No Talking Read online

  Lynsey had written, “Helena, you be the witness. Sign here.” And Helena had written her name. And below Helena’s signature, Lynsey had added, “No backing out now, fatmouth. Which color marker do you like best—red or black?”

  Dave pointed at her and pretended to laugh and laugh. She stuck out her tongue and then turned away and picked up her chat with Helena.

  Dave felt like he’d lost that skirmish. Lynsey always had a way of firing the last cannonball.

  Then he smiled as he thought how much fun it would be to paint a big L on her forehead. If he could win, that is. Otherwise . . .

  Dave wouldn’t have put his feelings into these exact words, but he sat there in the quiet room sort of wishing it didn’t have to be a war. Because it was . . . well, it was very interesting. Not talking was interesting all by itself, even without the extra fun of the contest. And the extra risk of his new private battle with Lynsey.

  And he suddenly wondered what Lynsey thought about it, about the whole idea. And he wondered if she’d be honest enough to tell him.

  So Dave grabbed a fresh sheet of paper and wrote, “I’m kinda glad we’re all doing this—the no talking thing. Like, I really didn’t know ‘um’ was a word. It’s pretty interesting. At least it is to me.” Then he gave the paper to Jason.

  Jason tapped Lynsey’s arm and handed her the new note. She read it and then gave Dave a short, suspicious look. And then she bent over the paper and wrote.

  Jason handed him the paper, and Dave read her message. It said, “It is to me, too. I’m thinking and thinking and thinking. Pretty amazing.”

  Dave turned and caught Lynsey’s eye, and they half nodded at each other. For one tiny fraction of a second, it wasn’t boys against girls, and it wasn’t a battle. It was two smart kids enjoying an idea.

  Jason handed Dave another note, from him this time. “I’m not your personal delivery boy. Maybe you and Lynsey should sit at the same desk—ha ha ha!”

  Dave’s face felt hot. He scribbled “You’re crazy!” onto Jason’s note and jammed it back at him.

  And at the bottom of the page he and Lynsey had passed, he wrote, “Yeah, but no way are you gonna win this fight. You and your stupid friends are going down, big-time!”

  And as Dave tossed the note above Jason’s headso it landed on Lynsey’s desk, he made an ugly face at her, and then shook his hands, like he was trying to flip something gross off his fingers.

  He didn’t wait for Lynsey’s reaction. Dave turned away and began writing a new note. To Scott.

  • • •

  All during seventh period Mr. Burton sat at his desk, watching. He wrote some notes too, but they were notes to himself.

  —No hesitation–everyone jumped right in.

  —Some frustration with writing–it’s slow.

  —Some anger displayed.

  —A lot of nodding and gesturing, some hand signals.

  —Tapping on desks and arms and shoulders to get attention, some poking, too.

  —Mouth sounds–tongue clicking, lip popping, raspberries.

  —Some animal sounds–quacking, whistling, barking, sometimes to get attention, sometimes to bother.

  —Not much boy-girl or girl-boy note passing–but more than I’d expected from this group.

  —A lot of smiling and frowning and other face-making

  —Not one single word out loud!

  Mr. Burton was taking a class at the state university two nights a week, studying for his master’s degree. The course was called Human Development, and one of the topics they had studied was the way children learn to use language.

  Of course, this wasn’t watching kids learn to use language. These students were already good with words. Almost too good.

  No, this was watching children try to change how they expressed themselves, trying to use language in a new way.

  Mr. Burton was pretty excited. It was like having his own private language lab. He thought, If I keep careful notes, I bet I can write my big research paper on this! I can do interviews with the kids—once they start talking again. And I can gather information from the other teachers, too. There’s so much good stuff to work with. This is great!

  When the last bell rang, Mr. Burton was sorry the class had to end. And he couldn’t wait for his first class on Wednesday morning.

  • • •

  For the fifth graders, that last bell on Tuesday meant something else.

  It meant they had to go ride a bus. And not talk. The bell meant they had to go to sports practice, or to dance or music lessons. And not talk.

