Speak Without Words Read online

  Claire bolted.

  She raced to the hallway and took deep breaths to douse the fire on her face. She smelled gym mats and floor polish—familiar smells, familiar embarrassment.

  “Running away won’t help you talk.” A woman, about thirty, approached. She stood shorter than Claire, but her blue eyes struck like a blow. The hand she offered Claire was tough-skinned and tanned after a summer outdoors. “Coach Larson. I double as the speech therapist, so whether or not you make the team, we’ll spend a lot of time together.”

  Claire surrendered her hand to the woman’s callused grasp.

  “You this big of a coward on the court?”

  Claire tightened her grip. “No.”

  Coach Larson jerked her head toward the gym. “Prove it.”

  Claire re-entered the gym. The girls stopped chatting, and Saafi left the cluster of gawkers.

  “Are you all right?”

  Claire forced a smile. “I’m ffff- okay. I ssssss—” Whoever invented this word better be roommates in Hell with the person who put an s in “lisp.” “I ssssss- sssstutter.”

  “Huh?” Beth said.

  “What is stutter?” Maite’s accent rendered the word “eh-stutter.”

  “She has trouble speaking, which has little to do with hitting a ball over a net.” Coach Larson threw a ball to Beth. “Let’s get to work, ladies.” She gestured to Claire. “Let me know when your name decides to come out.”

  Claire’s nervousness morphed into excitement as she ran through the passing drill. These girls were good. Better than her teammates back home, better than the girls who won state last year. I need to step up my game.

  Claire pushed herself, diving for balls even when she thought they were out of reach. After they finished passing practice, Coach Larson called Saafi and two other girls to the net. They set while the other players hit. Claire lined up on the left side and watched the ball leave Saafi’s hands—no spin, perfect placement. Claire approached…and shot the ball into the net. Shoot. A perfect set, and I spoil it.

  “Keep your arms tight to your body as you approach,” Coach Larson said. Claire nodded and got back in line.

  On her next turn, she followed the coach’s advice. Her approach quickened. She planted her feet, sprang into the air, and drilled the ball into the opposite floorboards. Yes. She’d never hit so close to the ten-foot line.

  Coach Larson whistled, no less shrilly for using her lips. “Water break.”

  Saafi caught up to her. “Nice hit.”

  “Thanks. Your sets are amazing.”

  “Feeling better?”

  Claire nodded. “C-can you show me where the bubbler is?”

  Saafi furrowed her brows. “The what?”

  “The b-bubbler. You know, where you G-et water?”

  “You mean a drinking fountain?” Beth said. “What planet are you from?”

  “Wisconsin.”

  “I will show you.” Maite draped a long arm over Claire’s shoulders and ushered her into the hallway. Claire wasn’t used to feeling short, but Maite’s affable attitude put her at ease as they waited in line for the bubbler/drinking fountain.

  “What’s with Beth? Did I do something wrong?”

  “Betty is a nice girl, but she build walls.”

  What does that mean? In hindsight, mentioning her cow hadn’t been the best way to win the girl’s trust, but Claire didn’t think she’d deserved that comment about being from another planet. She’d heard it before, but usually in reference to her stutter, not her vocabulary. As if I don’t have enough trouble fitting in.

  Claire and Maite drank and returned to the gym. “You find the bubbler, Cheesehead?” Beth said.

  “Claire.” Claire paused. Her name never came out so easily. She capitalized on her momentum. “My name is Claire.”

  “Clara,” Maite said. “Pretty name. You are a nice girl, Clara.” Claire’s name became three-dimensional in Maite’s rendition, a straight line given curves.

  “She said Claire,” Beth said.

  “That’s okay,” Claire said, though she appreciated Beth’s defending her. Maybe she’s just a stickler about names. “I lllllike how she says it.”

  Coach Larson whistled. “Let’s wrap up with queens of the court.”

  In the four-vs-four game, the losing team of each rally rotated out. Claire joined the servers’ line. Some players performed complicated rituals before serving to combat their nerves—bounce the ball three times, spin it twice, deep breath—but Claire’s mother had drilled that out of her. “The simpler the better,” she’d said.

  Claire aced her first serve.

