“Like when Noah was mean and banged on the tube?”
I nod. “The tube tunnel is where I go when I need to recharge with quiet time, like this, in quiet places.”
“Maybe you need hearing aids that work backward—making sound quieter instead of louder,” she says.
“Like when we write backward!” I say. I grow quiet. “If only it were that easy.”
“I don’t know many quiet places,” Madge admits.
Suddenly I get an idea. “I know a place that is really, really quiet.”
“Where?”
“The library! Let’s go tomorrow,” I say.
“If Oma lets me,” Madge says. She doesn’t sound sure.
But when Oma comes with Mom to pick up Madge, it’s all settled. We can go tomorrow, if Mom walks us to the station.
I can’t wait to introduce Madge to the quietest place I know.
CHAPTER 20
Ready?” I ask Mom. I have my mittens and coat on, and my empty backpack to fill with books. In case we see a certain subway musician, I pull a dollar from the bottom of my piggy bank.
“Where are your earmuffs?” Mom looks around our apartment.
“I’m not bringing them,” I say. A day dedicated to being quiet is a perfect day to practice going un-muffed, as Mr. Skerritt suggested.
Mom is surprised. “Are you sure?”
“I never need them in the library. You know that.”
“What about the subway?” she asks.
“I’ll plug my ears for that part,” I say.
“You are getting good at knowing what works for you, aren’t you?” She holds open the elevator door, and soon we’re outside, walking the few blocks to Madge’s.
“It’s nice you’ve become friends with Madge,” Mom says. “And I’m glad you went to Deb’s party. It wasn’t so bad, right?”
“That’s because Madge was there. She understands me,” I say. “She’s going to love the library.”
Madge’s grandmother invites us in. My head swells when Mom tells Oma I am capable, independent. Mom is reassuring, like a mama bird who knows we are ready to fly.
“I promise we’ll stick together,” I say. I stand a little taller to let Oma know she can trust us. “I want to show Madge how great quiet can be.”
“And the T,” says Madge.
Oma and Mom exchange looks. I don’t care. Madge will understand once we’re at the majestic Boston Public Library.
Mom walks us to the station, helps Madge buy a round-trip ticket, and waves good-bye once we’re through the turnstiles. Then we wait. Madge can’t keep still, her shoes clinking on the platform.
“I was nervous the first time by myself too,” I say to Madge. I finger the dollar in my pocket.
The station shakes with the rumbling of a green train, six cars long, approaching. Madge claps and cheers, and I cover my ears until the subway stops.
We find seats, and the T lurches forward. Teenagers stare at their phones, and Madge stares out the window, calling out: “There’s the Cleveland Circle ice rink! There’s a pond. Look, Amelia—geese!”
Which makes me cover my ears and worry. Madge will have to be less loud when we get there. I try to enjoy the ride the way Madge does, the clacking and whooshing, the blur of trees, bricks, and fences. The noises and sights come as if we’re in rehearsal again, everyone tuning their instruments and no one in sync.
Then we are underground, waiting through the heart-stopping darkness, in the rattling, hurtling subway. It’s unbearable, and I am sorry I didn’t bring my earmuffs for this part. I stick my fingers into my ears, reminding myself it will be fine, once we’re in the library.
“Soon?” Madge has to almost yell.
“Yes!” Fingers still in my ears, I nod at the stop map overhead.
The brakes hiss and scream, metal on metal, and the train stops. We jump up and out the sliding doors at Copley Station.
As soon as we are through the turnstiles, my heart lifts at the sound I was hoping to hear—jazzy notes, rebounding off the mosaic station walls.
Madge turns to me, excited. “Is that the girl trombone player?”
“Yes!” I point. There she is, case open, back against the wall. “She’s the one I told you about. She was playing the last time I came.”
Madge grabs me, eyes bright. We stand side by side, watching the musician’s slide dance up and down, the brass blowing jazz. The music fills us up, swirling warm and low, pushing away all the other subway noises.
“We play trombone too!” Madge says when the girl finishes.
