Muffled

by Jennifer Gennari

  When we sit down to eat, Mom notices. “Everything all right?”

  I mash potatoes with my fork. “I’m not hungry.”

  “How was school?” Mom asks.

  “Is trombone still better than flute?” Dad asks. “Better than choir?”

  I know Dad is trying to point out the bright side, but I glower. “Today was a disaster.”

  “What do you mean?” Dad asks.

  “I did what you said.” I glare at Mom, then Dad. I swallow hard, as if all the noises I heard today are going to explode out of me. “I lasted almost all day without earmuffs, even though silent reading was loud, lunch was awful, and recess was worse. It didn’t work.”

  “Oh, Amelia Mouse—” Dad says, at the same time Mom asks, “What happened?”

  “Nothing happened!” I shout. “Except Noah slammed shut his textbook and then I screamed and then everyone went crazy and then I was sent to Mr. Skerritt.”

  Mom and Dad look at each other.

  “Was it good to talk to Mr. Skerritt?” Mom asks.

  “That’s not the point!” I push my chair back and stand. “Everything was too crashing and distracting! I had to put my earmuffs back on! And the holiday concert is coming soon, and I don’t know if I can survive all the fifth graders playing instruments at once!”

  I pick up my earmuffs and smash them over my head, hard. “Mom, you can’t force me to stop wearing them. And I’ll wash them when I’m ready.”

  I run to my room and slam my door. For the First. Time. Ever.

  CHAPTER 14

  When I come out of my room the next morning, both Mom and Dad are sitting on the sofa, waiting for me. Losing my temper equals I’m in trouble. I touch my head instinctively, wishing I had my earmuffs on like an invisibility cloak.

  “Sit down.” Dad pats the seat next to him.

  I squish between them. “I’m sorry I slammed my door,” I blurt.

  “Thank you for saying that,” Dad says.

  “We understand why you were upset.” Mom leans in to give me a hug. “What you did yesterday was brave. You tried going without earmuffs!”

  “It didn’t work.” I cross my arms. “I was counting and concentrating so much that I couldn’t pay attention to the right things. I gave the wrong answer in math class.”

  “That must have been hard,” Dad says. “It’s okay to make mistakes sometimes. Everyone does.”

  “We’re proud of you.” Mom is smiling. “And we’d like to do something fun together, next weekend, as a family.”

  I can’t believe I’m not in trouble. Still, what I really want to do is read all day and not go to school.

  “You still have to go to school today,” Dad says, as if he is reading my mind. “Where do you want to go on Saturday? Your choice.”

  I immediately think of the Boston Public Library and its comfy chairs. But that’s not the right place. “Can I wear my earmuffs?” I ask.

  “You decide,” Mom says.

  I look outside. Mr. Skerritt said it was okay to experiment. Maybe I can practice going un-muffed with Mom and Dad first, somewhere in between quiet and loud, where noises can float away. “Let’s go to Boston Common.”

  “It’s a date,” Dad says.

  * * *

  On Saturday, we walk together to the station. Dad has his binoculars around his neck. I wear my earmuffs on the T. When the track squeals intensify, Dad leans over and says, “How many seats in this car?”

  Eight double seats on each side makes sixteen on the left, sixteen on the right. Sixteen times two is thirty-two. I count twenty single seats. “Twenty plus thirty-two is fifty-two seats,” I say.

  Mom joins in our game. “Of the fifty-two passengers, how many are wearing hats?” she asks.

  I count in my head, turning around, even though people give me funny looks. “Twenty-four,” I whisper. I know what she’s going to ask next. “Fifty-two minus twenty-four is twenty-eight not wearing hats.”

  “That’s my math whiz,” Mom says, and gives me a squeeze. “And one girl wearing earmuffs.”

  I smile. “Twenty-seven, then.”

  One stop after Copley, we get off at Arlington Station and take the stairs up. I count those, too, until we are out and across the street and in the park.

  “Where to?” Dad says.

  I slide my muffs down, because it’s my choice. And listen. Birds are singing in trees, and people are catching Frisbees, riding bikes, and playing guitars on blankets, even though it’s November and chilly.

