A Quiet Kind of Thunder(5)
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 her. 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.