  “That had wicked float,” the opposing player said.

  Claire grinned as she jogged to the winners’ side. Her team lasted two rallies before being kicked off. She aced five more serves before Coach Larson called her over.

  “You play right side?”

  Claire shrugged. “I’m from a small town.”

  “Which means you played everything, and the strategy was ‘get the ball to Claire.’” Coach Larson nodded. “I can tell. You’re a ball hog, but that’s okay for now. Cassidy is our right side. She’s left-handed, so she has a better angle than you do. You’re tall enough to play middle, but try left next time.”

  Claire nodded, not sure whether to be disappointed or excited. Left sides got more sets, but more girls played that position, which meant her competition would be tougher.

  Claire played left side for the rest of the day. She had a few good digs and one amazing block, but Saafi’s sets gave her the biggest thrill. Saafi had the featherlight touch of an angel. No matter what haywire spin the ball had when she got it, it floated smoothly off her delicate fingers. Claire needed several rounds to overcome her excitement and pull off a good hit, but soon she felt like she’d been playing with Saafi for years.

  By the time Coach Larson whistled the end of tryout day one, Claire was sweaty, exhausted, and bruised, but for once, she smiled without forcing it. Minneapolis isn’t so bad.

  As Claire unbuckled her seatbelt, her father gave her a ghost of a smile that vanished before reaching his eyes.

  “I’m sorry, honey. It’s just your—”

  “I know.”

  He smiled for real this time and patted her knee. “Break a leg, kiddo.”

  Claire grabbed her gym bag and power walked into school for her last day of tryouts. Sticking with volleyball had been a good decision, if only to learn the maze of a building before school started.

  She reached the gym well ahead of start time, but a yelp stopped her.

  “Yikes.” Saafi jumped away from a group of other early arrivals. She pointed at the floor. “Spider.”

  The girls scattered. Claire looked from her potential teammates to the spider and back. You have to be kidding me. She grabbed the spider and threw it in the trash.

  Saafi’s eyes widened like a calf after its first vet visit. “You squished it with your bare hands.”

  “It’s a spider,” Claire said.

  “That you squished with your bare hands.” Beth squirmed as if covered with spiders herself.

  “Gross,” Saafi said.

  The girls regarded her as though she’d just eaten her own barf. If they think that’s gross… Claire laughed so hard she had to sit down.

  “What is funny?” Maite asked.

  Claire waited until she could breathe before answering. “You guys wouldn’t last one d-d-day on a farm.”

  “If my family farmed, we would still adhere to basic hygiene principles,” Saafi said.

  “I think Abuela kills spiders like that,” Maite said. “They come to the shop.”

  “What shop?” Claire asked.

  “Abuela’s flower shop. We live on top,” Maite said.

  “Just you and her?”

  Maite nodded. “I come to live with Abuela when my parents died.”

  “Oh, I’m ssssssorry.”

  Maite plopped her bag down and changed into her volleyball shoes. br />
  “I live with my aunt,” Saafi said, breaking the awkward silence. “Well, it’s hard to say whether Dad and I live with her family, or if they live with us.”

  “You’re single kids of single parents.” Beth shook her head. “I can’t imagine that kind of privacy.”

  With the spider threat vanquished, the girls joined Maite on the floor and changed into their volleyball shoes.

  “Well, I may not understand farm life, but I know setting,” Saafi said, her bright smile at odds with her black leggings, undershirt, and headscarf. “Want to try a quick set, Claire?”

  “A quick?” Claire had never played with a setter precise enough to run quick sets.

  “We tried last year with Ashley, but it flopped.”

  Claire shrugged. “Worst that c-could happen is it flops again. Want to practice now?”

  Maite’s phone rang before Saafi could respond. Maite squinted at the caller ID before answering. She listened for a moment before responding in Spanish.

  “No se preocupe, por eso existen los autobuses…Okay…Adiós.”

  “What’s up?” Saafi asked after Maite hung up.

  “Abuela said she can’t drive me to hapkido tonight. I said I take the bus.”

  “Hop-what?” Claire asked.

  “Hapkido. Is like karate. You know Jackie Chan?”

