Speak without words, p.12
Speak Without Words, page 12
She backed away, but one figure faced her, eyes white against the darkness. “Hey, what are you looking at?”
“I—”
“You think there’s something to see?” He moved toward her. Claire doubted her height would give her an advantage. She held up her hands.
“Nnnno, I—”
Before he came too close, Maite charged him from out of nowhere. She capitalized on the other man’s surprise, defeating him with a swirling series of kicks and punches. The men hobbled away, clutching sensitive body parts.
“¡Corran, cobardes!” Maite called after them. She turned to Claire. “Clara, what are you doing?” Her eyes hardened. “You buy something from them?”
“What? No. I nnnnnnn- I C— What are you doing here?”
“I helped María José. Her husband need to go to the hospital, but she is too small to lift him. They don’t have money for an ambulance.” Maite led her into the light of the streetlamp, where she pulled out her phone.
“What are you d-doing?”
“Reporting them to Officer Johansen. I don’t like drugs in my neighborhood.” She typed something and returned her phone to her pocket. “You didn’t answer my question.”
Only after Maite put a steady hand on her shoulder did Claire realize she was shaking. “I know it was ssssss- dumb to run at night, but I nnnn- I needed out. My aunt and dad were fighting. Again.”
“When you need out, you come to my house, okay? We can watch Rush Hour.”
“What?”
“Rush Hour? Jackie Chan, Chris Tucker? The best movie ever?” Maite stared at her, mouth agape, as if not seeing an old movie were more ludicrous than going for a run after a five-game volleyball match. “You stay with me tonight, and we will watch it.”
“Your grandma won’t mmmind?”
Maite put her arm around Claire and led her down the street. “Abuela loves everyone. She won’t mind.”
Claire thought of the argument that waited at home—Aunt Monica’s cold stares, her father’s wilted frame, the living room filled with loneliness.
“Okay, just let me t-text my dad.”
Claire stifled a yawn as she tiptoed into the apartment. Aunt Monica’s purse was gone, meaning she’d already left for work. Her father usually slept late, but if she was quiet enough, she could sneak in a shower, change, and head to school before he woke. She cracked open the bedroom door, but she bumped into him.
“D-dad. You’re awake.”
His sigh could have inflated thirty volleyballs. “It’s my first day of work. Aunt Monica got me a custodial job in her office building.”
Claire wanted to say, “That’s great,” but she wasn’t sure of her father’s feelings. “G-ood luck.”
“Have a good day at school.” He shuffled out the door.
Claire stared after him. At least he has a job. She didn’t care whether he worked as a custodian or an accountant. She just wanted her father back. Grief trapped him in the past, but a job might help him refocus on the present.
Claire raced through a shower, scarfed down a bowl of cereal, and caught the bus at a run. Not bad for two-and-a-half hours of sleep.
Before she reached her locker, Maite tackled her with a hug. “I am right, yes?”
Claire chuckled. “I’ll admit it, the movie was hilarious.” A little outdated, but hilarious.
“Next time, you stay for breakfast, and we will make arepas.”
“Only if you g-give me the recipe.” Claire stopped short. Usually, Saafi and Beth met her at her locker, but Todd Easdon leaned against it.
“Hey Claire. I caught your game last night. You have a wicked serve.”
Claire no longer walked. She floated. “Thanks.”
“¿Y este?” Maite asked, scanning Todd.
Claire flushed. “Maite, this is”—she inhaled and started the name lightly—“Todd. Todd, Maite.”
Todd looked up at Maite. “Wow, you’re the tallest Mexican I’ve ever seen.”
Maite crossed her arms over her chest. “I am Colombian.”
“Oh, cool.” He nodded, as if suddenly her height made sense. “So do you, like, speak Colombian?”
A smile wiggled onto Maite’s face. “Yes. I will teach you. Hipotechamaquamate, that is pencil, and hair”—she fluffed his wavy locks—“is magafluadesorusabe.”
Todd furrowed his brow. “Magaflua—”
Claire laughed. “She’s k-kidding. They sssssspeak Spanish in Colombia.” Saafi combatted ignorance with education. Maite’s weapon of choice was humor, with her fists serving as backup.
