Speak Without Words Read online

  Speak Without Words

  C.C. Hansen

  Dancing Willows Press

  Copyright © 2022 by C.C. Hansen

  E-book ISBN: 978-1-7352615-5-3

  Cover Design: Side Eye Design

  Editor: Sophia Barsuhn

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

  This is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters, and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All trademarked brand and product names used in this book belong their respective owners. The publishers are not associated with any product, vendor, organization, or association mentioned in this book. None of the companies and organizations referenced within the book have endorsed it.

  CONTENT WARNING: This book portrays racism, suicide, and some physical violence and contains mild profanity.

  Contents

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Note on disfluent speech

  Part I

  1. Chapter 1

  2. Chapter 2

  3. Chapter 3

  4. Chapter 4

  5. Chapter 5

  6. Chapter 6

  7. Chapter 7

  8. Chapter 8

  9. Chapter 9

  10. Chapter 10

  11. Chapter 11

  12. Chapter 12

  13. Chapter 13

  Part II

  14. Chapter 14

  15. Chapter 15

  16. Chapter 16

  17. Chapter 17

  18. Chapter 18

  19. Chapter 19

  20. Chapter 20

  21. Chapter 21

  22. Chapter 22

  23. Chapter 23

  24. Chapter 24

  25. Chapter 25

  26. Chapter 26

  27. Chapter 27

  Part III

  28. Chapter 28

  29. Chapter 29

  30. Chapter 30

  31. Chapter 31

  32. Chapter 32

  33. Chapter 33

  34. Chapter 34

  Part IV

  35. Chapter 35

  36. Chapter 36

  37. Chapter 37

  38. Chapter 38

  39. Chapter 39

  40. Chapter 40

  41. Chapter 41

  Epilogue

  Disappointed in Todd?

  Thank you

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  For More Information on Stuttering

  Glossary of Volleyball Terms

  For the friends who’ve proven friendship means more than social media likes.

  “If you make yourself understood, you’re always speaking well.”

  Moliere

  Note on disfluent speech

  The protagonist in this story stutters. She exhibits a variety of disfluencies in her speech, which are written as described below.

  Sound Repetition: One sound in a word is repeated, e.g., “b-b-bad”

  Sound Prolongation: A continuous sound is held for longer than usual, like a hissing /s/ in “ssssssssssun”

  Block: The speaker’s mouth is “stuck” in position to make a sound, but they cannot produce it for a moment. This can be accompanied by blinking, facial grimaces, foot or hand tapping, or other concomitant physical behaviors. In this book, blocks are written as a capital letter for the blocked sound, followed by a dash, e.g., “C-oach”

  Word Repetition: A whole word is repeated, usually accompanied by a fast rate of speech, e.g., “my-my-my-my dog’s name is Burt”

  Word substitution: The speaker substitutes a synonym for a word they are having trouble saying, e.g., “sssssss- dumb” when trying to say “stupid”

  Part I

  Family

  Chapter 1

  Of everything she was leaving behind, Claire would miss the smell of fresh herbs the most. She sat with her tailbone rooted in the earth, eyes closed, fingering the plants one at a time. Basil, oregano, tarragon, thyme—a symphony of smells over the ever-present base note of livestock. The first rays of sunshine warmed her face, and Reed crowed. Guess I’ll get to sleep in now.

  Claire stood, stretched her stiff limbs, and shuffled through the tall grass to the barn.

  “Good morning, girls.” She meandered through the rows and stroked each cow on the forehead. Susy, Vera, Donna, Molly…she stopped at Beth, scratched her behind her ears. Claire had helped the vet deliver Beth, and they’d shared a special bond ever since.

  “I’ll miss you.” Claire kissed the velvety spot above Beth’s nose.

  “You don’t have to move, you know.” Grandpa Elliot leaned against the barn door, though farm work kept him fitter than many younger men. Morning shadows darkened his summer farmer’s tan, and his frown pulled at the wrinkles that had recently multiplied. “You only have two more years of high school. Finish them here, with us.”

  “I c-c-can’t leave Dad.” The words scratched her throat as they left, but they were true. Her grandparents supported each other, but her father needed her. Claire gave Beth one more heart-squeezing kiss and joined her grandfather, who wrapped his arm around her as they returned to the house. The gray-trimmed farmhouse had withstood generations’ worth of Wisconsin’s sticky summers and snowy winters, but the heartache inside threatened to succeed where nature had failed.

  Claire passed the hideous-but-comfortable maroon couch, the charity auction cuckoo clock, and the leaf-filled collage on her way to her room. Tacky as they were, her throat tightened at the thought of leaving them.

  She paused in her bedroom doorway, but with blank walls, an empty closet, and a made bed, it no longer resembled her space. She tiptoed across the hall to her parents’ room. The worn carpet peeked out from beneath the king-sized bed she’d often snuck into as a little girl. Despite Claire’s six-foot stature, the bed looked too big, too empty.

  “Is this the last of your stuff?”

  Claire whirled to see her father holding her suitcase. How long has he been standing there? Was he reminiscing, too? Would he regret this move?

