A Quiet Kind of Thunder Read online

  So, no, I’m not putting it on and, yes, it is a real thing. It just happens to be a real thing that a lot of people haven’t even heard of, let alone understand.

  What are you thinking, Steffi? What are you thinking? Everything, all the time.

  You’re so quiet, Steffi. Why are you so quiet? But in my head it’s so loud.

  I’m sure everyone has an inner monologue, but I doubt many are as wordy as mine.

  So here I am, sixteen and silent on my first day of sixth form. True to form, I make it to lunchtime without speaking to anyone. This makes me feel weak with relief at the time but then, sitting by myself at a picnic table outside the sixth form block, horribly depressed. It is clearly not normal to go four hours surrounded by peers without talking to any of them – and then feel happy about it.

  Plus, there’s the whole year-I-prove-myself thing. So far, I haven’t.

  I miss Tem.

  No, don’t blame this on missing Tem. If she was around you still wouldn’t have spoken to anyone else.

  But –

  I’m interrupted by the sudden appearance of a boy, who slides himself casually down on to the bench opposite me and throws me a lazy grin. Hello.

  I stare at him. Rhys squints. There’s a pause.

  Hello?

  I pull myself together, regain my sense of movement and answer him. Hi. I resist the urge to ask him what he’s doing sitting with me, because that seems a bit rude even though it’s what I really want to know, and sign instead, How’s it going?

  Rhys beams at me, looking far more happy than my delayed reaction deserves. Great, thanks. I think . . . school . . . bald teacher . . . computers . . . BSL . . . tennis.

  Oh God, this is hideous. I can feel a flush working its horrible way up my neck and across my face. I can’t follow what he’s signing. He’s too fast; too good; too relaxed. I have no idea what he’s saying to me. Why would he be talking about tennis, for God’s sake? Come on, Steffi. You can do this.

  Rhys’s hands still and he smiles at me, expectant. The happy, hopeful expression on his face makes me feel awful. That’s why he wanted to sit with me – because he could have a conversation without reading anyone’s lips or worrying he was going to miss something vital. And I’ve ruined it for him.

  I swallow down the bubble of panic that the expectation of conversation always produces in me – even, apparently, silent ones – and force myself to smile. He is not inside your head, I remind myself. He doesn’t know you’re such a mess. Little slower? I ask. I roll my eyes, gesturing to myself. I’m rusty.

  He grins. Hello, rusty.

  I laugh, so spontaneously and easily it surprises me. Dad joke.

  Rhys shrugs, still grinning, looking absurdly pleased that he’s made me laugh. His hands start to move again, careful and slower this time. I watch, trying to follow what he’s saying. This time, I at least catch more of it, but it’s still not anywhere near enough to carry a proper conversation.

  Sorry. I feel tight with frustration. It’s been a long time.

  He flicks his hand in the universal ‘no worries’ gesture, then digs into his bag and retrieves a notepad. Flipping it open, he scribbles for a few seconds, then spins it around to me. He writes in quick, brisk capital letters. It is the clearest boy handwriting I’ve ever seen.

  I THINK ALL SCHOOLS ARE THE SAME REALLY. DO YOU KNOW THE COMPUTING TEACHER? THE BALD ONE. HE’S MY FORM TUTOR TOO – HE KNOWS BSL! SO THAT’S ANOTHER PERSON I CAN TALK TO ☺

  Nothing about tennis. I must be even rustier at BSL than I thought if I invented ‘tennis’ and missed ‘person’. I hesitate, trying to formulate a proper reply. It feels like when I had to sit my French oral exam at GCSE and I had to just throw the right individual words together and hope they made some kind of sense as a sentence.

  Here is what I mean: What school did you go to before? Yes, Mr Green was my IT teacher for years. He’s probably easier to talk to than me!

  Here is what I sign. Probably. School earlier? Yes, Mr Green teacher computer ages. He signs better. Pause. Sorry, I am crap.

  Rhys is patient and if he’s amused or frustrated by me he doesn’t show it. He signs slowly, returning to his notepad when it is clear I can’t understand him. The two of us make a patchwork conversation, knitting together sentences with our hands and his pen. I am concentrating so hard I don’t even notice the silence, usually so heavy around me. At no point does he say, This would be easier if you would just speak.