“Cool. I’m Belle.” The girl reaches up to her ear and pops out an earbud.
I stare at her ears, one still plugged, one not. What kind of buds are those? I open my mouth to ask, but Madge says all at once: “How did you get to be so good? Where do you go to school? How often do you practice?”
I worry it’s too many questions, but Belle says, “I go to Berklee and practice two hours each day.” She gives us a postcard. “Come to my concert.”
Madge says we will and hangs on my arm, ready to go.
Quickly I blurt my one question: “Why do you wear those?” I point at her earbud.
Belle shrugs. “Keeps other noises down to a simmer so I can hear my T-bone playing in my head.”
I’m so excited, I almost forget the dollar in my pocket. I drop it into her case and say softly, “Thank you.”
* * *
I lead Madge up the steps of the library, and we go through the revolving door. We step onto the beautiful pink marble. The grand staircase is ahead, with the awe-inspiring lions on either side. I almost want to say “Ta-da,” but I know I don’t need to. The library speaks for itself.
“That was so cool,” Madge says, too loud. “We met a real trombonist!” She grabs my arm again, squeezes too hard.
Madge ignores the lions, the marble. She doesn’t notice the chandeliers, the old paintings.
“Stop and look up,” I say. Today she needs to follow my lead. I touch the lion’s paw.
Madge doesn’t notice. She is already up the stairs. “It’s pretty.” Her voice echoes all around.
I press my hands against my ears. “You have to be quiet.”
“I know, I know,” Madge answers, still too noisy as we walk through to the new building and into the children’s section. “Berklee! I wonder where that is and if I can go there someday.”
“Can I help you?” says the librarian as soon as we walk in. I am sure it’s because our entrance is so noisy.
Madge shows her the postcard. “Where is Berklee?”
I need a little space. I walk down a stack of shelves away from Madge, looking for a fresh spine, a new title, a new world. But I can’t concentrate. Madge isn’t asking for Alanna or Because of Winn-Dixie or any of the books I like. Belle was my discovery, the library is a quiet place, and why is Madge so-loud-Madge all the time? I’ve never needed my earmuffs inside the library before, but now I’d give anything to have them. I take down a few books from the NEW TITLES bookshelf.
I walk back over to tell Madge to come and find a book. She is still talking about music schools, and everyone hears her announce: “Someday I will be a trombonist in the Boston Pops.”
“I’m going to have to ask you to use your inside voice,” the librarian says sternly.
Madge doesn’t seem to hear. I pull my winter coat hood over my ears. I can’t believe this is happening.
“Amelia, look!” Madge says when she sees me. “The librarian found me a book about playing in the symphony and another about Berklee!” She makes a slide motion with her arms and blows a fake trombone blat through her lips.
“Shhh,” says the librarian.
I stop. Never before have I been shushed. I want to disappear into the cocoon chairs. We can’t stay. We’ll have to cut our trip short.
“Let’s go,” I say in a raised whisper.
“Already?”
Madge follows my lead—at last—but it’s too late. We check o
ut our books at the exit.
On the subway ride home, I keep my nose in one of my new books, about Cimorene, who is dealing with dragons—because I Don’t. Want. To. Talk.
Madge doesn’t seem to notice. “Too bad Belle wasn’t still in the station,” she says. “I wanted to ask her more about Berklee. Do you think I am good enough to go there one day? How much do the Boston Pops musicians practice?”
Madge stands up tall and slides her arm down, playing air trombone. “Buhp-buhp-bahm!”
People glance over at us. I shrink behind my book cover.
“Could we just read now?” I say in my piano voice, so mad that I can’t look at her.
Madge makes her imaginary trombone noise again. “Bahm-buhp-buhp-bahm!”
“Aren’t you ever quiet?” I ask, in my best forte voice.
“I’m too jazzed to read,” Madge says, laughing. “Get it?”
I don’t join in.
Madge finally hears my silence and slips into a seat and stares out the window.
The words blur in my book. Who talks in a library? Who doesn’t know you are supposed to fade into the subway seat, to never attract attention?
