No Talking (6 page)

The fifth-period gym class was less dramatic than music. News had gotten to most of the teachers that the fifth graders had gone quiet, which didn't bother the gym teacher at all.Tuesday was dodgeball day, so Mrs. Henley appointed the two captains, and then the captains picked their teams by pointing, and the first game got under way—all without a word.

Dodgeball, which can be pretty serious anyway, seemed especially grim without the talking and shouting. There were the usual grunts of effort and screams of terror, and when three or four kids with red dodgeballs would silently go hunting for one player on the other team, it was sort of like watching a pack of wolves go after a lone caribou:A motion of the leader's head, a movement toward the prey, and then,
Whack! Whack! WHOMP!
—dead meat.

From the gym teacher's point of view, dodgeball was all about improving reflexes and getting a good

large-motor-skills workout, and to accomplish those goals without any of the taunting and teasing and name-calling? That was just fine by her.

Even so, Mrs. Henley watched all three games with great interest, and she saw how the kids communicated without words.And she noticed herself pointing and shaking her head and blowing her whistle instead of yelling. It was nice to give her voice a rest.

Mr. Burton taught fifth-grade reading and language arts. He was puzzled at the beginning of the class right after lunch, and like the music teacher and the science teacher, he asked questions and got three-word answers. But he kept at it, and after about five minutes, he figured out what was going on, at least part of it.

Unlike Mrs. Marlow, Mr. Burton had a lot of patience and a pretty good sense of humor. And he couldn't see any real problem with having these kids be this well-behaved. Anything that got the Unshushables quiet was fine by him. Plus, he decided they could all have some fun with this limit of three words in a row.

He picked a funny story from their reading textbook, a really short one, and he had the kids read it out loud, three words each and as fast as possible, with him calling out the name of the next narrator.

And when the story was finished, he said,“Okay, now I want
you
to make up a story.” He picked up a meter stick and said, “When I point at you, say a three-word sentence.And listen carefully, so you can make the story move forward. Here we go.”

The story started like this:
“A woman screamed.”
“She was scared.”
“It was dark.”
“‘Oh, no—snakes!'”
“One bit her.”
“‘Ow! My leg!'”
“She limped outside.”
“Her neighbor came.”
“‘What's wrong?'”
“‘Snakes are everywhere!'”
“‘Are they poisonous?'”
“‘Yes, and smelly!'”
“‘Quick, my car!'”
“‘You saved me!'”
“‘Darn! Dead battery!'”
Round and round the room the story went.

The poor woman and her neighbor were eventually eaten by the huge orange lizards that came up out of the sewers and ripped the roof off the car.The lizards also ate all the snakes. But then some ugly
tulips in the garden grew razor-blade teeth and ate the lizards. And then the tulips burped giant burps, which created a tornado that made the Statue of Liberty fall over and crush a tugboat, which made a wave that washed all the way to the White House and got muddy water all over the president's polka-dotted underpants.

It was quite a tale.

The period ended, and as the students walked quietly out of the room, Mr. Burton got a lot of waves and smiles and thumbs-ups.And he waved and smiled back at the kids. No words were needed.

It had been a successful class—fun, creative, lively, and everyone had used their word skills in new ways. Mr. Burton felt great.

The next forty minutes was his planning period, and then came the last class of the day, period seven. He had some papers to grade, but Mr. Burton was too excited. Because what these kids were doing—well, it felt like a once-in-a-lifetime chance to mess around with words and language and communication, to try something fresh, something special.After all, science teachers aren't the only people who like a good experiment.

So Mr. Burton sat at his desk, thinking and thinking. Finally, with about two minutes before period
seven, he got it—a great idea. Plus, he realized that this situation could be useful to him in a totally unexpected way.

And as the bell rang, Mr. Burton noticed that he was actually looking forward to his last class of the afternoon—another proof that this was
not
an ordinary day.

A
s his last class of the day came into Mr. Burton's room, he didn't speak, and of course, neither did the students. The bell rang, and all the kids watched him as he put a stack of lined paper on the front desk of each row.Then he turned to the chalkboard and began to write.

 

 

In less than one minute, every kid had paper.And in less than two minutes, the first notes were changing hands.

Todd wrote, “I still think this no talking thing is stupid,” and he passed the paper to Kyle.

Kyle read the note and wrote, “I sorta like it. It's different. A challenge.”

And then Todd wrote, “Challenge? What challenge? The teachers already know about it. Like Mr. Burton. He's just messing with us. Thinks it's great we're not talking. I
LIKE
TALKING!”

