Louder Than Words

It takes a village to tell a good story. Louder Than Words is the result of such a group effort.

To my wonderful beta readers and critique partners—Julie Reece, Jessica Leake, Emi Gayle, Stephanie Lawton and Kathryn McKade—thank you so much for your time, your wisdom and your support. To Julie go my extra thanks for believing so firmly in this story, for nagging me to find a home for it, for patiently reading my other stories but always coming back to this one. Well, girlie, it’s finally here!

To the ladies of the Sisterhood of the Traveling Pens and the awesome authors at Absolute Write, thank you for always having an encouraging word, for offering critiques of early chapters, for the wisdom and experience you freely shared, and for making the lonely world of a writer not so lonely.

To my sista from another mista, Sandra Bunino, thanks for just being my friend and holding my hand. Always.

To my editor, Annie Cosby, thanks for finding all my spackling gaffes, my old lady pop culture boo-boos, a plethora of lost, misplaced and overly prolific commas and creative use of prepositions, and for the cheerleader comments sprinkled in between all of the above.

And finally, to Skyview High School in Vancouver, Washington, for being a safer place for my own kids because it encourages its students to say ‘no’ to bullying and to find their voices.

CHAPTER ONE

I hadn’t meant to say a word, hadn’t meant to talk about my whacked-out home life—that was nobody’s business but mine—but he was Mr. H. He said he wanted me to open up to him. I didn’t realize he meant my legs. Bastard.

I pull my limbs in tighter to my chest where I’m perched on the toilet seat in the girls’ bathroom. Every breath is held in check to prevent my hiding place from being discovered. I don’t have a hall pass. I didn’t think he’d offer one after I wrenched myself out of his arms and ran for the door. I damn sure wasn’t going to ask.

He said he understood my unique situation, said he wanted to help. Everybody loves Mr. H, the most popular teacher in school. He listens when kids talk to him. He nods and asks gentle questions, never pushes, never judges. Why wouldn’t I have trusted him?

Maybe it was my fault. Maybe I looked at him the wrong way, said something more suggestive than I’d intended.

I snatch a shuddery breath of the blissful silence, comforted by my solitude in the bathroom. For now anyway.

Why was I so stupid? I didn’t pull away…not soon enough. So that had to be my fault, didn’t it?

I can’t believe he kissed me. Why’d I let him? I should have dodged him when I first saw him moving closer. I should have pulled away, shouldn’t have let it go on as long as it did. But I didn’t want to be rude in case I’d misunderstood. Was that my fault?

Of course it was! What was there to misunderstand, idiot? Someone puts their lips on yours, it’s not because they fell there and gravity prevented a quick peeling off and retreat.

I press my face into my knees to will away the image, but it only burns brighter in negative, like an x-ray. When I lift up my head and open my eyes, words written with a Sharpie on the bathroom door jump out at me. Boys suck! Yeah, they kind of do.

He kissed me. I didn’t kiss him. That was his fault.

But how was I so naïve I didn’t see it coming? Pathetic, thy name is Ellen. My eyes clamp shut again, to try to squeeze the memories into nothingness. When I feel myself pitch to the right, I have to open them to regain my balance. I catch a glimpse of my ragged fingernails, their polish chipped and fading, a hangnail on the thumb.

Why me? I’m not all that sexy or pretty—not ugly—but it’s not like I advertise myself. I wear loose T-shirts and baggy jeans. My hair—an explosion of dirty blond corkscrew curls I keep pulled back in a ponytail—couldn’t pass even Bohemian standards of attractiveness. I don’t wear perfume. I bathe, brush my teeth, and don’t smoke, but that’s it. I barely even move the needle on the female Richter scale.

Why did he do it? Why?

Because he could.

I withdraw the hand I used to regain my balance from the stall wall and uncover where someone has etched in large letters, Darren G is a douche with a pencil dick. I know Darren G. He is a douche, actually. Tracing the letters with my finger, I wonder how long that took someone to carve. A laugh threatens to burst out, but I squelch it.

On the opposite wall someone has written, Miss Rice = dumb bitch, but it has been struck through, either because its writer changed her mind or someone else disagreed.