We get off at our stop, still not talking. Madge pauses at the corner where she’ll turn to walk down her street. She levels her eyes at mine.
“I know I’m not quiet. And I don’t want to be quiet all the time,” Madge says. “Maybe we shouldn’t hang out if you won’t let me have fun.”
She walks away. Without giving me a chance to speak. And she is right not to wait. I don’t have anything to say.
* * *
Setting the table, I toss napkins every which way.
“What’s wrong?” Dad asks. “The library usually makes you so happy.”
“Today was not quiet,” I snap. “And do you know some musicians wear special earbuds when they perform?”
Mom and Dad exchange looks. “Is this about the earmuffs?” Dad asks.
“No! I didn’t bring my earmuffs on purpose. I was trying. The library is always quiet.”
“Except it wasn’t,” Mom says. Her voice is kind, as if maybe she understands why today was bad.
“Maybe—” Dad starts to speak.
Mom holds up her hand and stops Dad from continuing.
“Amelia,” Mom says, “come help me with Finway.”
My throat is tight as we work together. I scoop Finway carefully out into a jar with one third of the water he already knows, so he won’t be shocked by the temperature change.
“What happened?” Mom asks as we upend the dirty fishbowl water into the sink together.
I scrub out the green algae that clouds his bowl, and then refill the bowl. “Madge wasn’t quiet,” I whisper. “We were shushed.”
Mom nods, her hand testing the new water to make sure it’s not too cold or too hot. I hold my breath as we slip Finway back into his fresh water. He has to trust that we got the temperature right.
“Friendship is hard.” Mom’s voice is soft. “Sometimes we have to be patient with each other’s differences.”
I look up at her. “What do you mean?”
“Well, sometimes I have to remind myself to use my inside voice when I speak with you and Dad,” she says. “And sometimes Dad gives me space so I can be loud by myself or with Sue.”
I remember the way Mom told that woman in Boston Common that I am fine the way I am. “I told Madge why it’s hard for me. She doesn’t get it.”
Mom takes a moment. “Well, if you expect Madge to accept your differences, then could you do the same for her?”
“I could try.” I lean into Mom as we watch Finway swim in his clean new world. For the first time, I’m glad Mom isn’t like a goldfish, like me and Dad. Maybe she’s right—maybe earmuffs aren’t the answer to everything.
CHAPTER 21
It’s Monday, and I’m as cold as the trees outside the classroom window. As I watch, it starts to snow, flakes falling silently onto bare branches. I wonder if the trees miss their leaves—dropped like a friend who turns out not to understand you at all.
My earmuffs are on. I am as alone as I was on the first day of fifth grade.
Eyes shut, I imagine myself back at the library, but it doesn’t work this time. Instead of my usual quiet zone, I remember too-loud Madge and shhh and inside voices from the librarian. I try thinking of Copley Station, overlaid with Belle’s sounds.
Madge is humming, and I open my eyes and glance at her. She must be remembering Belle too. If we were talking, I’d say, That’s Belle’s song! But I keep my mouth shut.
Madge sees me looking at her and says, “I don’t care about going together to Belle’s concert anymore. Oma says it’s too far, and anyway, we heard Belle for free.”
I can see she’s mad, and I am too, so I don’t say anything. Giving her the silent treatment is too easy for me.
Later, in the middle of Mr. Fabian’s textbook voice reading about historical monuments in Washington, DC, Jax shouts, “It’s snowing harder!”
Everyone perks up, turning to the windows. Snowflakes, heavy and wet, are falling. The grass and the sidewalks are already covered.
“Maybe tomorrow will be a snow day,” Madge says to Jax.
“Snowball fight,” he says, and they high-five. No one high-fives me.
“Quiet down,” Mr. Fabian says, and tries to bring us back to social studies.
I hope we have a snow day too. Snow days mean quiet reading time.
When Mr. Fabian passes back the place values test, my mood lifts when I see 100% at the top of mine.
“Eighty percent! I only missed four!” Madge exclaims.
“You did wonderfully,” Mr. Fabian says.
