Louder Than Words (3 page)

“Does anyone want to add anything about the commercial uses of spectroscopy?” asked Mr. Ashton. Crickets. “Stephen … I mean, Sasha?”

Someone in the back row said, “Yes, Dr. Hawking, you must have something to say. Physics
is
your field of expertise. Maybe you could explain time travel to us, or aliens.”

“FUCK YOU.” The snickers were replaced by a chorus of “ooh.”

Before I could be dismissed, I packed my books away and skulked out of the classroom as Mr. Ashton picked up the telephone on his desk. My bravado tended to come in brief spurts. Was he calling the principal or the school psychologist this time? It was not my first trip to the office. I knew the drill.

Sitting in my usual chair, I counted the linoleum floor tiles until the school gnome/secretary spoke. “The principal will see you now.”

Balding and rumpled, with tiny reading glasses perched on the end of his bulbous nose, Mr. Carson was your stereotypical high school principal. “Good morning, Sasha. You’ve had a good run. It’s been a whole week since you were last here.”

I stared at the spot on the bridge of his nose where his eyebrows met.

“Such language is unbecoming. Your aunt and uncle are so well mannered. I just don’t understand it. Should I wash your mouth out with soap? Maybe that would curb your sarcasm.” Mr. Carson leaned forward, elbows on his cluttered desk.

“IF YOU WANT TO BE PRECISE, YOU SHOULD PROBABLY WASH MY HANDS, NOT MY MOUTH.” I wiggled my fingers at him when I finished typing.

“What are we going to do with you, young lady? I’m sure Mr. Ashton just misspoke. Stephen and Sasha both start with the letter
s
. Don’t you think you may have overreacted?” Mr. Carson looked beseechingly at me. Talk about leading the witness. Maybe he would let me off this time. Five visits to the principal, get one free.

“SO IF I CALLED MR. ASHTON MR. ASSHOLE, YOU WOULD CONSIDER THAT A SLIP OF THE TONGUE, PRINCIPAL CARSON, BECAUSE BOTH START WITH THE LETTER
A
?”

“I can see you’re not in a very receptive mood this morning, Sasha. Perhaps an afternoon in detention will help you think more clearly.” Sighing histrionically, the principal signed what must have been my hundredth pink slip and handed it across the desk. “We really have to stop meeting like this.”

“D-I-L-L-I-G-A-S.” Do I look like I give a shit, Principal Carson?

“I think you’re very lucky I don’t know what that means.”

“T-Y-A-F-Y-S.” Thank you and fuck you, sir.

“Well, you’re welcome, I think. Go back to class, and try to have a better day … please. We’re both getting too old for this.” Mr. Carson flapped his hands in my general direction and turned back to his computer.

After-school detention was filled with the all the usual suspects, like a casting call from a 1980s teen rebellion movie, minus the mullets and Madonna bracelets. I took my seat by the window—regulars like me had “reserved” desks, like customers who frequented a neighborhood diner.

“Good afternoon, Sasha,” said Mrs. Goodman, math teacher from eight to three, warden from three to five. With her closely cropped hair and a clutch of keys jangling on a retractable key ring hooked to her belt, she was straight out of a women’s prison movie.

Leaning over my desk, she whispered, “Heard about your run-in with Mr. Ashton. Can’t say I blame you. He can be a real jerk sometimes.”

“THANKS, MA’AM.”

Her breath reeked of cigarettes and black licorice, but I appreciated the support. She nodded knowingly. Apparently we were sisters in some mysterious sorority.

“Hey, Sash, what up? You look hot in your sweats.” Jeff—or maybe Jed, I could never remember which—howled at his own lame attempt at humor.

“Come sit over here. It’s lonely in the back.” Paul patted the seat next to his.

Detention was primarily populated by jocks and hoods, kids with short fuses and minimal ambition—no National Honor Society officers or debate team standouts here. With their “fuck the system” attitudes, these degenerates were local heroes. Jeff/Jed and Paul, stars on the football and lacrosse teams and regulars at Mrs. Goodman’s afternoon tea parties, definitely fell into this category. They wallowed in their roles as bad boys, lapping up the attention from their less daring classmates. Unlike most of the girls at Shoreland, I found their swagger repugnant and studiously ignored them, now burying my nose in my history book, pretending to be totally absorbed in the finer points of the First Amendment. What was so sexy about stupidity?