  It meant they had to go home and deal with moms and dads and brothers and sisters and neighbors and everyone else. And not talk.

  No one was sure how all that was going to work, including Dave.

  But Dave was absolutely sure of one thing: He was going to do everything just right. Because if he messed up, it meant he’d be walking around school on Thursday afternoon with a big L on his forehead.

  And that was not going to happen.

  CHAPTER 14

  SEEN BUT NOT HEARD

  The homebound school buses were quieter than usual on Tuesday afternoon, especially the ones hauling a large number of fifth-grade kids.

  But none of the fifth graders found the ride home very hard. With no grown-ups around, it was pretty easy to keep quiet. A few of them sat with friends and passed notes back and forth. Some read books or opened a notebook and did homework. Most of the fifth graders just sat quietly—looking and listening. And thinking.

  • • •

  For the fifth graders like Lynsey who stayed for soccer or field hockey or cross-country, after school was just like regular school, because the coaches were all teachers, and you could answer teachers because of the three-word rule. Everyone was getting pretty good at that part of the contest.

  Soccer practice was easy for Lynsey. Instead of yelling for the ball like she sometimes did, she just waved a hand or made a motion with her head. To direct teammates to cover an area or move down-field, she pointed. Lynsey was good at soccer. She did most of her communicating with her feet.

  • • •

  For the kids like Dave who went right home after school, not talking was more difficult. A lot more difficult. Because it’s a fact of nature that parents don’t like it when kids don’t answer them.

  “David?”

  Dave had been home five minutes when he heard his mom come in the front door and call his name. He was upstairs. In the bathroom.

  She called again. “David, answer me!”

  To be more specific, Dave was sitting on the toilet.

  “DAVID! ANSWER ME!”

  Dave knew that tone of voice. He had to do something right away. So he reached over and banged on the inside of the bathroom door.

  It was the wrong move.

  His mom was up those front stairs and had both hands on that locked bathroom doorknob in two seconds.

  “David? Is that you? Are you all right? David? David! Answer me!”

  She was going to kick down the door, Dave was sure of it.

  He jiggled the doorknob, flushed the toilet, and was up and zipped and buttoned, all in about two seconds, and he yanked the door open and gave his mom the best smile he could manage.

  Mrs. Packer was so relieved that she bent down and hugged Dave so hard that he couldn’t have said a word even if he’d wanted to. Which he didn’t.

  But then she held him out in front of her and gave him a stern look. “Didn’t you hear me calling you?”

  It would have been easy to shake his head no and tell a silent lie, but Dave smiled and shrugged and held out his hands. Then he pointed at his mouth.

  His mom frowned even more. “Your throat? Is your throat sore? Is that it?”

  Dave shook his head. “But it’s hard to talk? Something hurts? Should I call Dr. O’Hara’s office? We can drive right over there.”

  Dave shook his head again and motioned for his mom to follow him.

  He went
to his room, and then to his desk, and on a piece of paper he wrote, “Sorry. It’s a thing we’re doing at school. Not talking for a couple of days. That’s all.”

  His mom looked at the paper. “Not talking?” she said. “Don’t be silly. Everybody has to talk.”

  Dave smiled and shrugged. And he wrote, “Not all the time.”

  His mom tilted her head back and made a face at him, nodding slowly. “Ohhh . . . so you’re saying that I talk all the time, is that it?”

  Again, Dave smiled and shrugged. “Because I could be as quiet as anybody.” Then she added, “If I wanted to.”

  Bending over to pick up a sweatshirt, she pushed it into his arms and said, “Well, anyway, get the rest of these dirty clothes picked up and go downstairs and start a load in the washer. Only the dark colors, all right?”

  Dave made a face, and she said, “And don’t give me any of that sass, mister.”

  • • •

  At his karate class Kyle did a front snap-kick—without a yell.

  Mr. Hudson bowed and said, “Kyle-san. Always yell like this when you kick: Hii-YAH! Now you.”

  Kyle did the kick again, and he moved his face and mouth, but he didn’t yell.