  Mom is silent, but it’s a happy quiet. It’s like being outside blows away whatever she worries about.

  “Let’s go over to the duckling statues,” I say. I know she will like that; we used to read Make Way for Ducklings together. We take a photo of me every year, graduating from one duck to the next, beginning with when Dad balanced me on Quack, the littlest of the eight ducklings. Last year, when I was nine, I sat on Mrs. Mallard.

  As usual, there are tons of kids around the statues. We have to wait our turn. Dad has wandered off under the trees, his binoculars pointed up. Mom holds her phone at the ready. I worry about which duck to sit on, who’s next, and all the voices trying to get babies to smile at cameras.

  BAM!

  My hands clap onto my ears, elbows out, and I plow my head into Mom’s stomach, as if I’m five again.

  “Just a truck backfiring,” Mom murmurs, her hands gentle on my hair. I lean into her, push my earmuffs on, and feel safe.

  “Poor thing,” I hear a woman say loudly. “Is your daughter getting treatment for her autism? I’ve heard they can learn how to be normal, with some help.”

  I snap my head up. The woman is standing next to mom, talking about me. Even though she doesn’t know me at all. My reaction to a loud sound is normal. I wish I could fly like a bird up into the trees, where Dad will find me and take me home.

  “She has a sound sensitivity,” Mom says with a bite to her voice. “And everyone is different.”

  The woman’s lips press into an unfriendly line, and I tug at Mom’s arm to leave, so they won’t get into an argument. Mom takes my hand in hers, firmly. When we’re far enough away from that nosy woman, Mom starts up again.

  “People make me crazy! Making assumptions about you and—”

  “It’s fine, Mom.” She shouldn’t be upset. I am the one who deals with people all the time. “I am different.”

  She hears the quiver in my voice and puts her arm around me. “People can be so thoughtless,” she says. “Are you okay?”

  I nod and hold on to her. The terribleness of a sudden sound and mean words makes it hard for me to speak. “I’m sorry I jumped—I’m trying to be better.”

  “Oh honey.” Mom stops and crouches down so we’re eye to eye. “You don’t need to apologize.”

  I blink to stop tears from falling, but a few escape and run down my cheeks. “But you said you’d be proud of me when I go a whole day without earmuffs, and I failed at school. And today, too…” A sob escapes, and now I’m really crying.

  “You didn’t fail. You tried! Amelia, that makes me so proud,” Mom says, pulling me into a crushing embrace. “I’m sorry if I made you think I was disappointed in you the other day.”

  I dry my eyes on my sleeve and give her a half smile. “Maybe we can go somewhere quiet? Like home?”

  “Of course.” She kisses my head.

  “Can I join in on that cozy hug?” Dad says, walking over.

  Mom rests her arm on his shoulder. “We’re done for today,” she says.

  “Already?” Dad is surprised. “Did something happen?”

  Mom and I look at each other. She lets me decide what to say, which makes me glad. “I’ve outgrown taking my photo with a duckling. That’s all,” I say.

  CHAPTER 15

  Step-thump, step-bump. Sidewalk line eighty. Sixteen more to get to school. It’s cold and my earmuffs are on, doing double duty. Keeping me warm and muffling sound. I’m not sure I will ever take them off again.
r />   Even this weekend wasn’t a break from mean people.

  Mr. Fabian hands back math quizzes. I notice that Madge has a zero on hers. For the first time, she is quiet. Her hands are over her ears.

  I’ve never seen her without words. Maybe I can give her some. Backward ones. I rip a little piece of paper and write, Htam sah skcirt. I slide it over quietly.

  She reads it and looks at me. “What tricks?”

  I think of my favorite, easiest one. “What is nine times six?” I ask.

  “Fifty-two?” Madge guesses.

  I shake my head. “Do you want me to show you?”

  She folds over her math quiz. “Anything would be better than this.”

  “It’s easy,” I say. “The two digits of every nine times table add together to equal nine. See? Fifty-four is five and four, and added they make nine.”

  Madge’s face is scrunched up. “I don’t get it.”

  “Nine times nine is eighty-one.” I write an eight and a one on the page. “Eight plus one equals nine.”

  “You’re lucky you’re good at math,” she says.

