When we were kids, she went through a phase where she hero-worshipped firemen. For her seventh birthday she got to visit the fire station and have her photo taken at the wheel of a fire engine, a huge helmet resting over her curls, a gigantic beam on her face. There’s a photo of the two of us, actually: her gap-toothed and grinning under her helmet, me next to her with a serious frown, holding the edge of my helmet so it would stay on my head, my hair too flat and lifeless to hold it up.
What I mean by this is that Tem fell in love with every single fireman she met that day, to the point where she still remembers all their names, even years later – ‘Remember when Sanjay let me try on his coat?’ – and that’s just how she is. Now we’re older, it’s moved on from hero worship to outright please-marry-me love. She got her first boyfriend at fourteen – AJ, fifteen, swaggering tosser – and that lasted for about two months. Her relationships were pretty regular after that: a parade of new boyfriends every few months or so. Each one ‘different’. Each one ‘special’. Each one ‘not like anyone else’.
In the interests of full disclosure, I should say that I have never had a boyfriend. At least, not one that existed outside of the internet. Not one I could touch or kiss or hold hands with. Making the leap from crush to conversation is just too much for me. I blame my brain.
‘How did you meet him?’ I ask. If Karam is taking six A levels in the hope of becoming a doctor, it’s unlikely he and Tem will share any classes.
‘He’s the year above us and he runs a voluntary group at the college raising money for refugees and asylum seekers. I went along because I thought I might meet some, you know, like-minded people, or whatever. Seeing as there didn’t seem to be many in my actual classes.’
‘And you did?’
She grins, showing all her teeth. ‘I did.’
Over the next couple of weeks, Rhys and I move past the sort-of-maybe stage of potential friendship and become actual friends. We spend most of our lunch breaks and free periods together, sharing notes and getting to know each other. I find out that he used to run a YouTube channel on video games with his older brother, Aled, before Aled went to university, and that he designed his first game when he was eight – ‘a total Super Mario rip-off’. He teaches me more advanced BSL by signing song lyrics to my favourite songs. He tells me that his dad was born in Guyana, and when I admit that I don’t even know where that is he shows me on Google Maps. I tell him my grandad is from Germany, and he asks me – completely deadpan – if I can point it out to him on the map.
I don’t ever ask him if he has a girlfriend, because I come to realize that I don’t really want to know, mainly because the increasing likelihood that the answer might not be yes, and where the conversation could then go, is just plain terrifying. He’s turning out to be a good friend to have: smart and friendly, with a dry sense of humour and an unflappable nature I can’t help but envy. To be honest, it’s actually kind of a relief not to have to worry about scary things like how to flirt or what I’m wearing or how to arrange my face when I see him. We’re just friends.
By late September, I’m comfortable in our friendship and definitely getting better at BSL. It’s Wednesday and I’m sitting with Rhys in our Maths class. I try to watch Clare, his communication support worker, as much as possible, trying to keep up with her signs instead of following Mr Al-Hafi’s voice. In fact, I’m so focused on doing this that when Mr Al-Hafi points to the equation he’s written on the board, I say the answer out loud without thinking about it.
Everyone swings to look at me, wide-eyed, and my whole body goes hot. They are honestly looking at me like I just pulled out a gun and fired it.
‘That’s right,’ Mr Al-Hafi says smoothly, God love him. ‘Nice work, Stefanie.’
My heart is still pounding as I shrink down against my seat, scribbling furious notes across the page that don’t actually make any sense. I can feel Rhys watching me, his gaze curious. He hasn’t known me for years, like most of my classmates. He doesn’t know just how unusual it is for me to answer a question out loud, let alone unbidden.
What was that? Was my mind sufficiently distracted by Clare that it forgot about its self-enforced rule to not speak in public? Or was it the medication? Was it Rhys? And, if so, is that thought comforting or frightening? I don’t want a boy to be the reason I get better. What would that say about me if it is?
And is this what getting better is? Obviously being able to talk normally in public is what I want, but now it seems to be happening I feel strangely unsettled. I suddenly understand a lot better what my doctor meant when he talked about my sense of self being entwined with my silence. Who am I if I can talk? Will that mean I say all the things I usually keep in my head? But so many of them are snide, or bitter, or just plain dull.
My brain battles with these thoughts until the bell rings. I blink out of the turmoil of my head and realize I haven’t taken in anything that happened in the last twenty minutes of the lesson. My notepad is a mess of barely legible scribbles. I can just about make out the words maths maths maths this is maths.
Oh God, I’m losing it.
There’s a tap at my wrist and I look up. Are you OK?