After Zero Page 15

  I try not to look away like I normally would. Her eyes are hazel like mine.

  She leads me back inside to the kitchen, where she opens the fridge and takes out a cake with shimmery gold icing that says Happy 13th Birthday, Elise, kind of like the cakes I’ve seen at Patsy’s Pastries, only nicer. Homemade.

  “Thirteen on the thirteenth. Your golden birthday.” She gets out two plates and two forks. “Hungry?”

  I nod.

  “Me too.”

  As we dig in, I see the curtains flutter once at the open window behind my mother—probably just a breeze. We clean our plates and lick the frosting off our forks. It’s a start.

  Chapter 23

  The entire school is reading my letter.

  This morning, I gave a note to the librarian—Ms. Defino, as I finally learned she’s called—asking for a favor. Now all five double-sided pages of my letter are in the library, in a binder with a bar code and everything, just like a library book. Anyone who wants to know the truth can know.

  Sylvia, Fin, Nellie, and Theresa have been suspended, but I heard that photocopies of the letter have gotten around to them. I wonder if Mel has read it yet. I suspect she has, because I found a belated birthday card from her in my locker, small enough to fit through the vent. We should get milk shakes sometime, she wrote in the card. I know she and I can never go back to the way it used to be on her front steps. But we can go forward. Even if we don’t end up best friends again, we don’t need to be enemies. I think I’ll go for that milk shake.

  I decide to wait until the school day is over before I return to the library. It’s been unusually crowded all day. When I get there, Bernard Billows is walking out, folding up a copy of the Green Pasture Gazette. He waves and hands me the newspaper. “Congrats, Elise,” he says. “Way to go.” I’m not sure what he means, but I smile and slip the newspaper into my sweatshirt’s front pocket. As he moves past me, I catch a whiff of spoiled milk and think, Someday that kid’s going to be president or a rock star or something and surprise us all.

  I enter the library and stop short. Someone’s reading my letter, his back facing me.

  When he turns around, he sees me and walks up to me. He stands there for a minute. Then he says, “Want to go see that documentary? It’s still playing.”

  I look across the room at my letter. He isn’t going to say anything about it? He isn’t going to ask questions?

  My eyes fall on a sign on the wall: QUIET IN THE LIBRARY. And I realize that Conn has never asked me for an explanation. Just like he’s never called me that word. Quiet. Not once.

  • • •

  After the documentary, Taking Wing—seventy minutes about the physics of bird wings, how they work—we go for a stroll through the orchard.

  “You should’ve seen my mom’s face when she heard you’re a Barmazian,” Conn says. “She and my dad remember hearing that story on the news.”

  He tells me about the phone call his family got from Ms. Standish during dinner Friday. I wish I’d been there to hear Ms. Standish read them my letter after asking to be put on speakerphone. To see Mrs. Karney’s mouth hang open and Mr. Karney’s brow furrow. To see Fin run into Dónal’s room, finding a backpack in his closet with my name on the tag, and my old notebook and my birthday card smushed at the bottom. To see Dónal’s face turn apple red and hear him stumble on words as everyone turned to him demanding the truth. To see him squirm, sweat, admit to everything, all while trying to blame it on his hunting pals. To see Conn’s jaws tighten while he listened to it all.

  “My dad and I dropped your stuff off Saturday,” he says. “Did your mom give it to you?”

  I nod. I stayed in my room while he and Mr. Karney were talking to my mother at the door—I wasn’t ready to see any Karneys yet—but I checked my backpack later, and everything was in it, including my college money. And my old tallies, but I tossed those in the recycling bin.

  “Dónal’s grounded,” Conn says as we sit down under an apple tree. “Mark and Dakota are in hot water too. My mom called their parents, and guess what? All three of them got their hunting licenses revoked. Turns out Dónal lied to my parents and told them Mark’s eighteen. Licensed minors have to be accompanied by a licensed adult while hunting, but they’re all still seventeen. How sad.”