“Too good for us, huh?” Paul hissed, but I kept my eyes glued to the page. “You don’t know what you’re missing.” He moaned and made kissing noises.

“You shootin’ for a ticket to detention tomorrow, Welch?” Mrs. Goodman waddled down the aisle and stood, arms akimbo, in front of Paul’s desk. I was grateful that she had distracted him.

“No, ma’am.” Paul sat up and stared straight ahead.

“’Cause you know I’ll be here, and there’s nothing I’d like better than to spend another afternoon with my favorite juvenile delinquent.” She leaned over his desk and batted her eyelashes. “Maybe you have a little crush, and you’re just lookin’ for an excuse to spend more time with me. Mmm? A little cougar action?”

Mrs. Goodman ran her tongue seductively over her lips, reminding me of a cow chewing its cud. Eighteen of the twenty after school detainees burst out laughing. Only Paul, his face crimson, and I were silent. Mrs. Goodman was the best.

As part of my therapy, I kept a journal, writing down my thoughts, my feelings, my dreams … or rather, my one dream. For my seventeenth birthday, Charlotte and Stuart gave me a new journal, inscribing it:
Here’s to lucky seventeen! This is your year, darling. Don’t give up. We love you more than words can say. C & S
. By this time, even though I had been as silent as a cloistered monk for more than four years, we were able to joke about it, a little bit. I blew out the candles on the pale pink birthday cake with marzipan ribbons. It was far too pretty for such a melancholy occasion. We were sitting in front of the blazing fireplace, the mercury glass ornaments on the Christmas tree reflecting the dancing flames. Everything looked so perfect from the outside, but just under the surface, I was frustrated, damaged, and angry. I needed to pull myself together before my head exploded.

“Happy birthday, Sasha.”

Charlotte and Stuart did their best to make it feel special and festive, but birthdays would always be bittersweet. It was bad enough that my family had died, but the fact that the anniversary of their death coincided so closely with my special day made a happy birthday a contradiction in terms. Stuart handed me a small blue Tiffany bag. In it was a gold necklace from which hung a tiny gold key. Were they sending me a not-so-subtle message that I alone held the key to my recovery, or was I being overly sensitive?

“What do you think? Very trendy, apparently. If you don’t like it, we can take it back.” Stuart was always practical.

“IT’S BEAUTIFUL. I LOVE IT. THANK YOU.”

“We love you so much, and we’ll always be here for you. Dr. O’Rourke called me yesterday and told me that she thought you needed a little break from therapy, a little time to yourself. So remember, if you need to talk, Stuart and I are always here to listen.”

Charlotte held out her arms to me and I crawled into her lap, burying my face in her red cashmere sweater, trying to pretend that I wasn’t a mute seventeen-year-old with no parents, only one friend, and a giant chip on my shoulder.

Stuart sat down next to us and rested his hand on my back. “It’s going to be okay, Sash, I promise. You just have to give it some more time.”

I nodded into Charlotte’s sweater, even though I thought he was totally wrong. Stuart was a really good guy. He and Charlotte had been together since their first week of law school. They were a perfect match. They both loved being lawyers, felt totally fulfilled by their professions, and agreed that children wouldn’t fit into their busy lives. But when I landed on their doorstep, barely a teenager, loaded down with more baggage than the
Titanic
, he had welcomed me with open arms and never looked back. While Charlotte had no choice to accept me—she was my flesh and blood—Stuart had no such connection. Despite that, he had quickly redefined his vision of his family and his future, finding a place for me in his home and his heart. In the middle of a sea of shit, Stuart and Charlotte had pulled me into their lifeboat, and I would always be grateful.

The day after Christmas, I met my best (and only) friend for coffee so she could give me my birthday present. She said it was something I really needed. Maybe she had bought me a new personality. I could only hope.