What if he’s angry with me now? What if he says I came on to him? Who are people going to believe? Mr. H or me? A popular, beloved teacher or a quiet girl with only a small handful of friends? A man who’s twice my age and a respected educator or a teenager with a mother who is either drunk or stoned?

My heart clicks into a higher gear on the panic meter and my breath comes faster. A tsunami of doubt sweeps me floundering into the cold dark sea where worse horrors lurk.

What if he flunks me and messes up my chances for a scholarship? What if he tries to get me suspended to keep me from saying anything?

What would he suspend me for though? Hiding in the bathroom? Skipping study hall? That’s crazy. He’d better not even try to do something like that or I’ll…I’ll what? Tell? Should I tell? What would I say?

Mr. H kissed me. Not a European ‘luv ya babe’ kiss, but a full on, tongue in my mouth, ‘press up against me with his gun drawn’ kiss.

God. How would I even get the words to come out?

The bell finally rings. The swell of voices and the thunder of dozens of footsteps in the halls rush into my brain. I’ve been hiding in this toilet stall for half an hour.

The outer bathroom door opens and two girls in the middle of a conversation about their summer plans take the toilets to my left. They continue to talk in loud voices as they undam a day’s worth of soda and iced coffees. I untuck my legs, letting my feet drop to the floor. Silently I slip out of my stall, out of the bathroom, out of the school. Nobody stops me. Nobody sees me. Nobody cares.

CHAPTER TWO

I don’t know what’s more humiliating, having to pedal my way to the community recreation center or the barter arrangement my brother worked out with them for the summer. Today the bike wins the loser-maker award.

I lock up my shameful chariot and trudge into the gym. The lights are on but dim. They still haven’t replaced the fluorescent bulb near the doorway that flickers and buzzes. I’m ten minutes late and the squeaking of my sneakers on the polished wooden floor rats me out.

Miss Grayson, it’s good to see you again this year. Let’s be sure to see you fifteen minutes earlier from now on, okay? The rec center’s summer camp director, Jocelyn Czerny, raises a single brow as I pass, a move I’ll bet she practices at night in front of her mirror.

I mutter sorry and climb to the top row of the bleachers, ignoring the faces that watch me pass. I take inventory of the backs of their heads from my lofty throne. About half of the crowns I recognize, the other half I don’t, but that could be because they changed hairstyles. A few of them are adults, who are paid to work here, and, by tacit agreement, to supervise the likes of myself and the other free-toes, the under-aged, unpaid counselors they’ve rescued from the streets.

Jocelyn hands out rules and guidelines, schedules and lists. I’m four rows away from the nearest person, who turns and waves the stack of papers at me. Drama Queen Gracie Underwood obviously expects me to go down to get my copy from her. I don’t and she scowls before dropping the stack on the bleacher behind her. The policies and procedures can’t be all that different from last year’s.

Jocelyn catches my eye and lifts the brow, on the opposite side this time, and I’m impressed enough to skulk down and snatch up a stapled set of papers. I catch the smirk of a dark-haired boy about my age, and creep back up to my seat. Dark-Haired Boy is still watching and smirking when I turn around and sit. I roll my eyes then pretend to examine the pages until he finally loses interest. He was probably laughing at my cropped hair or the pale-as-death skin on my newly bared summer legs. I wish I’d worn pants and a hat.

We’ll divide the kids into homeroom groups of ten with two counselors per group. You will both be equally responsible for the morning check-ins and afternoon releases of your assigned children. It’s ten each, never five. We don’t divide and conquer. It’s all for one and one for all. Jocelyn used that same line last year.

She flips to the next page and a chorus of flapping papers ensues. I scan the groupings of names for my own and find it typed side by side with someone named Rex Jacobi. Who the hell is Rex Jacobi? I groan and inventory the heads again, looking for a Rex-ish head. Curly hair like the Cornish Rex cat, I’ll bet. Has to be the old guy in the front row. It’s an old man’s name. I can’t believe they think I need an adult to partner with. There’s no rule preventing free-toes from partnering with other free-toes, at least there wasn’t last year. I mentally tick off my past transgressions to recall what I’ve done to warrant my own special brand of babysitting, but nothing comes to mind.