Kyle read, and he wrote back, “Too bad. Think how hard it is for all the blabby girls—we're gonna win this contest. Beat the girls!
Beat
the girls!
Beat
the girls! Get it? It's a silent cheer, like at a basketball game. Cool, huh?”

Todd wrote back, “Cool? Dude, it's lame. Here's my silent cheer—Kyle's a
Dork
! Kyle's a
Dork
! Kyle's a
Dork!
”

Kyle read the note, made a face at Todd, and then turned his back on him and started up a chat with Eric. No talking made it very simple to tune someone out.

A few seats away, Emily was having a hot argument with Taron. “I did
not
say you couldn't come over after school. I just said what's the point? If we can't talk.That's all.”

Taron read the note, shook her head, and wrote, “I
know
you don't like me as much as you like Kelly. So stop pretending.”

Emily rolled her eyes and wrote, “Don't be like that.”

Taron shrugged and wrote,“Like what?” Emily used block letters for emphasis. “ALL SNIFFY AND SNOOFY AND OUCHY—I
HATE
THAT.”

“See?”Taron wrote. “
Hate
.That's what you said. You hate me.”

Emily scribbled, “Don't be an idiot! I
don't
hate you. Come over after school. Really. We'll think of something to do. But we're gonna want to talk. I know we will. And we can't.”

And Taron wrote back, “I'm NOT coming.
You
think I'm an
idiot
.”

Emily read that, and then ripped the paper to pieces. And she reached across the aisle and patted Taron on the arm, and smiled her warmest smile, and then wrote on a fresh sheet of paper, “After school. My house, okay?”

Taron smiled back and nodded.

All around the room, kids were having to figure out the new rules for communicating.And for most of them, writing was a lot harder than talking. It was

slower, like instant messaging—only less instant, and less fun because there was no computer to mess with. There was so much less give-and-take than there was with talking. The Unshushables weren't used to that. At all.

Dave had just finished a frustrating set of back-and-forth messages with Bill.

Bill couldn't understand how to keep from getting called offside during a soccer game. Dave had explained it three different ways. He had drawn pictures and diagrams and everything, and Bill still couldn't figure it out.

So Dave passed a note to Ed, because he was the best junior league player in town. “Bill doesn't get the offside rule. HELP!”

Ed read the note, nodded at Bill, bent over his paper, and began writing.

Dave looked around for a new partner, and he saw that Lynsey was passing notes with Helena.They seemed to be having a great time, nodding a lot and cracking each other up.
Probably gossiping,
he thought.
About something really stupid.

He grabbed a clean sheet of paper and began a note to Lynsey: “What's the difference between you and a toxic waste dump?” But he decided that riddle was too harsh, even for Lynsey. Even if it
was
true.

He crumpled the paper and took another sheet. But before he started writing, he got up, walked to a bookcase, and grabbed a dictionary.

He flipped the pages and then ran his fingers down a column of words. And there it was:

 

um also umm ([ə]m)

interjection.
Used to express doubt or uncertainty or to fill a pause when hesitating in speaking.

 

So Lynsey had been right about something. For once.

He sat back down and wrote, “Hey, Captain Burgess, how's the war going? Ready to surrender?”

Dave nudged Jason, handed him the note, and pointed at Lynsey.

Jason nudged Lynsey and held the note out to her. And when she glared at him, Jason shook his head and pointed back at Dave.

Lynsey made a face and then took the paper, holding it between her thumb and forefinger like it was a squashed toad.

She read the message, wrote a little, and nudged Jason, who passed the paper back to Dave.

Her reply was, “It's
General
Burgess. Check the
score, dimbo. Girls rule, boys are losers. As usual. You're gonna get totally
schooled!
”

Jason handed the paper back to Dave. He read her message, made a snarly face at her, and then wrote, “Don't count on it. Always the big talker.”

And sitting there frowning at the paper, once again Dave felt this overpowering wish that he could show Lynsey who was the boss, settle the question once and for all, really put her in her place.

And in answer to this wish, an idea popped into his head—an idea he probably should have ignored.

But he didn't.

Pressing down hard with his pencil, Dave wrote, “How about you and me go head-to-head, have our own special no-talking match? Starting right now, you and me. Unless you're scared. And the winner gets to write a big
L
on the loser's forehead. With permanent marker. On the playground after lunch on Thursday. How's
that
sound?” And he gave the paper to Jason.

Lynsey grabbed the paper from Jason and read it, and there was no hesitation. She looked at Dave, nodded a big yes, held up her hand with her fingers making an
L
, and pointed at him. Then she wrote something and handed the paper to Helena, who read everything, wrote something, and passed the
paper back to Lynsey, who wrote something more and then passed the paper to Jason, who passed it back to Dave.

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.