A Quiet Kind of Thunder

‘Why not?’ I demanded. Frustration was starting to spill over. ‘How can I prove it?’

And that’s when they all came up with my Two Year Plan. That’s what they called it, like they were economists deciding the fate of a nation, or something. The first year – my first year of sixth form – would be the most crucial. I would need to try harder at school, talk to people I didn’t know, receive positive feedback regarding my voice from my teachers at parents’ evening. I’d work with my therapist to learn more coping strategies and to overcome more of my anxiety – they’d also have meetings with her so they could be updated on my progress.

If I’d proven myself by the end of Year 12, I could go on to apply through UCAS as normal with everyone else in my year. Over the course of Year 13, I would jump through some more hoops to prove my gung-ho talky-talkiness. By the time my A-level exams came round and I’d received my acceptance (providing I was accepted, of course, though this had always been taken as a given), I’d be all ready to go. No one would try to stop me.

When I try to explain all this to Rhys, he’s confused. But why don’t they want you to go? he asks. I don’t get it. Isn’t it exactly what they want?

They’re worried, I say. Mum thinks I’ll have some kind of breakdown if I go away by myself. To be honest, I don’t know if there’s anything I could do that will stop her worrying about that.

Why is she worried about that?

I shrug. Because it’s a possibility. But I’d rather do it anyway, and she thinks it’s not worth the risk.

He looks suddenly worried. What do you mean? Why is it a possibility?

I tap the side of my forehead with one finger. Not so good in the head. She said once that if I had bad legs she wouldn’t encourage me to run a marathon.

He makes a face. That doesn’t even make sense.

I shrug again. Mothers.

What about your dad? He seems so reasonable.

That’s more complicated. I think of Clark packing up boxes on his last day at home before moving to Bristol University. Will you miss me, Steffi? Grief, sudden and acute, seizes my heart, then lets go. Dad’s worried too. But for different reasons.

What reasons?

I could tell him about Clark. I could explain how Clark didn’t even really want to go to university, but Dad and Lucy convinced him. They had what was basically the opposite argument with Clark than they now have with me. With him, it was, You should go, it’ll be so good for you. And Clark eventually gave in and went, and then, just as he was on his way back to us for the summer, he died. His death was an accident – we all know this – but grief has a way of twisting sadness into guilt, remorse into regret, until it becomes irrational. Now they want to keep me extra close, extra safe, from somewhere in their heads that has morphed into something dangerous. University.

I could tell Rhys that in all the times my parents and I have spoken about me going to university we never mention this, never even mention Clark’s name, but he’s there. Every time. Dad stuff, I reply, which is meaningless but at least isn’t a lie. If I could just prove to them both that I can do it, I say. I think they still think of me as the mute kid, you know? But I’m not. I hesitate. Or am I?

He smiles and touches my face. You’re not.

But I think, to my parents – all four of them – I still am, and that’s why they act like the great university decision is theirs, not mine. The difficulty is mine; the dream is mine; the medication is mine; the therapist is mine. But the decision? All theirs.

But now I have Rhys. My very own spanner in the works. No one saw someone like Rhys coming – especially not me.

Reasons I want to go to university

To learn stuff.

To challenge myself.

Everyone thinks I can’t.

Tem’s not going to university, and at least one of us should go so the other can visit.

The university has a Dog-walking Society. Really.

Student discounts.

I don’t want to be stuck selectively mute in Bedfordshire forever.

Clark never got to finish university, and when I graduate I can tell myself it’s for both of us.





Three weeks after Rhys and I become a couple, I turn seventeen. It’s a Thursday, the same day as the American Thanksgiving, and so my dad and I host Bronsgiving in my honour. I invite Tem and Rhys, because they’re the only guests I need, and Mum comes along too, leaving Keir at home to look after Bell. Lucy goes all out, making traditional American dishes like pumpkin pie and green-bean casserole as well as the giant turkey and trimmings.

We sit in the dining room together with the lights dimmed low and candles lit all around the room. We drink champagne and I feel cosy and happy and special. Instead of the American tradition of everyone saying something they’re thankful for, everyone toasts me, one by one. If I were anywhere else, it would be awful, but I’m here at home with my best people, so I blush with happiness instead of shame.

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