  “Yeah,” Claire said, but she wanted to scream “no.” The tree swing, the Amish-built dining room table, the secret spyhole in the attic—how could her life fit in a suitcase?

  She followed her father to the driveway, footsteps heavy.

  “Claire-bear,” Grandma Charlotte called. The porch steps groaned under her big-boned body as she descended. Claire’s vast mental thesaurus would never have produced the synonyms skinny, slight, or scrawny to describe her grandmother, but recently the woman ate as if preparing to play Mrs. Claus in the town’s Christmas fair. The extra fat smoothed the creases that had once rippled across her pale face, as if compensating for Grandpa Elliot’s multiplying wrinkles.

  Grandma Charlotte wrapped Claire in a squishy hug and put a basket into her hands.

  “Honey wheat bread, raspberry jam, and cheese curds in case you get hungry.”

  “It’s only a three-hour drive, Grandma.”

  “Then you’ve no excuse not to visit me.” She squeezed Claire in another hug while Claire’s dad loaded the suitcases into the car. Claire could barely see the scar on his cheek anymore, but he was still too thin.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  No. As if being the school freak weren’t hard enough, now she’d be the new girl too, all without her grandparents’ support.

  Grandma Charlotte put her fists on her hips. “Drive carefully, Darrel.”

  Claire’s father winced as if the bitter words had struck him. br />
  “I’m ready,” Claire lied. No use delaying their departure. Leaving may be difficult for her, but staying would be impossible for her dad. Claire loaded the basket into the back and strapped herself into the passenger seat. The engine grumbled to life. Claire’s father had bought the car off a storeowner two weeks ago, and it still behaved as if it hadn’t adjusted to the early mornings of farm life. Guess it won’t need to.

  The wheels ground the gravel until the driveway gave way to the roadway, which transitioned to the highway.

  “I’m just doing what’s best for us,” her dad said.

  Claire watched the trees rush past. “I know.”

  “I mean it, Claire. I—”

  “Dad.” She looked at him, but he fixed his eyes on the road, knuckles white around the steering wheel. “I know.”

  They drove west over rolling hills crowned with sunshine. The shadows shortened as the sun rose behind them. Woods transformed into fields, then back into woods. Across the state, people fed livestock, made coffee, and bailed hay, but Claire and her father drove. They passed a cheese factory, a meat and gift shop, and a few sparkling lakes before they reached the Mississippi’s little sister, the St. Croix. Across the river, a sign bid them welcome to their new home: Minnesota.

  “Not much farther now,” her dad said.

  Billboards became more frequent, and the freeway became a hive of angry bees. Car horns buzzed through the air as the vehicles jostled for space.

  Her father cursed under his breath. “I thought we’d avoid cabin rush coming in the morning.”

  “C-cabin rush?”

  “People in the Twin Cities leave for their lake cabins on the weekends. They create a mini rush hour when they come home.”

  Their progress slowed. Houses squished together, then morphed into apartments. Trees went extinct. The freeway clogged like an old pipe. Claire gripped the door handle as the buildings crowded out the sky.

  They circled Aunt Monica’s apartment three times in search of parking. Claire saw a spot, but her father didn’t trust his parallel parking skills enough to risk scratching a new neighbor’s car. He pulled into a spot three blocks away.

  Claire jumped out of the car, eager for fresh air after hours of confinement, but the air stuck in her lungs—hot and humid and thick with something that smelled worse than cow pies. How do people breathe here?

  They hauled their suitcases into the apartment’s faded entryway and pressed Aunt Monica’s number. A whining buzz granted them access, and they ascended the rickety stairs to the third floor. Her father knocked on door 315.

  “You’re late.” Aunt Monica’s frown was the only curve in her otherwise angular face.

  “I underestimated cabin rush,” Darrel said. He stepped into the apartment’s living room and gestured for Claire to follow.

  Aunt Monica tucked a strand of pitch black, stick straight hair behind her ear. “There’s a reason I never wanted kids, Darrel.”

  Claire froze, hoping she hadn’t been meant to hear her aunt’s low-toned voice.

  “It’s just until I get a job and we find our own place. Three months tops. She won’t be any trouble.” Her father ran a hand through his own dark locks, highlighting Claire’s outsider status. She took after her mom’s family of round-faced, curly-haired redheads. With dour expressions on their pale faces, her father and aunt looked like they belonged in The Addams Family.

  Aunt Monica mumbled something and showed them the second bedroom. A twin bed crammed into the far corner, and an ancient computer sat atop an even older desk. Aunt Monica pulled another twin bed down from the wall. Claire tried not to think of Grandma Charlotte’s handstitched quilt as she fingered the thin blanket.

  Aunt Monica glared at Claire. “You’ll sleep here. I wake up early for work, so no screamo or whatever other garbage teens are into nowadays. Understood?”

  Claire nodded. She preferred classical music, but she doubted her aunt would appreciate her pointing that out.

  “Good. Any questions?”

  “Yeah. When are volleyball tryouts?”

  Claire’s father kept the engine running after pulling up to the school. “You sure you still want to play?”