  We establish the basics. Rhys wants to be a games developer and so plans to go to university to study computer science. You don’t have to have a degree to be a games developer, he tells me – practical experience is more important – but his parents are insisting. They don’t think I’ll actually make it in the games industry, he explains, and though he rolls his eyes I can see that he’s too fond of them to be irritated. They want me to have a degree as a back-up.

  We have just one subject in common – maths – and I tell him that I want to study animal behaviour. If I make it to university.

  Why wouldn’t you? he asks, confused.

  I hesitate, then attempt to explain with my limited skills. My parents don’t want me to go. They don’t think I can . . . manage.

  Manage what?

  Thankfully, that’s when the bell rings. Even if I could talk normally or we were communicating at the same ability, I’m still not sure I could explain the whole thing about my parents and university and me. How it seems like they disagree about everything except my future, which, I’m sorry, shouldn’t really be anything to do with them. How they seem to think that because I don’t talk much I won’t be able to deal with university. How this is the year I have to prove to them I’ll be able to handle it.

  Rhys stands, gathering his books and crumpling up his empty sandwich wrapper. With one hand, he waves a goodbye.

  I smile and mouth, bye, and it makes me feel nice to think that, as far as he knows, I said the word out loud.

  ‘Bye, Stefanie,’ he says out loud, his voice husky, the words like confetti, light and soft in the wind between us.

  ‘It’s Steffi,’ I say, surprising myself.

  He pretends to doff an imaginary cap at me, which makes me laugh. ‘Steffi,’ he repeats. He has the friendliest smile I’ve ever seen. He waves again, then turns to jog away.

  My favourite sound in the world is the bell ringing at the end of the school day. I may be a sixth former now, but that hasn’t changed. I am out of my seat and heading to the door before the bell has even finished ringing.

  ‘Did you get the chapters, Steffi?’ Mrs Baxter calls to me. She’s been my teacher three times since we first met in Year 7, so I give her a thumbs-up rather than reply, knowing she won’t mind.

  As soon as I walk out of the school gates, I feel my shoulders untense, my muscles loosen, my bones relax. Oh, hello, freedom. Sweet, sweet, freedom.

  And, best of all, ‘Hello there!’

  Tem. My favourite person in the world, standing just outside the gates, balancing two Starbucks cups in one hand and holding a paper bag in the other. September Samatar, best of the best.

  I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. The stress of the day has taken my voice away, and I know that there’s nothing I can do but wait for it to come back right now. Tem grins at me, understanding, and gestures with her head down the road. I nod and we turn to start walking together.

  ‘Nice outfit choice,’ she says, eyeing me sideways as we go. I am wearing dark jeans, a plain black T-shirt and ankle boots. ‘I can see you’re channelling the Background look. That’s very on trend, I hear. A wonderful choice for the Don’t-Look-At-Me crowd.’

  I can’t help smiling, even as I reach out and flick one of her black curls. This is what Tem does. She fills my silences.

  ‘I brought sweet treats,’ Tem continues as we approach the corner. A crowd of Year 10 boys runs past us, jostling us both as we go.

  ‘Oi oi, sexy!’ one of them yells at Tem, thrusting his crotch at he
r. She bursts out laughing. The boy, momentarily devastated, rights himself, swaggers his shoulders and runs off, flicking us both the finger as he goes.

  ‘What a catch,’ Tem says, deadpan. ‘He’s going to make some girl very happy. For thirty seconds.’ She is wearing a black cotton dress with short sleeves and some kind of gold patchwork at the hem, beaded sandals on her feet, bangles on her wrist. I can see why a Year-10 boy would call her sexy. I’d call her Temmish.

  We cross the road and head right down one of the avenues, away from the school uniforms and noise, into the quiet.

  ‘Oh my God,’ I say, and it feels so good. The sound of the words coming out of my mouth, the way my jaw moves, like it’s getting exercise for the first time all day. I let out a breath and grin. ‘Hi, Tem.’

  She grins back, leans over and kisses me on the cheek. ‘Hi, Steffi!’