Dark-Haired Boy whispers in Gracie’s ear. She giggles and whispers something back, pointing to her copy of the roster. He nods and gives her a thumbs-up. Guess I know who her partner is.

Jocelyn drones on for the next hour and a half about the kids who typically attend, what their special needs might be, how to handle the unruly ones, and what is and isn’t allowed.

Any questions so far?

Is there a uniform or dress code? Gina Starr asks. She’s a year older than me but she considers high school years akin to dog years, having a ratio of one to four in terms of maturity. I wonder why a pseudo-twenty-one-year-old can’t be bothered to read the section cryptically entitled Dress Code.

In addition to the camp T-shirts you are required to wear, the dress code is covered in excruciating detail on page four, Jocelyn replies. I give her props for injecting snark into her tone. Last year she sent a girl home for wearing shorts so skimpy she had a whale tail sneaking out above the waistband and a tampon string escaping from the bottom. Anyone else have questions before we familiarize you with the facility?

No one does now that Gina’s effectively muzzled. Jocelyn beckons us to join her on the gym floor. A platoon of feet thunder down the bleachers, the echoes reverberating through the space.

The counselors tag along like puppies as Jocelyn winds her way through the sizable center with its institutional cinderblock walls and generic linoleum floors. I allow the group to overtake me so I can bring up the rear. So do Gracie and Dark-Haired Boy.

I’ll bet this is a lot different than where you’re from, huh? Gracie asks as she draws her long hair over one shoulder.

Nah, not so much, Dark-Haired Boy replies with a shrug. Our rec center had pretty much the same equipment and layout. His accent is thick, Brooklyn I guess, not that I’m any particular expert on the subject, but I do watch television.

No. I meant the city. I’ve always wanted to live in New York City. So much fun stuff to do, and I’ll bet you see a lot of TV stars and models, right? She sighs and tilts her shiny blond head to the side. Her hair cascades and fans out in a spider web where her shoulder breaks through. She’s wearing a hot pink tank top that shows off her tan, and oversized hoop earrings she’ll need to lose once the kids start coming.

The boy chuckles and says, Never seen a single movie star and I wouldn’t know a model if I saw one. It’s huge compared to Vancouver but a lot colder and dirtier and not nearly as pretty. He steals a backward look and catches my eye. Hey, he says to me with a quick lift of his chin. I avert my eyes and slow my steps to put a little distance between us. Why yes, I am the resident psycho who likes to hover and eavesdrop.

I return my gaze to meet Gracie’s as she peers over her shoulder. She blinks rapidly in succession when she sees me. Oh hey, Ellen. Wow! You cut your hair. I almost didn’t recognize you.

Yeah, jumps out of my mouth before I can stop it. My cheeks warm and I roll my papers into a tight cylinder. I’ve noticed the color of Dark-Haired Boy’s eyes—hazel. I’m still too close. I stop at the water fountain to get a drink.

When I finally suck enough water from the stingy fountain to justify a swallow, I turn to rejoin the group. Dark-Haired Boy stands in my path.

Looks like we’re going to be partners for the summer. He extends his hand, all knobby boy knuckles and tanned skin. I’m Rex.

This is Rex? And Rex wants to shake my hand? I look at it dully for a few beats before I wrinkle my face into one of intense seriousness and extend mine to meet his. Ellen.

I know.

Great. A smart-ass who thinks he can get away with it because he’s good-looking. I nod, and unable to conjure up a witty comeback, I move past him to rejoin the group.

He catches up to me and says, Uh, because I asked someone to point you out to me, seeing as how we’re co-counselors and all.

Oh. I keep walking. Brilliant conversation, Ellen.

I just moved here…from New York City.

Shooting him a sideways glance, I say, I know. I mean, I heard you tell Gracie.

Gracie has been swallowed up by the group. Rex and I hug the back of the pack, both of us silent. I think he sneaks a peek at me, but my peripheral vision isn’t that hot, so I chase off the idea.