  I have to admit that’s pretty satisfying news.

  “Then there’s Fin. She isn’t ready to talk to you yet, but she’ll be knocking on your door soon. She just needs time. She knows when she’s wrong, and she’s embarrassed. Plus…I think she’s kind of jealous of you. She’s used to being my main girl.”

  He turns his crooked smile on me, and I feel my cheeks catching fire, the way they did when Sylvia asked if he was my boyfriend. I try to focus on the grass blades in front of me, but my frame of vision keeps sliding to my periphery, where Conn is watching me. My stomach floats to my chest. Don’t look. Don’t look. Are his cheeks on fire too? Why do I care?

  Maybe I only feel this way because he was the first boy to ask me to a movie—or at least a documentary. The first boy to sit with me at the library. The first boy to pay me any notice really. I guess those firsts can get to a person’s head. At least he wasn’t there at the bleachers to see what happened. He might have tried to rescue me, and I wouldn’t want that getting to my head too. Because the truth is, it’s best that we’re just friends for now. My attention has to be on school. And on getting better. On going to my first appointment with Dr. Rosetti next week, even though the thought scares the heck out of me.

  I’m tempted to go back into the woods right now, retracing my steps toward the cottage to see what’s really there. If anything’s there at all. But I decide not to. I want to keep that world like a memory. I still feel that world existing in a cottage deep in the woods, where my brothers are safe—where they’ll always be safe.

  A flash of black breaks my rumination.

  “What’s wrong?” Conn follows my gaze to the branch of a tree on our right. “Oh, hey, Mister Crow.” He frowns. “No, wait.” He whips his binoculars up to the bridge of his nose. “My mistake. That’s a raven.”

  Goose bumps travel up my arms.

  “Lots of people confuse them with crows, but up close you can spot the differences. Ravens are twice the size. With a stronger bill, longer wings. Shaggy feathers at the throat, see?” He passes me the binoculars. I take a deep breath and look through them, finding the raven. He stares back in a perfect imitation of Beady. What is it about that stare that has always bothered me?

  “And they’re not as social as crows. You usually see them alone. Sometimes in pairs or small groups, but usually alone.”

  I keep peering through the lenses. Not as social…usually alone… I had it in my head that “mute” swans were the birds I could relate to most. But maybe ravens and I have a few things in common.

  “Gorgeous creatures, aren’t they? A little foreboding, sure. They’re scavengers, so they get a bad rap. But they’re one of the smartest bird species in the world.”

  The raven keeps watching me, and I him. The longer I stare, the more I see. For some reason, that moment in the woods comes back to me, that horrible moment when Dónal’s buddies had me pinned. And that moment on the bleachers, when I thought Sylvia was going to file my tongue off. There had been wings beating. A bird’s kraaa…

  “Is it me, or is he looking right at you?” Conn laughs. “Seems like he only has eyes for Elise.”

  The goose bumps spread all over. I think of the silhouette behind my window shade. The tap-tap-tap that drew my attention to the shed. The bird that flitted through the woods toward the cottage. The bird that landed on Granny P’s shoulder—watching me with the same stare as this guy in the tree. The same stare as Beady on Miss Looping’s desk.

  Sometimes when we feel lost, the universe sends a little help. Miss Looping’s words float on the air. Something or someone to guide us on
our path. And that can come in the most unexpected form.

  Warmth tingles across my scalp. Miss Looping never said what form hers took. But she did say something after Beady first went missing. I may have bought him on a whim at a thrift shop, but he’s been more to me than a decoration. Now I wonder what she meant. Could it be that she experienced something too…with Beady? After her sister died?

  “Look!” Conn leaps to his feet. “There. Might be a chickadee. Can I see those binoculars?”

  It takes me a moment to break my stare with the raven and hand over the binoculars.

  As the other bird lures Conn away, the raven flies down from the tree and alights on the ground a few feet from me, cocking his head.