  Tem and I have been best friends since we were toddlers. This was basically decided for us by my mother, which is pretty much the best decision she’s ever made, especially when it comes to me. Mum was working for the Refugee Council at the time, which is how she met Ebla, Tem’s mother. When she found out that Ebla had a daughter the same age as me, she suggested we meet. And that was that.

  Over the next few years – which included my parents’ divorce and respective remarriages; my sudden, total silence; Clark’s death; and so much else – we bonded so tightly we are like part of each other. Steftember, my dad used to call us. Through so much confusion and turmoil in our lives, we have always had each other.

  ‘So tell me everything,’ Tem says, leading me into the children’s playground – deserted as always – and taking her usual seat in the middle of the merry-go-round. She arranges the two Starbucks cups in front of her and opens the paper bag, pulling out some kind of cake and splitting it in two with her hands. She looks up and throws me a quick grin.

  ‘Millie Gerdavey cheated on Jack Cole again,’ I say, taking a sip from my cup and smiling. She’s delivered me a caramel mocha. Extra sugar, extra caffeine. She must be worried about me.

  ‘Good for her,’ Tem says, shrugging. ‘Anything actually interesting?’

  I laugh. Tem is basically immune to gossip, which is one of her best and worst traits.

  ‘OK, well, not really.’

  ‘Oh, no way!’ Her face drops. ‘All these years looking at the sixth formers and wishing we were them and now you’re telling me it’s not actually interesting?’

  ‘It’s not. It’s like the rest of school, except we don’t have to wear uniform. Which is a bonus, obviously. But still. Today was mainly intro stuff, anyway. Like, getting reading lists and timetables and stuff.’

  ‘How many words did you say today?’

  I think about it. ‘Less than twenty, more than ten.’

  ‘Hmmm.’ Tem makes a face. ‘I guess that’s OK for your first day without me. I thought it might be less. Or, like, none.’

  ‘I met a boy,’ I say.

  She is instantly alert. I swear her whole body snaps to attention. ‘What?’

  ‘I met a boy,’ I repeat, just to annoy her.

  ‘Stefanie!’ She flaps her hands at me. ‘Tell me everything. And I mean everything. Immediately. And – God – I hope some of those less-than-twenty-more-than-ten words were said to him.’

  ‘Actually, they weren’t,’ I say, enjoying the opportunity to wind her up for once. ‘I was entirely silent. So was he.’ I consider, then add, ‘Almost.’

  She squints her face into a frown, like she’s trying to see inside my head. Finally, suspiciously, she says, ‘But you met him?’

  ‘He’s deaf,’ I say, and her face unfolds.

  ‘Oh.’ Understanding lights in her eyes. ‘Cool! So you were signing? That’s so great, Steffi. I always thought you should’ve carried that on.’

  I ignore this, because the whole should-Steffi-sign-or-not issue was bad enough the first time round, and take a bite of the cake she’s brought. It’s some odd mix of doughnut and apple turnover, and it tastes like joy. ‘His name’s Rhys,’ I say. ‘Mr Stafford introduced us because I know some BSL.’

  ‘That makes sense. So? What’s he like? You know I want the details.’

  ‘Nice,’ I say. ‘Friendly. Really friendly, actually.’

  ‘I meant visually,’ Tem says, waving her hand. ‘Obviously.’

  I smile. ‘Also nice to look at.’

  ‘Give me something to go on! Eyes? Hair? Teeth?’

  ‘Brown eyes. Short hair. Very nice teeth.’ I think of Rhys, smiling at me from across the table. ‘His skin is a light brown – I think he’s mixed race?’

  ‘I like the sound of him,’ Tem says, nodding. ‘I approve.’

  I smile. ‘You don’t need to approve anything. He’s just a new guy at school.’

  ‘Sure he is,’ Tem says, drawling the words. ‘And you “just” wanted to tell me about him. And describe him. And make those doe eyes.’

  ‘I wasn’t making doe eyes!’

  She raises one perfect eyebrow at me and takes a sip from her cup, a smirk on her face. ‘I think it should be your mission to kiss him. I’ll give you until . . . Bonfire Night.’

  I laugh, half amused, half panicked. ‘Tem, I literally just met him today. We’re not even friends yet. Slow down.’

