No Talking (7 page)

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 head
so 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.

 

 

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.

T
he 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.