“Clara, you are no fun.”
Todd grinned as if he’d been complicit in the joke the entire time. “So Claire, now that I’ve seen your wicked serve, I thought I could show off my killer kick again. Our last home game is this week.”
Claire waited for Tina Lockard or the Gossip Girls to pop in and shout, “Gotcha!” but Todd merely raised his eyebrows. He really wants me there. Claire leaned against her locker to avoid tipping over.
“I’ll be there.”
“Great. See you around.” He winked and strutted away. Claire gazed after him until Maite reminded her she existed.
“You can do better.”
“What?” Claire opened her locker, hiding her blush behind the door. “No, I c-can’t.”
“You are a nice girl. He is…meh.”
“He’s c-cute, he’s almost as tall as I am, and he d-doesn’t care that I sssssstutter.” Claire grabbed her English notes, wincing as she remembered why Saafi and Beth hadn’t met her this morning. They’d planned to discuss their upcoming exam with Mr. Pohl. Oh well. One low score won’t kill me.
Maite frowned. “You can do better.”
“No, I can’t, Maite. No guy has ever kept t-t-t-talking to me after hearing me stutter.”
“No one?”
“No one.” Claire slammed her locker closed, rattling the door. Their classes were nowhere near each other, but Maite followed her anyway. She started to speak several times, but in the end, Claire broke the silence.
“Maite, do you miss C-olombia?”
“Sí. I miss the food, the music, the weather…my country is so beautiful.” She nudged Claire and smiled. “But the U.S. is good too. They make the best movies here.”
They reached the stairs. Claire’s legs burned from her run the night before, but Maite showed no signs of fatigue, despite their all-nighter.
“You miss Wisconsin?”
Claire nodded. “I miss fffffffresh air, wildlife, neighbors you trust not to break into your C- vehicle…but the volleyball is better here.” They reached Claire’s classroom, but before she could go inside, Maite hugged her, squeezing python tight.
“You can do better, amiga.”
“Thanks,” she said, wishing that were true.
She apologized to Beth and Saafi and slipped into her seat, shifting so that she could pretend to pay attention while whispering to Todd.
“Sorry about Maite. She can be overprotective.”
“I’m not afraid of her,” Todd said, but his nervous fidget suggested otherwise. The Gossip Girls often commented on Maite’s knack for ruining tough guys’ reputations. Claire hoped her friend wouldn’t scare Todd away. She brainstormed ideas for damage control, but Coach Larson retrieved her for therapy before she thought of an appropriate plan.
The school’s heat was on the fritz, meaning the speech office/closet alternated between freezing and sweltering. Today, the cozy warmth sabotaged her focus, and her late night caught up to her.
“Claire, you need to use these strategies outside of this office,” Coach Larson said.
Claire leaned her head on her hand. I’d rather nap.
Coach Larson whistled. Claire jumped and grabbed her ears. Note to self: Stop giving your coach an excuse to whistle in a tiny room, especially when you’re sleep deprived.
Coach Larson wrote something in Claire’s folder. “Go on an outing. Errands, shopping, eating out…I don’t care, but go alone so you have to speak for yourself.”
“But—”
“You can practice your strategies on your own, or I can ask your teachers to give you extra opportunities to speak in class.”
Claire slumped. “Is blackmail an approved therapy technique?”
“No, but it is my favorite.” Coach Larson smirked.
Claire left the office, but speech haunted her all day. Her math teacher called on her three times, as if she were behind on her quota. At lunch, the computers crashed, so she had to tell the cafeteria worker her pin instead of punching it in. At practice, Coach Larson drilled her on calling the ball and communicating with her teammates. By the end of practice, she wanted to take a vow of silence, but she refused to disappoint her coach. What errand could I run?
“Hey Claire, I almost forgot.” Saafi handed her a folded piece of paper. “My aunt’s recipe for surbiyaan. Sorry it took so long. She didn’t have it written down, so I had to follow her around the kitchen with a notepad while she cooked. We use goat, but you can use any meat.”