  Claire nodded. When it was her dad’s turn to pick for movie night, he often chose an action-comedy.

  “He do—does hapkido. Here, I show you.” Maite stepped away and performed a dizzying series of kicks and flips, her prodigious height allowing extra reach.

  “It’s best not to get on Maite’s bad side,” Beth said.

  Claire was more concerned about Beth’s bad side than the easygoing Maite. Though Beth hadn’t demonstrated active hostility, her dour constitution made her difficult to read. She could just be guarded, as Maite suggested, or she could be Claire’s new worst enemy. Given Claire’s track record with pretty girls, she prepared herself for the latter.

  Maite rejoined them, breathing as easily as if she’d just gone for a stroll. Her face regained some of the light it had lost while discussing her parents.

  “I love Jackie Chan. He is funny, and he kick ass. Soon, I will be a black belt.” Her growing excitement must have flipped a switch in her brain, because she continued in Spanish. “Y después, seré policía.”

  Claire scoured her memories of her one semester of Spanish. Her school hadn’t had a local instructor, so the course had been online.

  Beth rescued her with a translation. “Maite wants to be a police officer. I told her it’s not like in the movies, but she doesn’t listen.”

  Saafi stood and pulled Claire up. “Let’s try some quick sets before Coach gets here.”

  Their first three attempts were laughable. Claire hit the fourth over the net, but it flew out of bounds.

  “Trust your setter, Claire,” Coach Larson said from the doorway. “Make your approach. Saafi will get the ball to you.”

  Claire tensed. How long has she been standing there? The last four failures weren’t what she wanted the coach to witness during tryouts. Quick sets were tricky, especially from the outside. Usually, Claire waited until after the set to approach, but with a surprise attack, the ball came faster, and she needed to be in position sooner.

  Beth volunteered to toss the next attempt. Claire approached earlier, and Saafi put the ball in front of her hand. Claire drilled it into the opposite side’s ten-foot line.

  “Yes, that was awesome.” Saafi high-fived her.

  Coach Larson looked thoughtful. “Let’s get to work, ladies.”

  Claire battled through the most grueling day of tryouts yet. Coach Larson didn’t miss a single mistake. She shouted for Claire to adjust her body mechanics when attacking and to stay low while on defense. Under the tyrant’s tutelage, Claire improved more than she had all last season.

  By the time Coach Larson ended tryouts, Claire’s legs wobbled, but at least she’d done her best. The players milled about and chatted in low voices while Coach Larson wrote out the team lists. After a minute that felt like a decade, she whistled.

  Coach Larson read off her clipboard. “Varsity: Setter: Saafi Khalif. Jenna Nelson, you’ll be JV, but I want you to sit the varsity games. Middles: Beth Jones and Maite Restrepo. Alicia Hansen will be JV and sit varsity. Left sides: Talayah Henderson, Claire Peterson…” She continued to list the varsity, JV, and B teams, but Claire heard little after her own name. I made varsity. Beth, Saafi, and Maite were the only other juniors on varsity. I can’t believe I did it.

  Claire floated from the bright florescence of the gym into the gentle autumn sun. The leaves had turned. Claire wished she could smell them over the city scents of exhaust, stale pizza, and asphalt. Nothing, not even pumpkin-spiced lattes, meant fall like the smell of dry leaves.

  She trotted to where her father waited in the Buick. “Hey Dad. How was the job hunt?”

  His face drooped like a wilted plant, but he quickly faked a smile. “How were tryouts?”

  “I mmmmade varsity.”

  “That’s wonderful, sweetie. Congratulations.” He drove to Aunt Monica’s apartment, but he didn’t park. “Go ahead, kiddo. I have errands to run.”

  Claire kissed him goodbye. Climbing three sets of stairs did nothing to curb her adrenaline high, so she paced her room.

  “Mom, you’ll never believe it. I made varsity.” She rarely stuttered when speaking to her mother. “My coach is…intense—even more than you—but she knows her stuff.”

  Claire picked up her mother’s photograph, the one she’d taken the last time they weeded the herb garden together. Dirt smudged her mother’s smile, but it couldn’t mask her beauty. Claire sat on her father’s bed and thumbed the bottom of the frame. She kissed the glass, then wiped away the smudge.