  Will you stay with me? I gaze at him. Until I’m better?

  He takes a hop forward. Then another. Looking at me, always looking. And of course I know why that stare has bothered me so much: It seems to see right through me. Through my silences. My excuses. I close my eyes and tilt my face to the sun. I’ve been good at making excuses. First it was the tally marks. Then the promise. As much as they consoled me for a while, they can’t hold now.

  I don’t want to be a ghost character anymore.

  As I stand up, something falls out of my sweatshirt pocket and onto the ground: the Green Pasture Gazette. The raven bounds forward again and gives it a curious peck. I pick it up and flip through the pages, stopping at one in the middle where the corner is turned down. My heart leaps.

  Poetry contest winner:

  When I Speak

  A ghazal by Elise Pileski Barmazian

  I breathe in the spring air and fold up the newspaper. I don’t need to read the rest because I already know what it says.

  Epilogue

  My backpack and I approach the high school doors. Behind them, ninth grade awaits. A new school year. New classes. New teachers. I can see the track on the far hill, waiting for me to hit the ground running. From the outside, the high school looks like a bigger version of Green Pasture. Inside, though, it’s going to be different—even if the walls end up being the same burnt orange. I grip my backpack straps hard. Somewhere past these doors today, I’m going to speak.

  In the front lobby, I double-check the homeroom number on my schedule. Then I follow the signs and the people.

  The homeroom teacher, Mr. Daley—an extreme animal lover judging by the Animal Planet posters smothering his walls—looks at the roster and tells us that instead of calling roll the boring way, he wants to go around the room and have us each introduce ourselves by saying our name and favorite animal. Some students snicker at the childishness of the activity, but I have other things on my mind.

  “Zoe Zhang—um, dolphins, I guess.”

  “Mario Alvarez—penguins.”

  “Bridget Flaherty—unicorns.”

  “Those don’t count as… Never mind. Next please?”

  Mr. Daley checks off names as the target moves swiftly toward me.

  Eleven people away. Ten. Nine.

  I sit up in my chair. There’s no knowing how my voice will sound when it comes out. There’s no knowing if it will come out here, as it does in some other places, like home and Dr. Rosetti’s office and Mel’s house. And if it does come out here, who knows how long it will stay?

  People will be watching me, waiting, but that’s inevitable. If someone used to have an eating disorder, people who know will always watch how that person eats. If someone used to have a drinking problem, people who know will always watch how that person drinks. And if someone used to have selective mutism, people who know will always watch how that person speaks. Quiet feels inked in me like a tattoo. One day I’ll be someplace, maybe college, where no one knows I have the tattoo, but for now, if I want to move forward, I’ll have to let people look on while I heal. While the tattoo fades beneath my clothes—beneath my feathers.

  “Abe Packard—kangaroos. No, rhinos. Maybe lions…”

  “Let’s go with lions. Next?”

  “Marilyn Castino—ferrets.”

  “Jules Greco—pandas.”

  Two people away. One.

  Something kraaas outside the window.

  I breathe in, part my lips, spread my wings.

  And fly.

  When I Speak

  A ghazal by Elise Pileski Barmazian

  Words like to crumble and fade when I speak,

  clash like a stumbling parade when I speak.

  Each little utterance quavers with fear

  of the next sound to be made when I speak.

  As the words edge past my lips, feel them shake,

  knowing a price must be paid when I speak.

  Secrets have slipped off my tongue, haunting me;

  friends might be lost and betrayed when I speak.

  Ears: They will judge me, and even by one

  stuttering word they are swayed when I s-s-speak.

  When I say nothing, my mind is composed.

  But all ideas become frayed. When. I. Speak.

  I hear the world, but they can’t hear me

  waging an inner crusade when I speak!

  Let them all dub me the quiet one now.

  Someday they’ll hear words cascade when I speak.