Jules—her real name was Juliana, but no one ever called her that—kissed me on both cheeks. “Happy birthday, babe.” She had gone to Paris the previous summer and had adopted this European custom as her standard greeting. If anyone else did that, it would be ridiculously phony, but Jules managed to pull it off. “Did you get my texts and e-mails?”

I nodded and mouthed a thank you. Jules knew my birthday was really hard for me and that I liked to keep it low-key. We had met on the first day of nursery school, were milk and cookie buddies in kindergarten, penny partners in first grade, and best friends throughout. As we grew up, although we went off in totally different directions, we remained close. At least that’s what she told me, because I really didn’t remember much about our friendship beyond the fact of its existence. Into books and art, I could spend hours browsing through art anthologies at the library, lost in another century. Jules Harper, on the other hand, was head cheerleader and part of the theater crowd. She hated being alone and had a million friends, but I was still her closest. We were quite the odd couple, and I’m not sure why we meshed so well—maybe because there was absolutely no competition between us—but whatever the reason, I would never have survived without her love and support.

After the accident, Jules visited me in the hospital and then at home every day until I returned to school. Her over-the-top enthusiasm may have been the only thing that kept me from falling to the bottom of a well of despair. If she hadn’t nagged me into reentering the stream of life, I might still be curled up in a ball somewhere.

“Sasha, I brought your homework. You have to do at least some of it. Come on. You don’t want to end up repeating seventh grade, do you?” Jules had pointed to a pile of books and papers on the desk in the corner.

At that moment, I had planned never to leave my bedroom again, so whether or not I completed the seventh grade was irrelevant.

“Mrs. Walsh said if you read
To Kill a Mockingbird
and write a five-page paper about it, you can still get an A in English. That’s good, isn’t it?”

I had stared impassively at my best, and only, friend in the whole world. How could I have explained to her that nothing mattered anymore, least of all an A in English?

“Sasha, stop it. Don’t ignore me. I know you hear me. I know you understand me. Please don’t shut me out.” Climbing onto my bed, Jules had stroked my hair and whispered in my ear. “I’m so sorry about what happened. I know how much you miss them. I love you so much. And no matter what, I’m not going anywhere, ever. We’re sisters.”

And she hadn’t abandoned me for the last four years, through piles of legal pads covered with my illegible scrawl that passed for my side of the conversation, and hours of one-sided late-night phone calls when Jules would tell me what had happened on a date or at a school dance. She was my only link to the real world, and I lived vicariously through her. I melted when she described her first kiss, laughed silently when Jason Draper couldn’t figure out how to unhook her bra, and cried to myself when I thought about how no one would ever kiss me or touch me like that.

Our whole friendship made no sense. Were I in her shoes, I doubt I would have had the patience to stick it out. As ill-fated as my life had been in certain ways, I was blessed to have Jules, who had chosen me as her closest ally—as well as her pet project.

“I hope you like it.” Wrapped in plain brown paper with a pink satin ribbon, my gift was clearly a book. “Don’t open it here. Wait until you get home and then open it in your room.”

Jules was an expert in translating my gestures, so when I tilted my head, shrugged my shoulders, and opened my eyes wide, she just laughed.
What?
I mouthed.

“It’s something you need. You’ll see. Trust me. I always take care of you, right?” That was true. In the last four years, Jules had been my advocate, my protector, and my champion. “Just make sure you’re alone when you open it.”

Gestures weren’t enough. I pulled out my Hawkie Talkie. “WHAT DID YOU GET ME? A BOOK ON HOW TO BUILD A PENIS OUT OF OLD CAR PARTS?”

“Kind of. Don’t worry. Text me after you open it, and let me know what you think. But enough about my fabulous gift. What did Dr. O. say at your birthday session?”

“SHE KIND OF FIRED ME. I THINK I’M HER ONLY FAILURE.”

“What do you mean, fired you? I didn’t think a shrink ever fired a patient. Couldn’t that be dangerous? Wouldn’t it be her fault if you slit your wrists? Did Charlotte stop paying her or something?”

“OF COURSE NOT. DR. O. SAYS I HOLD THE KEY TO MY OWN RECOVERY. THAT’S A DIRECT QUOTE. I THINK SHE’S JUST GIVEN UP ON ME.”