Claire skimmed Saafi’s neat writing. I think I found my outing. “Where do I find G-oat?”
“Al Salam Market is only a couple blocks away. We could go now.”
“Thanks, but C-oach wants me to run an errand on my own.”
She and Saafi parted ways. The nippy fall air cut through her fatigue. Claire wondered whether the city ever got truly cold, or if the close quarters kept everything mild. A pang of homesickness hit her as she passed a scrawny tree with yellowed leaves. She used to spend hours raking, all for a few seconds’ joy of jumping into the pile from the tree swing.
Claire shook off the thought. She had new memories to make. She entered a brick building labeled Al Salam Halal Food & Meat Market. Upon seeing the clusters of women in long skirts and hijabs, she was glad she put on warm-up pants over her spandex. I should have waited until I showered. Or until she’d slept a full night, or two, or two hundred. What made her think she could converse with strangers about goat meat?
Her instincts screamed to flee, but her tennis shoes glued themselves to the floor. Coach thinks I can do this, and if Saafi suggested coming after practice, it’s not taboo. She marched to the meat counter and handed the middle-aged man the recipe.
“I’m t-t-trying to mmmmake this.”
He accepted the paper with curious eyes. “I don’t bite.”
“Oh, I’m nnnnnot nnnnervous. I sssss- sssss—” Use your stupid strategies. “I stutter.” The man’s face suggested she may as well have said she was from Jupiter. Well, now I’m nervous.
“I can help you.” A woman about Coach Larson’s age approached the counter. She wore her bright red hijab looser than Saafi did. “You’re Claire, right?”
Claire’s jaw dropped. “How d-d—”
“I’m Saafi’s second cousin, Libin, and you’re a six-foot-tall redhead in a halal meat market.”
“Oh.” Claire didn’t even have first cousins.
Libin scanned the recipe. “Two pounds of goat should do.” She nodded to the butcher and turned to Claire. “Do you have cardamom at home?”
Claire shook her head.
“Well, Somalis love cardamom as much as Norwegians do, so we’ll have to find you some.”
Libin led her around the store, throwing ingredients into Claire’s basket while lecturing her on the proper way to cook rice. By the time Claire left, she had gained a keen eye for quality spices, a thorough understanding of rice varieties, and a new appreciation for second cousins.
Grocery bags in hand, Claire headed for the bus. She’d lived in the city long enough now that waiting on the correct side of the street, dropping coins into the machine, and pulling the cord to signal stop no longer seemed as crazy as juggling a pack of wolves. A sense of accomplishment bloomed in her chest as she entered the apartment.
“Dad?” Her father didn’t answer, but the light glowed under the bedroom door. She set her bags on the kitchen counter. She didn’t know where Aunt Monica kept her pots and pans, but she doubted Aunt Monica did either.
Claire rifled through the cupboards until she found a suitable pot and sauté pan. Per Libin’s instructions, she soaked and parboiled the rice, browned the goat, and sautéed the other ingredients. Finally, she added the rice to the mix and let it finish cooking in the spiced sauce. The kitchen looked like it had battled a tribe of feral kindergarteners, but the smell alone was worth the mess. The aroma reminded her of her mother’s herb garden. A room that smells this good can’t be lonely. To top it off, she didn’t have to say a word. I like cooking.
“Claire, what are you doing?” Her father poked his head out from their room.
Claire beamed. “I made dinner.”
His face drooped. “I’m sorry, honey. You shouldn’t have to make dinner for yourself. I’m such a failure of a father.”
“What? No. D-dad, that’s nnnn—”
“Monica’s right. I can’t even feed my own kid.” He retreated into the room.
Claire’s mouth went dry. I just wanted to see if I could do it. She stared at the food, unable to lift her fork to her mouth.
Keys jingled in the lock, and Aunt Monica burst through the door. Her purse fell with a clunk.
“What. Did. You. Do.”
“I’ll c-clean it up.”
“You made dinner?”
Claire nodded. Aunt Monica edged toward the kitchen, as if afraid the mess might leap off the stove.
“Your father approved this little experiment?”