Curiosity. That’s all it is. He’ll get all the pertinent facts and show polite interest until something better twitches her hips in his path. Hell, even a hot car will probably do it. Guys like Rex are out of my league, and it’s only a matter of time before he realizes it, too. No point letting even the tiniest of seeds germinate into a full-blown hope.

Where do you go to school? he asks.

Um, Lewis Meriwether High.

Oh yeah? Me, too. I mean, I will. In the fall. I haven’t enrolled yet, though. My ma’s been trying to push me into the magnet school for math and science, but I think it’s too late to get in. Plus that school’s way up in the north part of Vancouver. I don’t want to have to get up early to ride the city bus.

Ride the city bus? How old is he? I don’t want to ask, but somehow I am asking anyway. Don’t you have a car?

Nah. Don’t have a driver’s license or a learner’s permit neither. Nobody drives in New York.

I mumble something stupid about how I’d read that once, then curl my lips inside my mouth and bite down on them to keep them shut. My reason for not driving is significantly more mundane—we can’t afford the car or the insurance.

The subway takes me anywhere I need to go, as do these. He points to his feet.

I look down for the first time and notice he’s wearing Chucks, too, only his are full of holes and are covered in graffiti. Plus, they’re red. Yuck. I only wear black ones. I pretty much wear black everything, not because I’m emo, but because I like it. Everything matches. Nothing stands out. The stains don’t show.

I force a smile, but I’m sure it’s coming off as fake as the greased-up toothy grin of a beauty pageant contestant who’s just been cut from the first round but still has to do the cheesy musical routine. It’s as much for his benefit as my own that I shove him forward along the reality path. His kind doesn’t hang with my kind. He’s an alpha. I’m an omega. Just like in that nature film I once saw about wolves. Every now and then, one of the alpha males would try to hook up with a low-ranking female. Most of the time, the alpha female would intervene and bust his wolfie chops, but even if she didn’t, the omega female knew that messing with the top dog could get her ejected from the pack or killed.

When our tour ends and Jocelyn has interrupted every class currently in session saying each time, Yoo-hoo, just showing the summer camp counselors around, she leads us into the cafeteria. The room is ripe with the scents of institutional food that on paper meets all the USDA requirements but on the tongue tastes like dog food. Lunch is free for our student counselors and offered at a reduced rate for our employed counselors. Of course you’re always welcome to bring your own. Our only rule is you may not leave the rec center.

We all line up behind a class of small daycare children to get our hot lunches. It’s a little early for lunch but no one protests.

Rex and I are at the end of the line. He’s chattering away about New York City again. My lips escape my teeth and I have to ask, Why did you leave?

He twists his mouth into the semblance of a sad smile. Divorce. Father’s MIA and doesn’t give a damn. My ma’s from the area, so here we are.

We run the gauntlet of ladies in hairnets, and with trays in hand, move to the dining area. Gracie is seated near the window and motions for Rex to join her at the already crowded table. I make a beeline for one of the little girls I met last summer.

May I sit with you, Melayna?

She lifts her face up to mine and smiles, showing off the latest vacancy in her row of baby teeth. I squeeze in between her and another seven-year-old I remember named Byron. I don’t bother to confirm that Rex has been ensnared in Gracie’s web.

Byron! My man, says an approaching male voice.

Rex, what are you doing here? Byron says.

I look up as Rex takes a seat on the bench directly opposite the boy on my right. He smiles first at Byron then at me. I choke on my soda, sending it out my nose in two perfect streams. The children laugh and try to copy me without success. Only Rex is able to deftly duplicate my liquidy feat. I should be mortified, but I’m not. I’m laughing and everyone around me is laughing, and inside I feel a tiny crack open just wide enough to soak up some of this joy to save.

And then the crack snaps shut. Outside the window facing the street, I see her peering in, her hands cupped against the glass. She looks awful—dirty, skinny, strung out. Her hair hangs in strings around her face and she’s wearing no makeup. Inside my head I’m chanting, Please go away, please go away, but she doesn’t.

Excuse me. Be right back, I say as I get up from the table and race-walk for the door.