  “You are better at music. You hit all the notes right.”

  “True!” Madge watches while I write down nine times four equals thirty-six. “Three plus six is nine!” Her laugh, which is wonderful, is now number one on my list of good sounds.

  * * *

  At lunchtime, I stand next to Madge. I decide to try joining her table again, this time with my earmuffs on. “Can I eat with you guys today?”

  I am holding tight to my brown-bag lunch. I am holding my breath in too.

  “Sure,” Madge says.

  This time, adding myself in at the table feels as easy as one plus three. I sit between Madge and Jax. Noah sits opposite. Jax is telling a story about Mookie Betts and the Red Sox, but I also hear Madge’s shoe chimes jingling, Kiki’s voice across the room, and the doors swinging.

  My shoulders hunch, and I focus on my sandwich. I imagine the holiday show and the combined music rehearsal and everyone all together—it’ll be even louder than this. My ears sweat under my muffs.

  Madge pokes me.

  “What?” I look up. Deb-and-Kiki are standing next to our table.

  “Here’s an invitation to my birthday party next month,” Deb says, handing me an envelope.

  “Her mom made her invite everyone in our class,” Kiki adds, giving an invitation to Madge, too.

  “Where’s mine, then?” Jax asks.

  “Just girls,” Kiki says, as if that should be obvious.

  “Awww,” Noah says, but Deb-and-Kiki are gone.

  I shove the envelope into my lunch bag. I hate parties, especially the kind where you had to be invited.

  “At least we can go together,” Madge says, shrugging. “Let’s go outside.”

  On the playground, Madge runs to join a game of tag. The chill makes me shiver. It’s like opening our lobby door, the cold air prodding me to move.

  “I’m in too,” I call out. I run under the monkey bars, past the swings, by my tube tunnel. Without my old headphones I feel light, fast. Breathless, I lean against the familiar plastic.

  Tyler is it, and after a moment I realize that he isn’t chasing me. Without a second thought, I climb into the tube for a break. The cold, the curve, the quiet—I exhale. My breathing slows. Running is nice but so is sitting in the tube. Can I be someone who needs quiet and eats at Madge’s table and plays tag with everyone?

  * * *

  November has brought even colder weather, and now our cubbies are jammed with scarves, hats, and heavy coats. On the way to the full fifth-grade rehearsal, I count the cubbies. Eight, two rows high on both walls from Mr. Fabian’s to the music room. Eight and eight make sixteen. Sixteen times two walls is thirty-two cubbies.

  Ms. Parker’s music room is already crowded when I arrive. Everyone is putting together instruments and blowing through mouthpieces. I find a space where I can get my trombone ready.

  As I stand there, earmuffs on, Ms. Parker pulls me aside. “What do you think about trying no earmuffs? You did it once.”

  “Okay.” I bravely slide down my earmuffs, even though I want to say that day was terrible.

  “Good,” she says. “I’ll help. You’ll see.”

  I don’t know what she thinks she can do. Still, I sit down next to Madge and wait with my ears exposed.

  “Listen up,” Ms. Parker says to everyone. “There’s a lot of us here, and you’ll need to pay attention. Today we are going to talk about dynamics, when we vary the volume of sound. ‘Piano’ means ‘quiet.’ ‘Forte’ means ‘loud.’ ”

  She explains that “A Song of Peace” is piano at the beginning. I like piano. We blow like we are whispering through our mouthpieces, and the singers sing quietly too.

  Then Ms. Parker signals with her hands for us to get louder, and all the fifth graders on all the instruments play forte so loudly, my ears hurt.

  This is how it will be onstage during the holiday concert. I do the math. Twenty fifth graders in the other class plus twenty-one in Mr. Fabian’s equals forty-one. That is too many too close to play forte. I can’t play loud on purpose.

  “Once more, and not quite so loud,” Ms. Parker directs, looking quickly at me. I hope everyone listens to her.

  We play the piece again, piano to forte. It is quieter when we’re supposed to be. During the loud parts, my shoulders tense and I concentrate on my breath, counting the beats. After the last note is played, there is a quietness, when the sounds fade, a moment I want to stay in forever.