If we were talking, if my feelings weren’t still hurt, I would tell Madge how happy I am that she did well. Instead I say nothing, and she walks out with Jax, boasting about math tricks. Under my earmuffs, I pretend Madge doesn’t matter.
Deb-and-Kiki watch me watching Madge and Jax.
“The only reason Madge wanted to be Amelia Mouse’s friend was for math help!” Kiki says loudly to Deb.
I go still. Her words pierce through my muffs. Is Kiki right? Did Madge and I only practice trombone together because I taught her math tricks? Did we only go to the BPL together because I helped her take the T? Maybe we were never friends.
Madge and I slide into side-by-side chairs in trombone class. Madge plays the A-flat scale perfectly. We run through “Rondeau.” I miss the low note again. I edge my chair a little away.
Ms. Parker says, “Let’s do that again from the top. More breath, less brass.”
Madge blows loudly as if to complain.
I clap my hands over my muffs. I stand up. “Will we ever use mutes, Ms. Parker?”
“Too noisy for you?” Madge says, laughing. When I don’t laugh, her face falls flat like a wrong note.
Mom was wrong. We’re too different to be friends.
* * *
Fingers tight on my lunch bag on the way to the cafeteria, I hear someone shout, “Amelia!”
I stop and slide my earmuffs down, as if I’ve been caught. I turn and see Mr. Skerritt. You’d think he would know not to yell my name.
“How is fifth grade going?” His voice wheezes. “Ms. Parker and Mr. Fabian have been sharing good updates with me about your progress.”
I breathe in and out before speaking. I can’t tell him all the things I am worried about and how I’ve tried muff-less days and how sometimes it’s impossible and sometimes it’s better. And how right now everything is awful.
“I’m doing great.” I grip my lunch bag harder. I feel terrible for lying.
He looks thoughtfully at the earmuffs around my neck. “Have you added more sounds you like to your list? And do you put those earmuffs aside sometimes?”
I stretch the truth a little. “No new sounds, but I can play trombone without earmuffs.” Which makes me think of the holiday concert and my slide fail and the locked closet, and I blink hard to make the memori
es stop.
“I can hear you are trying.” He smiles so widely, his ears grow longer. “Be patient. It takes time to adapt.”
I swallow, hard. I didn’t expect Mr. Skerritt to understand me better than Madge. I walk into the cafeteria even more miserable.
I can’t eat at our table. As I turn away, I see Madge jostle Jax, who then collides into Deb-and-Kiki.
“Hey, watch it,” Deb says.
“Yeah, didn’t your mom teach you manners?” Kiki sneers. “Oh right. Madge doesn’t have a mom.”
Madge is fire-red-faced, her fists clenched. Her mouth opens, then shuts. For the first time, Madge doesn’t fight back. She turns toward me, and our eyes briefly connect.
I don’t know what to say, and anyway, we’re not friends anymore. I turn away, as if I didn’t hear. Between my muffs, I make excuses: I’m invisible, the old Amelia. It’s easier to be silent, easier to not be brave.
Outside the cafeteria windows, the snow is falling faster, thicker. Mr. Fabian is talking to the principal. I catch three words—“blizzard” and “close early?” They step out into the hall.
I’m almost to my old table in the corner when a commotion loud enough to reach my muffed ears makes me look back.
I don’t know what happened, but Madge’s arms are flailing. Her lunch flies out of her hands, and she lands splat on her butt on the floor. The laughter splashes from table to table around the whole cafeteria.
A snort-laugh escapes from my lips. I clap my hand over my mouth to take it back. Too late.
Madge’s eyes laser burn me as she scrambles up from the floor and runs out of the cafeteria.
I sit and turn my flushed face to the corner, my back to the cafeteria. I don’t watch Madge leave. I pull out my copy of Alanna. I try to read but remember instead how nice it was when Madge didn’t laugh at me when Noah made me jump with his trumpet blast, or when I fell out of the instrument closet. I really messed up when I laughed at her. How can I undo a sound I made? I grip the curved pages, bending my book open too far. I reach into my bag for my cold cheese sandwich.
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