  “It’s all I want to do.” It’s all I have left. Claire retrieved her gym bag from the back and entered a building four times the size of her old high school. A film of car exhaust replaced the hint of livestock Claire was used to, but otherwise, the place smelled like a school—old books, sweat, rusted lockers. If she spoke as little as possible, she’d be fine.

  Claire wandered the halls, hunting for the gym. She stopped short when she spotted a girl who could be a model for volleyball spandex. Her long limbs dropped elegantly from her lean torso. A thick headband held her tiny black curls away from a sepia-brown face blushed with sunburn. Her large oval eyes narrowed at Claire, no doubt taking in her pale sausage legs, freckled face, and red hair that sprung loose from its braid.

  “You need something?”

  Claire flushed. “I’m lllllllooking for volleyball tryouts.” One minor blip, not bad.

  The girl jerked her head. Claire followed, clenching her hands into fists to keep them from shaking. She knew nothing of this school’s social hierarchy. Her old school divided the student body roughly in half: girls with big boobs and perfect hair, and girls who shouldn’t bother with makeup because nothing could make them attractive. Claire belonged to the latter. Her guide belonged to that disgusting third category of girls so pretty they didn’t need makeup. Not a good sign.

  After traversing twisting corridors that made Claire question the architect’s sanity, they reached the gym. Claire hesitated in the doorway. The groups suggested the girls organized themselves by skin tone rather than bra size. Her old school had only two such categories: girls who returned from spring break sporting a tan, and unfortunates like Claire who just freckled. This gym, however, had an entire paint strip of color varieties.

  Her guide approached the closest group, whose skin tone varied from sandy brown to deep umber. Claire glanced at a cluster of pale-skinned girls at the far end of the gym. They huddled together, identical ponytails bobbing as they whispered and giggled. Claire shuddered and followed her guide to the first group. With social interaction, one rule superseded all others: steer clear of gossips.

  As soon as she set her gym bag beside them, the girls’ chatter stopped. Claire kept her gaze down as she changed into her volleyball shoes, but she felt the others’ curious eyes. Her own skin was a glowing neon sign that read Doesn’t Belong.

  Whatever. I’ll take outcast over gossip-fodder any day. The initial rejection may even benefit her. If these girls didn’t want her in their clique, they might skip the small talk. Claire could prove herself on the court. It was introductions that killed.

  “Hi,” the girl next to Claire said. Her definitively non-cliquey smile sparkled beneath the dark scarf wrapped around her hair. She wore a long-sleeved undershirt and leggings beneath her gym clothes. “I’m Saafi.”

  Claire shook her hand, noting the girl had trimmed her fingernails to nothing, just like Claire, just like all volleyball players. Maybe this won’t be so hard.

  “Hi,” Claire said. H was her golden sound. She could say “hi” all day.

  “I found her gawking in halls,” the girl with the headband said. Claire stiffened.

  “No se preocupe, new girl,” said a girl who lounged against her gym bag, inhumanly long limbs sprawled starfish style. “Betty is always cranky with new people.”

  The girl with the headband released an exasperated sigh. “It’s Beth. B-eh-th.”

  “Bay-t,” the long-limbed girl said.

  “No. B-eh-th. Beth. Jeez, Maite. Lorena didn’t need this long to learn to pronounce it.”

  The other girl sat up. “Lorena went to English immersion school. I learn English from old movies.” She grinned at Claire. “See, is like I said. Betty is cranky with new people, but she is a nice girl.” She held out her hand, and Claire shook it
. “I am Maite. Mai, like ‘my,’ and te, like ‘Taylor.’ Maite. From Colombia.”

  Claire nodded to Maite and turned to Beth. “D-do you mind if I call you Betty too? It’s just”—her cheeks flamed—“I had a C-ow named Beth.”

  “A cow?” Beth’s mouth widened enough to compete with even the most flexible frog.

  “Oh my God,” another girl said. “She’s not kidding.”

  “You mean a real cow, that moos and everything?” Saafi’s eyebrows rose to her headscarf.

  Shoot. She hadn’t expected her rural background to attract attention, but it wouldn’t be the star for long. Attention meant questions. Questions meant answers. Answers meant talking. Better keep it short.

  “I’m from Wisconsin.”

  “Well, you’ll have to get over your old pet. My name is Beth.” The girl’s expression shifted into a disappointed frown rather than the angry scowl Claire had expected. Claire wondered how many people never bothered learning her name.

  “What’s your name?” Saafi asked, her voice as warm as Beth’s was dour.

  Speaking of messing up names. Claire’s stomach became a trampoline park filled with bouncy balls.

  “Uh—”

  “You don’t know?” Beth said.

  “Yeah, it’s C- C- shit.”

  “Your name is Shit?” another girl sneered.

  “No, it’s C- it’s C—” My name. Why is it always my name? “It’s C-” The sound lodged in her throat, and Claire’s blood migrated to her face.

  “Is she having a fit or something?” someone asked.

  “Are you okay?” Saafi asked.

  “I’m fffffffff- I’m ffff-.” Stupid f’s.

  A few girls chuckled. The Gossip Girls’ ponytails wobbled as they turned toward the sound.

  “I’m-I’m-I’m—” Claire’s mouth got stuck on replay. The fluorescent lights beat down on her. This isn’t happening.