  Mr. Hudson’s face got red, and he walked stiffly like he always did when he was displeased. But he was still being polite, because that is the karate way.

  He bowed. “Kyle-san. Did you not hear me?” Ben Ellis walked onto the mat and bowed to Mr. Hudson. He was in fourth grade. When Mr. Hudson bowed back, Ben said, “Hudson-san. The fifth-grade kids aren’t talking. None of them.”

  Hudson-san bowed and made a wise face and tried to imagine what the teacher in the movie The Karate Kid would say in this situation.

  And after a long pause he said, “Ahh, I see. Yes. Silence. It is good.”

  Then he bowed at Kyle-san. And Kyle-san bowed back.

  Then Kyle did another snap-kick. Without yelling.

  • • •

  Ellen played the first flute piece for her teacher, but there was a problem.

  Mrs. Lenox said, “All right, we’re in four/four time here.” She used her pencil and pointed at a quarter rest. “How many beats of silence do you allow for this rest?”

  Ellen tapped once on the music stand.

  Her teacher said, “Correct, but just say, ‘one beat.’” Then Mrs. Lenox pointed at the symbol for a whole rest. “And how many beats for this one?”

  Ellen tapped out four beats. “Just say ‘four beats,’ dear.”

  Ellen smiled and tapped four times, and then pointed at her mouth and shook her head.

  “What?” asked Mrs. Lenox.

  Again Ellen pointed at her mouth and shook her head.

  “Your lips? Something about your lips?” asked the teacher. “Just tell me, dear.”

  Ellen smiled and shook her head. Then she lifted the flute to her lips and played the piece again, and this time she read all the rests perfectly.

  Her teacher nodded, smiled, and then turned the page to the next piece. Before Ellen began to play, Mrs. Lenox pointed at each rest, and Ellen tapped out the right number of beats. The teacher nodded, and Ellen began to play.

  When she finished, Mrs. Lenox smiled, pointed at the start of the piece, picked up her own flute, nodded, and they played the whole piece again as a duet.

  Neither of them said a word for the rest of the lesson.

  • • •

  Brian’s mom picked him up at school, and when he got in the car, she said, “You need a haircut. We’re stopping at Zeke’s on the way home.”

  Brian groaned and shook his head. He stamped his feet on the floor of the car. His mom kept driving.

  Brian hated going to Zeke’s Modern Barbershop. Zeke was this grumpy guy who’d been cutting hair in Laketon for more than forty years. He gave everyone the same haircut—short on top and buzzed close on the sides.

  But the last two times he’d been there, Brian had forced Zeke to do a halfway decent job—but only because he practically yelled at the man the whole time. “Not so short on top. No, really, that’s enough off the top. And don’t use the clippers on the sides. Just scissors . . . there, that’s enough. Don’t cut off any more. Really. No, please, no clippers. Just use scissors. Please.”

  And that’s why today was the wrong day for a haircut. If Zeke got him into that worn-out barber chair, Brian knew he’d end up looking like something that had escaped from the zoo.

  When his mom parked the car, Brian jumped out and dashed into the pizza place next to the barber shop. But his mom followed him. He pointed at the menu, but she shook her head. “There’s no time for a snack. We have to pick up your sister in fifteen minutes.” She took him by the arm and pulled him out of the restaurant and over to Zeke’s door. “Now get in there. Quick—there’s no line right now.”

  Brian wanted to say, News flash, Mom: There’s never a line at Zeke’s. The man’s a rotten barber. And he has bad breath.

  But Brian couldn’t say that. And he wouldn’t be able to talk to Zeke, either. He was doomed.

  Fifteen minutes later, when his big sister got into the car, she took one look at Brian and burst out laughing. She said, “Zeke, right?”

  Brian could only nod. He had paid a heavy price for keeping his mouth shut. But he’d kept his promise to Dave and the other guys, and if they didn’t beat the girls, well, it wasn’t going to be his fault. And he had the bad haircut to prove it.