  “I miss you.”

  Chapter 2

  Claire dove into the sea of holey jeans, bad jokes, and testosterone. She’d thought herself prepared for the start of school. She was wrong. Her new high school had more students than there were people in her hometown. It had more teachers than people in her hometown.

  People pushed toward the front entrance like the cars in cabin rush. Had she not been tall enough to see over the mob, she’d have hyperventilated from claustrophobia. Giggles, shouts, and ringtones drowned out birdsong. Not that many birds called Minneapolis home.

  Breathe. She filled her lungs and mounted the stairs, but someone shoved her from behind. Her purse tipped open, and its contents spilled across the concrete. Some first day. Claire scrambled to gather her things before the herd of sneakers dispersed them through the crowd.

  “They say a girl’s purse holds her secrets. So far, I’ve learned you don’t handle stairs well, and you like the smell of strawberries.” The voice belonged to a guy, but from where Claire crouched on the stairs, she saw only the hand returning her tube of strawberry-scented lip balm. Each of the four fingers was missing the tip, leaving them nail-less and one knuckle short.

  Claire stuffed the lip balm into her purse and accepted his help to rise.

  “You okay?” A flawless face belonged to the hand. Thick blond locks swooped over bright hazel eyes.

  Oh my God, he’s cute. Don’t stutter. Don’t stutter. “Yeah.”

  He smiled, and Claire grabbed the railing to stay upright.

  “I’m Todd. You might see my evil twin, Adam, running around, but don’t fall for him.”

  “Enough with the evil twin thing already,” an identical guy called from closer to the building. “We going, or what?”

  Todd cracked another smile. “See you around.” He wiggled his four stubs in a wave goodbye.

  Claire watched him disappear into the building. I think I like this school. She gathered her wits and hurried to her locker, which she’d located after practice. I should have found the classrooms too. Her teammates informed her that renovations had rendered the old school an architectural Frankenstein’s monster. No
way she could navigate by herself, but though she’d rather wander the halls than ask for directions, she didn’t want to explain a late arrival either. A juicy scandal from the marching band was keeping the Gossip Girls busy, and no one outside the team knew she stuttered. She intended to keep it that way as long as possible.

  “Hey, Claire.” Saafi appeared at her side. Claire blinked at the sight of her in normal clothes. She wore a loose cream-colored long-sleeved shirt and a long red skirt. For the first time, her headscarf wasn’t black, but red. “I thought you might need help finding your classes.”

  “Thanks.” Volleyball to the rescue. Claire showed Saafi her schedule as Beth approached in worn jeans and a T-shirt that on her still looked like high fashion.

  Saafi smiled. “Great, we have our first period together.”

  Beth raised an eyebrow. “You are in Honors English?”

  Claire clenched her fists. “I’m not sssss- ssss- dumb; I just sssss- can’t talk.” Beth cocked her head, but Saafi moved between them.

  “I have to make a pit stop.” Saafi led Claire a short way down the crowded hallway to her own locker.

  As soon as Saafi opened the door, a paper fell into her hands with the words Towel Head scrawled in black ink.

  “Huh, another one.” She opened her purse—an enormous mom-bag with enough room for a wilderness survival kit—and pulled out her planner. She added a tally mark to a chart taped to the inside cover.

  “Only you would make a spreadsheet out of hate speech,” Beth said.

  “What do you mean?” Claire asked.

  Saafi directed her answer at Beth. “Most ‘hate’ is just ignorance, and ignorance has a cure. If I track what confuses people, I can better target my education efforts.” She gestured to her chart.

  “How many years have you been k-keeping track?” Claire asked.

  Saafi raised her eyebrows. “This is just this week.”

  Claire’s jaw unhinged. “Shouldn’t someone—”

  “Saafi doesn’t need the red-headed wonderkid to rescue her from anonymous jerks,” Beth said.

  Shoot. I pissed her off again. As Maite explained, Beth built walls. Claire dug an ever-deepening moat around those walls with every accidentally offensive thing she said, but she was losing patience with Beth. Girls who looked that good in spandex had no right to be bitter.