thinking?”

  “Your ears are small and pretty,” she says. “And they aren’t purple!”

  Everyone laughs, and so do I. I’ve been wearing my earmuffs so much, it’s like they are a part of me.

  “I mean, I know your ears aren’t purple.” Madge blushes. “But it’s nice to see them.”

  For the next half hour, Madge and I dump out our candy and swap, lollipops for chocolate bars, peanut butter cups for packs of gum. It’s so much easier to talk to her when there aren’t any crashing sounds.

  When it’s time for them to go, I walk Madge and her grandmother to the elevator. “Thanks for trick-or-treating with me,” I say to Madge.

  “It was fun.” Madge pushes the button and adds, “I really liked your costume. It’s different in the best way.”

  A warm feeling fills me that has nothing to do with hot chocolate. “See you Monday,” I say, at exactly the same moment Madge says it.

  “Jinx,” she says.

  CHAPTER 13

  I walk into room twelve and take a deep breath. Today I will go all day unmuffled.

  I thought about my “purple” ears all weekend. At home, without earmuffs, my hair felt light on my head. I liked the sound of “A Song of Peace” when I practiced it. My ears didn’t get hot when I did my homework. By Sunday night, I decided I’d make today a no earmuffs day. I wouldn’t do it for Mom. Or Dad. Or Mr. Skerritt. I’d do it for me—to hear trombone notes. To catch what Jax tosses my way. To be open to Madge’s compliments.

  I slide my earmuffs off, zip them into my backpack, and remember Melba and Raymie and being brave.

  I sit at my desk and wait for the first bell. I have a plan. When it rings, I hold my book over my head like a tent, with the pages over my ears.

  “Hi,” I say to Madge when she plops into her chair next to mine. I slide the book off and put it on my desk.

  Madge looks at my head. “Did you forget your earmuffs?”

  “Yeah, where are your earmuffs?” Deb-and-Kiki ask at the same time.

  Before I need to answer, Mr. Fabian swoops in. “Find a book to read,” he says to the class, and I send him a grateful glance.

  It still is un-silent reading, though. I try to concentrate. My head feels extra light. I rearrange my hair over my ears. I look at the words in my book, but I can’t stop hearing pages turning, feet moving, noses sniffling.

  I glance at my backpack in the cubby. The urge to get my earmuffs is like a mosquito bite I want to itch. Instead I cross my legs. I finger my pretty ears. I want people to notice me, not purple fluff.

  Math is next. We work on multiplying and adding long expressions.

  “Here’s my long expression,” Jax says, and pulls his chin down and his eyebrows up. Everyone laughs. I have to admit, he’s pretty funny.

  Mr. Fabian gets us back on track. For a while Dad’s counting concentration trick works. There are twenty- one chairs with four legs each, which equals—

  “Amelia?”

  “Eighty-four!” I say.

  Mr. Fabian is puzzled. “Try again. What is two hundred divided by four?”

  “It’s fifty,” Deb says. Noah gives her a high five.

  The slapping sound makes me flinch. I was concentrating. Just on the wrong thing. I hide my face, retracing each letter of my name on the top of my page until the letters are dark.

  “It’s okay,” Madge says, smiling at me. “You’ll get it right next time.”

  I nod, but I know I never would have made that mistake if I’d had my earmuffs on.

  When the bell sounds after social studies, I scrunch my shoulders up and press one ear into my shirt. Everyone breaks into conversation, sneakers squeaking into the hall. My ears feel bruised.

  * * *

  Music is a little better, and Ms. Parker smiles when she sees that my earmuffs are off. I play the right notes. Our trombone sounds are in sync, and after we make
it all the way through “A Song of Peace,” I relax into the silence that follows the last note.

  Madge catches my eye. “Perfect,” she says.

  I’m glad my earmuffs are off so I can hear her.

  And then the quiet is ruined by blatting, spitting, and cases snapping shut. My shoulders rise to my ears, since my hands are busy packing up as quickly as I can. I don’t even realize I am holding my breath until I exhale in the hall. I lean against the wall and remember how easy school was with noise-canceling headphones and earmuffs. But then I wouldn’t hear Jax’s jokes or Madge’s laugh.

  * * *

  In the cafeteria, Madge motions me over, and I decide to join her crowded table. Nothing terrible happens—no spills, no surprise loud noises—yet I still count in my head how many times I chew before my sandwich is gone. Eighteen.