  Author’s Note

  While After Zero is a work of fiction loosely inspired by the Brothers Grimm tale “The Twelve Brothers,” the moments in which Elise experiences anxiety about speaking are inspired by my past adolescent experience with low-profile selective mutism. As with many other kids and teens around the world, my struggle with this anxiety condition went unrecognized and undiagnosed. This is understandable, considering the lack of public awareness and knowledge of not only selective mutism in general, but also the differences between low-profile and high-profile selective mutism. Each person’s experience is nuanced and unique, but generally, individuals with selective mutism speak freely in at least one situation (such as home). However, in certain other situations (such as school), those with a high-profile pattern do not speak at all, and those with a low-profile pattern may manage to speak minimally when absolutely necessary but don’t initiate contact or make requests. Both experience high anxiety levels in these situations, but low-profile selective mutism is more likely to be overlooked or dismissed as shyness because it is less obvious.

  I didn’t even encounter the term “selective mutism” until I was in college and had thankfully already overcome the worst of this condition on my own. Fortunately, my selective mutism never got as bad as Elise’s does in the second half of After Zero, but both high- and low-profile patterns of selective mutism do have the potential to grow worse if unaddressed, even to the rare point where all situations eventually trigger silence (known as progressive mutism). It’s important to note that selective mutism should not be confused with traumatic mutism (total mutism that begins suddenly as a symptom of posttraumatic stress), which we see more often in fiction. There’s no causal link between trauma and selective mutism, and this anxiety condition can affect anyone, including kids with a loving family like I had.

  If you or someone you know can relate to Elise’s struggle with anxiety and speaking, you are not alone, and help is available. For more information, check out selectivemutism.org or the following recommended books. And remember, your silence does not define you.

  Recommended Resources

  The Selective Mutism Resource Manual, 2nd edition, by Maggie Johnson and Alison Wintgens

  Selective Mutism in Our Own Words: Experiences in Childhood and Adulthood by Carl Sutton and Cheryl Forrester

  Acknowledgments

  After Zero could not have hatched from a manuscript into a published book without the help and guidance of certain people. I want to thank Becky Bagnell, my wonderful agent at the Lindsay Literary Agency, for seeing promise in my prose and patiently championing my work; Allison Hellegers at Rights
People, for finding After Zero the perfect home at Sourcebooks; Kate Prosswimmer, my brilliant editor, for “getting” Elise’s story and taking it under her wing (final bird pun, I promise) with such care, enthusiasm, and ingenuity; and the whole Sourcebooks Jabberwocky team, for working hard toward a final product with which I couldn’t be happier.

  Immense thanks also to Queen’s University Belfast, including the Seamus Heaney Centre for Poetry and the School of Arts, English and Languages, for the generous funding that allowed me time and space to revise After Zero; Dr. Garrett Carr, for his valuable advice and feedback; the MFA program at George Mason University, for the funding that first liberated me so I could pursue creative writing with full force; Erica Little, Lisa Kennedy, Courtney Brkic, Dr. Geralyn Prosswimmer, and everyone else who at some point gave me feedback on drafts or parts of After Zero; the Kimmel Harding Nelson Center for the Arts, for my first paid writing residency, during which I worked on an early draft of After Zero; Bill Roorbach, Courtney Brkic, and all the teachers, professors, classmates, and friends who have fostered my writing over the years or helped me on my road to publication; and Susan Elizabeth Sweeney, who nurtured my early explorations of “silent sister” tales such as the Grimms’ “The Twelve Brothers,” which loosely inspired After Zero.

  Above all, love and gratitude to my family. Dad (who’s always there for me and who sparked my love of stories by reading to me when I was wee), Mom (whose unwavering support and encouragement I’d be lost without), Brian (who’s a ray of sunshine in my life and the best brother anyone could ask for), and Auntie and Unc (whose excitement about all of my endeavors has meant so much to me)—I don’t know where I’d be without you all. And last but positively not least, Rory, thank you for cheering me on, letting me bounce ideas off you, and making me smile every step of the way.

  About the Author