I’m met by the center’s director, Gary Larson, a round man with thinning hair, who forces a smile, and then asks in a patronizing voice where I’m going.

I just…my…aunt is out there and she needs to speak with me…briefly.

I am still trying to quietly talk my way out the door when Gracie yells across the room, Hey Ellen, your mom just passed out against the building. I think she’s—she pauses after glancing toward one of the children’s tables—ill.

Gary looks to me for confirmation, and I give the tiniest of nods. He follows me outside, cell phone in hand. He announces he’s dialing 9-1-1 as I try to revive my mother. She reeks of alcohol. Inside her purse, I find a nearly empty bottle of vodka, a wallet with two dollars, a bus pass, and an expired driver’s license. In the side zip pocket, I find a baggie of pills. I toss the bottle and baggie in the trash, but as I do my mother revives.

Ellen? Do you know what today is? I just need…where’s my bag? She searches for her purse and begins to flail about when she can’t find it. Where’s my stuff? Her words are slurred and her eyes glassy. Today is my father’s birthday, or it would have been.

I walk over and return her purse to her. She’s swaying on her feet but is lucid enough to snatch it from my hands. A mean glint in her eye, she searches inside before she turns a red and angry face to me.

Where are they? She’s yelling at me in front of the rec center and has attracted the attention of passersby. I try to usher her away from the window. You took ‘em! You had no right, she growls then pops me on the side of my face with a wild swing of her open palm.

Stunned, I fall back, my hand on my cheek. She’s never hit me before.

Gary moves in and grabs her by the elbow. You need to get going before I call the cops. You got no business here with the kids inside and all.

She took my medicine! she yells as he drags her down the street.

There’s nothing more I can do. I give my cheek one last soothing stroke then head back inside. When I get to the door, Rex is there and he’s watching Gary and my mother. The expression on his face tells me he’s seen everything.

CHAPTER THREE

Orientation mercifully ends around two o’clock. I’ve barely spoken to anyone except to answer questions. When Jocelyn dismisses us with a cheery ‘see you in the morning,’ I shoot out of the building to the bike rack. A few spins of my combination lock later and I’ve freed my chariot. I nearly run over Rex who is standing with his arms crossed, waiting.

Do you live with her—your mom? he asks. I don’t like the pitying look on his face. I’m not in the mood.

I hop on the seat and brace my foot to push off after I answer him with a gruff, No. But he shoots his hand out and stops me.

You live in the Lincoln neighborhood, right?

Um, yeah. I can’t meet his eyes. Sorry, but I gotta go.

I live there, too. Push your bike so I can walk with you.

I pointedly look at my watch, off into the distance, at the building, anywhere but at him as I try to concoct a plausible excuse.

Rex clears his throat. My dad dumped my ma and me for one of his employees—knocked her up. He lives in a high-end condo in Manhattan with his new wife and new son. He didn’t even send me a birthday card this year. My ma has to call him every other month to remind him about the child support.

I lose track of my excuse-crafting and tune my dial to his story.

So, we all got issues, you know? Issues that aren’t our fault.

With a quick nod, I dismount my bike. Sorry. That really sucks he’s such a dickhead. My words are mumbled, but I’m glad to talk about someone else’s problems instead of my own for a change. That probably makes me a horrible person. I really don’t care at the moment.

Yeah, I can’t even blame his dickheadedness on addiction. There’s no rehab for jerks.

A snort escapes me. Sorry. What a brilliant conversationalist I am today.

Me, too.

I look at the face of the boy in front of me, really drink it in. He’s too handsome to be wholesome for a girl. With a last name like Jacobi, I assume he’s Italian. The olive complexion and nearly black hair fit, but the hazel eyes introduce an element of doubt. He’s several inches taller than me, compact with sinewy muscles, cords of which show themselves in the forearm gripping my handlebar—manly arms, lightly dusted with fine, black hairs. His fingers are long and slender like a musician’s, nails neatly trimmed. I like that.

We walk in the direction of home, my bike between us.

I take another stab at the cool and sophisticated award of the year. "So why the bedroom burb of Vancouver and not the big city