  Was it worth it? Yeah, he thought, it was worth it. So what if I look like a monkey for a week? Or two. Or three.

  Brian stared out the side window and tried not to think about it.

  • • •

  Mrs. Burgess was worried. She glanced in the rearview mirror and looked at her daughter’s face again and thought, Did she have a horrible day at school?

  Is that what’s bothering her? Or maybe something happened at soccer practice—that coach of hers can be pretty rough.

  About a month earlier, Lynsey had started riding in the backseat of the car instead of up front. Her mom had noticed that her bright, chatty little girl was starting to become more serious, sort of distant now and then. And today? Not even a word, and barely a nod as she got into the car after practice.

  Lynsey’s mom thought, Maybe she’s giving me the silent treatment because I said she couldn’t go to that sleep-over at Kelly’s this weekend. That’s probably it. Kids can be so moody sometimes—goodness knows I was!

  The truth is, Lynsey wasn’t feeling moody at all. She was just thinking. Actually, she was thinking about thinking. Not talking all afternoon had made her realize something: For years now, she had done most of her thinking out loud. I’ve been just blurting out whatever’s on my mind—to my sister, to my mom—and at school? I just go on and on. And then I talk on the phone all night. Incredible!

  Lynsey hated to admit it, but Dave Packer might have been right about the top of her head exploding. Because that’s how it had felt at first.

  She felt like a faucet had been wide open, gushing and gushing forever, and then suddenly it flipped shut. And all her thoughts had been bottled up.

  But by the time school let out, Lynsey had started to enjoy the change. And all during soccer practice, she’d felt like she was alone, just her and her own voice. And she’d felt like saying, Hi there, I’m Lynsey—remember me? I live here.

  Thinking. And being quiet. It was different. And it was good.

  As the car turned onto their street, almost home, she looked up and saw her mom’s eyes in the car mirror, and instantly felt how worried she was. So Lynsey gave her mom a wave and a big smile. And her mom smiled back.

  • • •

  All over town, the other fifth graders were figuring out how to get along without talking. Were there any mistakes made on Tuesday afternoon? Yes, but only a few. Every single fifth-grade girl and boy was working hard not to talk.

  And later on, as it got to be dinnertime and family time and homework time and bedtime, there were other problems the k
ids faced—a phone call from Grandma, a little brother who needed help with homework, a family trip to the mall for new shoes—lots of situations that begged for spoken words. Every single kid had unusual experiences Tuesday night, and every single kid had to be creative and alert . . . and quiet.

  But it’s not time to tell about all that.

  It’s time to go back to school, back in time to about three thirty on Tuesday afternoon, back to the conference room next to the office.

  Because that’s where the principal and the fifth-grade teachers had held a special meeting.

  And they’d had plenty to talk about.

  CHAPTER 15

  CONTROL CENTER

  So. You’ve been with our fifth graders all afternoon. You’ve seen—and heard—what they’re doing. What do you think should be done?” Mrs. Hiatt looked from face to face around the conference table.

  Mrs. Marlow spoke right up. “We should get them all in the auditorium tomorrow morning and lay down the law—just stop it. It’s silly and it’s disruptive. I mean, it’s interesting, and all that. And with these kids, it’s maybe even an improvement. But it’s still not right. It was sort of cute right after lunch today, but then I had the second group, and then the third during seventh period. And by then it was just a bother, a real distraction. We’ve got a lot of material to cover in science. So I say we should squash the whole thing right away.”

  Mrs. Escobar nodded her agreement. “It’s very annoying in math class, these short answers they use. It’s a game to them, and that’s all they’re paying attention to. I’m trying to work, and if they’re playing a game, it’s frustrating. Very frustrating. So if this is a vote, I say we stop it first thing tomorrow.”

  Mr. Burton shook his head. “But why? It’s very inventive, what they’re doing. And it’s creative, and they’re all thinking. And I think it’s mostly positive, too. They’re all exercising some self-control—which is a big change for this group. I think we should try to have a sense of humor about it, just let it run its course. It can’t go on for very long, can it? What’s the harm?”