  Madge breaks the silence. “Ta-da! I can’t wait for the applause.”

  “Good job!” Ms. Parker is pleased. “Now each group will perform alone. No talking when you’re not playing. Be respectful and listen.”

  What if the clapping is too thunderous for my ears? I keep thinking about it as fourteen singers sing “Let It Snow,” raising their hands at the end like snowflakes. The flutes play their song, “Ode to Joy.” Then eleven trumpets do “The Dreidel Song.” My hands hover around my ears, in case it’s too much, but when everybody plays just right, the sound is nice. Then it’s our turn to play “Jingle Bell Boogie.”

  “Lift your bells—don’t point them down,” Ms. Parker reminds the trombone players once more.

  Next to me, Madge is tapping and blowing. Everyone’s eyes focus on her star performance. The subway girl didn’t mind when people watched. Madge is the same.

  My insides jump around when I imagine playing in front of a crowd.

  “You sound great,” I whisper to Madge. And her wide smile makes me feel a little less worried.

  At the end of the day, Mr. Fabian gives us a little extra homework to do over the Thanksgiving holiday. Ms. Parker makes us promise to keep practicing. It’s as if they think we’ll forget everything we have learned so far.

  Walking home alone, I hear music in my boots: step, step, and step-and-step. Each measure has four beats, four quarter notes equals one whole. We hold whole notes twice as long as halves. I count one, two, three-and four-and. I feel the rhythm in my walking, a regular pattern like subway station tile, like a pulse between my ears.

  Ms. Parker thinks I can do the concert without earmuffs, and I did okay today. But can I really play un-muffed in front of all the parents, brothers, sisters, and grandparents?

  CHAPTER 16

  Tonight we’re doing a just-our-family Thanksgiving. We’ve always done it that way, for as long as I can remember. I’m making a turkey handprint centerpiece for our table when Dad comes out of the kitchen.

  “Let’s go,” he says. “We need a few things from Scuto’s.”

  “Do I have to come?”

  “Yes,” he says. “Let’s give Mom a chance to blast some music while she’s making a pie.”

  I’ll do anything for pie. I put on my coat and reach for my earmuffs—and stop. Maybe I can make adjustments too, the way Mom does for us. “Maybe I’ll go without them,” I say.

  Dad smiles. “If
you want, we can do this, together.”

  I take a deep breath and nod, tucking my hand into my coat pocket.

  Walking to the store, we fall into a comfortable silence. We are listening. There’s a siren, a taxi horn, music from a window, and a bird chirping.

  Dad stops before he opens the door to Scuto’s. “Let’s split up so we can be done faster. I’ll get the spinach and the bread rolls,” he says. “Can you get the apples and cranberries?”

  “Okay,” I say, but my feet don’t budge. A worm of worry wiggles in my head. I thought I could shop without earmuffs, and now I’m not so sure.

  “You can do this.” Dad places a hand on my shoulder and opens the door with the other. We both take a deep breath as the noise hits us.

  He hands me a basket, pointing me toward the produce section. “Remember to focus on one thing at a time. Think of the fruit like birds—apples are pigeons, cranberries are chickadees.”

  I giggle. “Four pigeons or five?”

  “Four should be plenty. Red ones. And get two scoopfuls of those chickadees.”

  Dad heads off one way and I’m down the aisle looking for apples. I find the McIntosh bin. I pick up one, two, three, four and put them in my basket.

  What’s next? Someone is talking about how many lemons for roasting chicken—and I remember chickadees. Cranberries.

  I head over to the bulk area, get a bag. I find the cranberries. One, two scoops, and I knot the bag.

  I’m doing it!

  Someone steps right up to the bulk container next to me. I step back to create more space. I move my feet forward, counting my steps until I find Dad at the checkout registers.

  “How are you?” the cashier says, as the scanner beep, beep, beeps. I count one, two, three, four apples as she places them on the scale.

  “Wonderful,” Dad says. “We’re having a quiet Thanksgiving.”

  “Good for you,” she says. “Sometimes that’s the best kind.”

  It always is, I think.

  Outside, Dad and I exhale into the cool night air. He hands me one bag to carry. “That wasn’t too bad, was it?”