  “Ha ha! Dog ate my lunch!” Noah holds up a cartoon his mom put into his lunch. I don’t look, because everyone presses in too close and I have to lean away. Jax and Madge burst out laughing. I quick-cover my ears.

  When there is a break in the conversation, I think of something I can share, like Noah, and slip out my CharlieCard. “With this, I can go anywhere,” I say.

  “Your Halloween costume!” Madge says.

  “Where did you get it?” Jax leans close, and Noah looks over too. I shift away again so there’s more space.

  “My parents gave it to me,” I say. “I’m allowed to take the T alone.”

  “I’d go to a Red Sox game,” Jax says.

  “I go to the library,” I say. “Last time I met—”

  “You’re lucky,” Madge interrupts. “Oma won’t let me go anywhere.”

  “What’s the big deal?” Noah says. “Let’s play tag.”

  There is a swell of voices, feet thumping, trays stacking, and trash tumbling as everyone heads outside to run around. I sit with my eyes closed, hands on my ears, until the cafeteria is empty.

  Outside, I head straight for my tube tunnel, my footsteps on the ladder a prelude to peace and quiet. Just five minutes, I think. That’s all I need to recharge by myself in my cocoon.

  At the top I stop. Ryan, José, and Tyler are inside. They look at me like I’m intruding. But they are the ones crammed in where they shouldn’t be.

  “What are you doing in my space?” I say.

  “You don’t own it,” Tyler says. “And you weren’t here.” They keep talking, without moving, without seeing me anymore even though I am still gripping the tunnel opening.

  Without my earmuffs, their voices are amplified. I slowly back down the ladder.

  I look around the playground, wondering where to go. It’s too cold to climb my pine tree, and last time that was a disaster. No hiding, Amelia. I give myself a pep talk. You can do this.

  Madge is talking to Jayden and Cassie. Slowly I move closer until I am standing outside their circle. They are talking about homework and practicing and TV shows and boots. I try to think what I could say that makes sense in the conversation. I end up deciding against mentioning how many beats (four) are in each measure of “Jingle Bell Boogie,” or the types of birds Dad identified (pigeon, chickadee, finch) the other day.

  The bell rings. I cover my ears and trudge back inside.

  * * *

  As soon as we are all in our seats, Mr. Fabian begins talking about the Constitutional Convention in Philadelphia. Without my earmuffs, it’s impossible not to be distracted by Madge’s shoelace chimes jangling every time she moves her feet. Noah is drumming on his textbook pages, rapping like he’s Alexander Hamilton. I overhear Deb-and-Kiki whispering about Deb’s birthday party.

  Everything is too much—the noise and the battle to concentrate make my brain hurt. I rest my head on my hands, eyes closed.

  “Stop it!” Noah shouts.

  I hear shoving, a scuffle. I cover my whole head with my arms.

  A textbook slams shut with a loud bang.

  I scream. Which makes Cassie and Lina scream. Mr. Fabian yells “Settle down,” but everyone is shouting at Noah. At Ryan. At me.

  I slap my hands to my ears. I jump out of my chair, pull open the classroom door. I have to get out now.

  I run, my sneakers slapping in the hall. My breathing is too loud. I stop and slide down against the wall. Where am I going? I can’t run away from school. I press my hands on my eyes. Tears leak out. I wipe them away. I don’t want to cry.

  The door to room twelve opens and I hear Mr. Fabian say, “Everybody read for a moment.”

  And then he’s there, by my side. “Are you okay?” He shakes his head. “Silly question.”

  He hands me a note and a hall pass. “Why don’t you visit Mr. Skerritt for the rest of today?”

  I look up at him. “Am I in trouble?”

  “Absolutely not. I bet he’d like to hear about the hard thing you’re doing today.”

  As I walk to the counselor’s office, I’m all jumbled. I don’t want to go, but I can’t spend one more minute in class without earmuffs.

  I knock on the door and open it slowly.

  “Amelia!” Mr. Skerritt says. “What a nice surprise. Have a seat.” His breath rattles in and out as he reads Mr. Fabian’s note.

  I sit in the chair. I wish I had asked for my earmuffs before I left.

  “Mr. Fabian says you needed a break,” Mr. Skerritt says.