“Maybe you’re hearing it wrong …” Jules began.

“DEFINITELY NOT. WHAT DO I DO NOW? I CAN’T REMEMBER MUCH, AND WHEN I TRY, I GET A MIGRAINE.”

“Well, she’s the doctor. Buy yourself a giant bottle of aspirin and try to remember what happened the night of the accident and pretty much your whole life.”

“GREAT IDEA. AND WHILE I’M AT IT, I’LL END WORLD HUNGER.”

“I’m not saying it’s going to be easy, just necessary. She wouldn’t say that she thought you could do it if she didn’t mean it. Would she?” For Jules, everything was simple and straightforward, no undercurrents, no hidden meanings.

“I’M NOT SO SURE ABOUT THAT. I THINK SHE’S RUN OUT OF SOLUTIONS AND SHE’S JUST PASSING THE BUCK.”

“You need to have more faith in yourself. You’re much stronger than you think you are. Maybe you need to start fighting for yourself.”

“I ALREADY AM.”

“Which I think might mean fighting
with
yourself.” Jules sipped her coffee and stared pointedly at my talking machine.

“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT? WHAT ONLINE SCHOOL OF PSYCHIATRY DID YOU GRADUATE FROM?”

“Don’t be like that. I’m on your side. Remember? All I’m saying is that I think you’ve built a wall to protect yourself from something. The pain, the memories, and all that guilt about still being alive when they aren’t. Maybe if you can break through that, you’ll get your voice back.”

“SO HOW MUCH DO I OWE YOU, DOCTOR?” I mimed writing a check.

The worst part was, Jules was right. Every time I looked in the mirror, I saw my sister staring back at me. She was the pretty one, the fun one, the one who should have lived. I was the expendable one, and yet here I sat, a useless lump of flesh who couldn’t even ask for directions let alone do justice to the extra years I’d been given simply because I had been sitting on the right side of the car’s back seat instead of the left.

“Don’t be flip, Sash. I’m sorry, I probably shouldn’t have gotten into it, especially on your birthday. Not fair. And you’re right, what do I know?”

“IT’S OKAY. YOU’VE BEEN SO PATIENT WITH ME. ANYONE ELSE WOULD HAVE ABANDONED SHIP A LONG TIME AGO. I’M THE ONE WHO SHOULD BE APOLOGIZING.” I opened my arms and we hugged, both of us crying.

Later that day, in the privacy of my room, I opened Jules’s gift. It was a copy of
Everything You’ve Always Wanted to Know About Sex (But Were Afraid to Ask)
, by Dr. David Reuben. Inside the front cover she had crossed out the original inscription and written:
Dearest Sasha, You may have missed out on a few things, but read this and I guarantee you’ll be more than caught up. You’re seventeen—make it count. Your best friend, forever, Jules. P.S. Hide this well—if Charlotte and Stuart find it, I’ll be on their shit list
.

Flipping randomly through the pages, I was startled by how many -isms there were in the world of sex: fetishism, voyeurism, sadomasochism, autoeroticism. Fortunately,
chapter 1
was entitled “Beyond the Birds and Bees.” I definitely needed a crash course. The stuff the gym teachers taught in health class was dull and clinical, while my aunt’s infrequent and very sanitary efforts had always been prefaced by “When you’re older, hopefully married …” I wanted to learn about the sex people had in the movies. I wanted to learn how to make a guy want me so bad he couldn’t see straight.

I texted Jules.
Excellent gift. Thank you. I especially like the original inscription: “With love to my dear son—make sure you read this before your wedding night. Love, Mom.” Maybe I’m not as fucked up as I thought
.

She wrote back:
Clearly just a loving mother looking out for her son. Sorry it’s a used copy, but I found it at that cool vintage book store, The Last Word. Now you’ll be prepared for
your
wedding night
.

Wedding night?
I typed.
Isn’t that jumping the gun? I’d be happy with getting felt up at the movies
.

Finding a boy who would put up with my shit show would be like winning the lottery. Finding someone who would stick around long enough to marry me would be a walking-on-water miracle.

Sounds good. As long as you have a goal. Happy birthday, Sasha! Now get reading
.