  ‘Why should I?’ she asks, shaking her head. ‘Why wouldn’t a handsome young fellow want to kiss you? That’s the question you need to be asking yourself.’

  I open my mouth and her hand shoots out to cover it. ‘That was a rhetorical question, Brons. I wasn’t asking for a list.’

  I wait till she removes her hand and answer her anyway. ‘Guys like to kiss girls who can talk.’

  ‘Um, so clearly not true. You’ve seen The Little Mermaid. There’s a whole song about it.’

  I roll my eyes. ‘That song is about trying to get them to kiss, but they don’t.’

  ‘Whatever.’ She waves her hand. ‘My point is you’re obsessing way too much over a tiny little detail. So you don’t talk much – who cares? You can talk with your hands.’ Her face lights up with a mischievous grin. ‘Talk. With your hands.’ She splays out her hands around her face and mimes kissing, eyes closed, mouth agape. This is presumably meant to represent some kind of kissing-related sign language from someone who has never spoken any sign language in their life.

  ‘Oh, stop it,’ I say, laughing despite myself.

  ‘Fine, fine. Hey, do you want to come for a run with me tonight?’ she asks. She grins. ‘I promise I’ll go slow.’

  ‘How slow?’ I ask, suspicious.

  Tem is a runner. Technically long distance, but she has a habit of lulling me into a false sense of security by jogging for thirty seconds and then sprinting off into the distance, just because she can.

  ‘A jog,’ Tem promises. ‘You’ll barely even sweat.’

  ‘As tempting as that is,’ I say (I am not a runner), ‘I can’t. I’m at Dad’s.’

  ‘Oh,’ she says. ‘That came around fast.’

  I smile. ‘The summer’s over for me. I moved my stuff in last night.’

  Even though they are divorced and have both remarried since, my parents live in the same town, for my sake. This was an agreement they made years back so I could alternate living with them both but also not have to do anything annoying like move school or get three buses in the morning. They live on opposite sides of town – Windham is pretty much in the middle, which is useful – and I move between them. Since I started secondary school, I’ve stayed with Dad during term time and Mum during the holidays.

  The main downside to all this, at least during term time, is that Tem lives a two-minute walk from my mother and a ten-minute drive from my dad, so it’s less easy for us to see each other.

  ‘I can still come over to you,’ Tem suggests. ‘I don’t mind.’

  I shake my head. ‘Maybe this weekend, but not tonight. I’m pretty tired and I promised Dad I’d make dinner.’

  She sighs. ‘Fine. But you’re just missing
out on my company.’

  ‘Call me tonight, OK?’ I say. ‘It’ll be just like I’m there.’

  She smirks. ‘Hearing your voice is weird enough, let alone if I can’t see you at the same time.’

  I glare at her. ‘No mute jokes on my first day back! You promised!’

  ‘No, I didn’t. You asked and I made a joke about penguins.’

  I roll my eyes. ‘You’re impossible.’

  ‘I’m wonderful.’ Tem throws open her arms and beams at me. She looks so ridiculous I have to laugh.

  What I mean to say through all this is that however hard it is to be the girl who doesn’t talk, the girl who dithers in the corner then shrugs a reply, I have Tem. And if there’s only one person in the world I can talk to I’ll choose her every time.

  The top five worst times to be mute

  5) When you need the toilet

  I am six years old and Tem is off school with suspected mumps (it will turn out to be the flu). I navigate my silent day alone, without my trusty interpreter, who pays as much attention to my needs as she does her own. Everything is fine until I realize I need to pee. I cannot say so. I can’t even lift my hand to gesture at the door. I sit, rigid, staring at my worksheet. I wet myself. ‘Ewwwwww!’ the class screams in delight.

  4) When you’re bleeding

  I’m eight years old. We’re on a school trip at a family farm. We’ve been divided into smaller groups – I’m a Giggly Goat, Tem is a Happy Hen. I catch my hand on a barbed-wire fence and rip an impressive hole from the pad of my thumb all the way across my palm. I try to figure out how to tell the staff member looking after us – Julie – without making too much of a fuss, and end up cradling my hand to my chest for the next twenty minutes until Julie cheerfully asks me what I’m hiding. I show her my hand – now a bloody, fleshy mess – and she screams, backs away and faints.