  I nod. “My earmuffs are in my backpack.”

  “Why?”

  I glare at him. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”

  “I want to know why you decided to not wear them.”

  All my reasons seem not important anymore. “It doesn’t matter. It was a mistake.”

  Mr. Skerritt pulls out a page from my folder. “The other day, Mr. Fabian told me that you’re participating in class, even though you are wearing the earmuffs most days.”

  I don’t answer. In the quiet of his office my ears begin to calm down.

  “And Ms. Parker says you are playing trombone. That’s wonderful,” he says.

  For the first time I notice that Mr. Skerritt’s eyes are kind.

  He nestles the page back into the folder and closes it. “Was there a particular noise today that made you walk out of class?”

  “All of it!” I burst out in frustration. What doesn’t he understand?

  He leans back in his chair. “I like the sound of trombones,” he says at last. “Do you?”

  He wheezes, waiting for me to speak.

  When I don’t answer, he slides a piece of paper over. “Can you write down the sounds you like? Good sounds?”

  “Not bad ones?” That list would be easy.

  “Good ones,” he says firmly.

  I concentrate and, like a librarian, sort sounds like they’re books on shelves. That makes me think of the Boston Public library. And I remember the first note I played. I write down two good sounds:

  1. Walking on pink marble

  2. Playing trombone by myself

  Then I think a little more, and write down:

  3. Madge’s laugh

  Mr. Skerritt leans over. “That’s a nice list.”

  “Now can I make a list of bad sounds?” I ask.

  “Well, as long as it doesn’t include everything.” Mr. Skerritt takes another wheezy breath. “How about writing down only the worst ones. The really annoying sounds.”

  I look around the room. The poster on the wall reminds me that mistakes mean I am trying. And I am trying. I think of all the noises in Mr. Fabian’s room, which are mostly manageable sounds. Ms. Parker, too, understands when sounds are sweet or wrong. She makes sure we’re in tune. I think some more and write three of the worst sounds:

  1. When people hammer on my tunnel

  2. When Noah honks his trumpet

  3. When Deb-and-Kiki tease

  “Hmmm,” Mr. Skerritt says. “That’s an important list. May I keep it?”

  I nod. His breathing rasps as he adds it to my folder. I try not to look at the hairs in his ears. The clock ticks. Soon it wi
ll be time for art in room twelve. Maybe I can handle that without earmuffs. “Can I go?”

  Mr. Skerritt hands me a note to take back to Mr. Fabian. “I’m proud that you tried going without earmuffs today, Amelia. Even if it was hard.”

  “Thanks,” I mumble. “I didn’t make it through the whole day, though.”

  “That’s okay.” His ears rise as he smiles. “A whole day is a lot for your first time. You will learn when you need them and when you don’t.”

  I’m out the door. Writing down sounds doesn’t really make them bearable. I know the one thing that will, and I can’t wait to put them back on.

  I peek into Mr. Fabian’s room. Everyone is quietly working. I slip in, open my backpack, and take out my earmuffs. I slide them on, and the relief makes me exhale as I sit at my desk.

  “Welcome back,” Mr. Fabian says quietly to me. “We’re making self-portrait collages.”

  I start cutting out shapes for my head, body, and legs. The sound of chatting, scissors snipping, and glue squirting is back to a five-out-of-ten range.

  Noah slides a piece of paper over. “Here’s purple,” he says.

  I look at him, puzzled. And then I get it. Purple for my earmuffs. My face warms, but I don’t care.

  “Noah!” Madge scolds.

  “It’s a joke!” he says.

  “It’s okay,” I say, taking the paper. I cut out purple muffs for my collage. It’s like Mr. Skerritt said: I can decide. And right now, even my self-portrait wears earmuffs.

  Madge gives me a funny glance, but I don’t say anything.

  At the end of the day, I stand on the school steps. The outside noises of cars pulling up and people yelling “See you tomorrow!” surround me, but I am buffered by earmuffs, an island on the steps. The day has been so horrible, and for what? People still only see purple fluff, not me.

  All the way home, I walk two blocks behind Jax and Deb. Even though Mr. Skerritt didn’t want me to, I add more to the list of sounds I hate—un-silent reading, trash cans knocked over, flute show-offs.

  * * *

  All through setting the table and making dinner, I’m extra quiet.