Claire dug spices out of her fingernails. “No. He thought I was sssaying he was a B-ad father.”
Aunt Monica shifted her glare to the bedroom door, shook her head, and joined Claire at the counter.
“What did you make?”
“I c-c-can’t pronounce it. SSSS- Surbiyaan.”
Aunt Monica sniffed the rice. “Is it any good?”
Claire nodded. “Eat it with the banana. The banana is everything.” Claire scooped a forkful and handed it to her aunt.
Aunt Monica chewed slowly before swallowing. She tapped her chin. “I’ll tell you what. You give me a plate of that, and you leave the kitchen spotless—I mean spotless—and I won’t tell your dad to ground you. Deal?”
Claire served two heaping plates of her first cooking accomplishment.
Chapter 15
Claire’s legs shook. Coach Larson paced the center of the circle, her thumb poised on her stopwatch. The season was ending soon, but the coach didn’t believe in coasting to the finish line. The girls gritted their teeth as they held a squat. Balls bounced around the JV court as they practiced serving.
Talayah, the other left side, crumpled, her tawny face flushed red as she sprawled on the gym floor. Claire eyed her, tempted to chastise her for quitting, but also dying to join her. Seconds dragged. The JV coach whistled for a drill change.
At last, Coach Larson whistled, and the girls collapsed like a child’s toothpick sculpture.
“Talayah, back on your feet.” Coach Larson readied her stopwatch. “If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again.”
Talayah’s eyes glistened as she positioned herself in a squat once more.
“Come on, Talayah,” Saafi said. Her teammates joined in a chorus of cheers.
“C—” The words refused to leave Claire’s exhausted mouth. Talking in unison usually helped, but not in an uncoordinated group like this. Forget talking. She squatted next to Talayah and squeezed her hands. Talayah smiled weakly.
Beth linked arms with Talayah and lowered herself into a squat. Saafi came next, then Maite, and one by one the rest of the team joined the web.
Coach Larson continued her pacing. “A team is only as strong as its weakest link. Ms. Henderson, are you strong?”
“Yes.” Talayah’s voice shook as much as her legs.
“This isn’t a library, Talayah.”
Claire empathized with Talayah’s whimper. Her legs hadn’t hurt this badly since… The last time Claire had timed a squat, her mother held the stopwatch. She’d almost collapsed into the herb garden, but her mom had grabbed her arm and said, “Don’t give up. You’re stronger than you think you are.” Claire had beaten her record.
Time to break it again.
“I can’t hear you, Talayah,” Coach Larson said.
Claire nodded to her teammate.
“I am strong,” Talayah shouted.
Coach Larson shook her head. “I thought this was a team sport. Where are the rest of you?”
“We are strong,” they shouted with one voice. Their legs shook, but they linked arms, holding each other up in a sweaty embrace.
“Again,” Coach Larson said.
“We are strong.”
Maite’s grin turned into a grimace. With her height, she supported more than her fair share of her teammates’ weight, but she didn’t complain. Claire gritted her teeth. If she can hold this squat, so can I.
Coach Larson bounced a ball. “And?”
“We can do anything.” The team’s roar echoed through the gym as the JV team filed out. Coach Larson whistled, and the girls pulled each other up to stand.
“Congratulations, ladies. You held that squat for twice as long as usual.” Coach Larson grinned. “Now I know to expect more.”
The girls groaned and shuffled to change into their street shoes. Beth plopped next to Claire. “I don’t think I’ll be able to walk tomorrow.”
“Agreed,” Saafi said.
“Hey, juniors.” Cassidy, the team’s right side, double-checked Coach Larson had left before hurrying toward them. “I’m throwing a party next Friday. You should come. It could be an end-of-the-season bash.”
Claire shook her head. “I’d b-better pass.”
“Come on, Claire. Don’t you want to see how city girls party?”
“Let me guess. You crank the music, get drunk, and llllllight stuff on fire.”
Cassidy pursed her lips. “Huh. Guess we’re not so different after all.” She looked at Beth.
“No way. Do you know the crap Minh would pull if she caught me partying?” Beth appealed to Saafi. “Back me up here.”
