MUTE part 1

Prologue

I was clinging when they found me. Clinging with everything in me, with all I had left. They didn't know, of course. How could they know? All they could possibly know was what they saw. They saw that I was struggling. And so they pulled me up, with force and with strength, even as I wrapped my arms tightly, even as I felt my muscles burst with the effort.
They pulled me away from him.
I opened my mouth, and I tried to cry out, to tell them no, to tell them he was here, too. But I knew, even as I opened my mouth, that nothing would come out. Nothing ever came out. Still, if ever there were a perfect time for my tongue to start working, for my words to finally escape and be heard, that time would be now. And so I tried. I opened my mouth and I tried.
But nothing came out.

Chapter 1

My schedule was ridiculous. I mean, every kid on campus was jealous of me right now. I had art first period, and not only that, I had art with Mr. Maysworth first period. My long history of detentions because of tardiness was put on hold for a year. Right now, though, that wouldn't matter even if I had Mr. Krieff first period, because it was the first day of school, and I was on time. I claimed the best seat in class right away- the window seat in the front row. Mr. Maysworth is one of those rare teachers where you actually want to sit in the front, and the trees outside the window always make for perfect inspiration when I have no idea what to draw, paint, carve, etc. I dropped my Jansport backpack next to my stool and pulled out my sketchpad and my drawing pencils. I started doodling vines on the top of the first blank page while I waited for people to arrive. Mr. Maysworth never actually started class until about ten minutes in, sitting in front of his computer until then, scrolling endlessly and sipping his coffee that was always so milked down it might as well have been tea with a pensive expression on his face. I was focused on one particular root of a small tree I was having sprout from the binding when the stool next to me became occupied. I saw his Chucks and paint-spattered jeans before his face. When I looked up, a white-blond guy with hazel eyes smiled at me, nudging his own sketch pad with his elbow as he stuck his hand out to me in way of greeting. I shook it half-heartedly and he said, "The name's Bond. James Bond." He winked and said, "But you can call me Ames." I raised my eyebrows and tightened my lips, nodding slightly before looking back down to my sketchpad. I felt Ames's eyes still on me, so I moved closer to the paper and scooted my pad away subtly, hoping he'd get the hint. He looked down at his own pad and said, "The quiet type, I see." Valerie walked up just in time to laugh at that statement and said, "You got that right." She stuck her hand out to Ames and said, "Valerie Smith. Pleasure to make your acquaintance. And you are?" He grinned and shook her hand firmly, "Ames Tyler. You can call me Ames. Or Tyler. Or Ty. Anything's fine, really, as long as you don't call me Amy." Val smiled, "Nice to meet you, Ames. Sorry, but I'm gonna have to ask you to remove yourself from that stool." Ames rose his eyebrows, "Why's that?" Val nodded at me, "Me and her, we're kinda two peas in a pod. Printer and paper. Siamese twins separated at birth. Joined at the hip, and all that." Ames grinned, "I'm sure you can handle the distance. Why don't you sit just here, to my left, very close to your fellow pea?" Val's face scrunched up and she shook her head quickly, "Sorry, man, but no can do. I'm her translator." I wanted to bury my face in my hands. I hated that word. Ames rose an eyebrow, confused. He looked at me, "Vous ne parlez pas anglais? Usted no habla Inglés?"

"She speaks English," Val answered for me, "she's just mute." Ah. A word I hated even more than translator. Ames didn't even miss a beat before turning to me and saying, "In that case, since you can't tell me to shut up, if I'm ever talking too much, just pinch me." I couldn't help it. I grinned. And then, annoyed with myself, I pinched him. He laughed, and then pointed to my sketchpad, "What's your name?"

"Melissa," Val answered for me, "But she likes to be called Lissa."

Because it's hard to say, I motioned, and I like to make things as difficult as possible for all you talking jerks. Val laughed and translated to Ames, and he grinned. "So this," he said, copying my last motion, "is how you say 'jerks'?" I laughed and motioned, Almost. But Val was talking to someone across the room, and didn't see me motion, so my words never reached Ames's ears, and I blushed and looked quickly back down at my paper.

© 2011