‘Give me something to go on! Eyes? Hair? Teeth?’
‘Brown eyes. Short hair. Very nice teeth.’ I think of Rhys, smiling at me from across the table. ‘His skin is a light brown – I think he’s mixed race?’
‘I like the sound of him,’ Tem says, nodding. ‘I approve.’
I smile. ‘You don’t need to approve anything. He’s just a new guy at school.’
‘Sure he is,’ Tem says, drawling the words. ‘And you “just” wanted to tell me about him. And describe him. And make those doe eyes.’
‘I wasn’t making doe eyes!’
She raises one perfect eyebrow at me and takes a sip from her cup, a smirk on her face. ‘I think it should be your mission to kiss him. I’ll give you until . . . Bonfire Night.’
I laugh, half amused, half panicked. ‘Tem, I literally just met him today. We’re not even friends yet. Slow down.’
‘Why should I?’ she asks, shaking her head. ‘Why wouldn’t a handsome young fellow want to kiss you? That’s the question you need to be asking yourself.’
I open my mouth and her hand shoots out to cover it. ‘That was a rhetorical question, Brons. I wasn’t asking for a list.’
I wait till she removes her hand and answer her anyway. ‘Guys like to kiss girls who can talk.’
‘Um, so clearly not true. You’ve seen The Little Mermaid. There’s a whole song about it.’
I roll my eyes. ‘That song is about trying to get them to kiss, but they don’t.’
‘Whatever.’ She waves her hand. ‘My point is you’re obsessing way too much over a tiny little detail. So you don’t talk much – who cares? You can talk with your hands.’ Her face lights up with a mischievous grin. ‘Talk. With your hands.’ She splays out her hands around her face and mimes kissing, eyes closed, mouth agape. This is presumably meant to represent some kind of kissing-related sign language from someone who has never spoken any sign language in their life.
‘Oh, stop it,’ I say, laughing despite myself.
‘Fine, fine. Hey, do you want to come for a run with me tonight?’ she asks. She grins. ‘I promise I’ll go slow.’
‘How slow?’ I ask, suspicious.
Tem is a runner. Technically long distance, but she has a habit of lulling me into a false sense of security by jogging for thirty seconds and then sprinting off into the distance, just because she can.
‘A jog,’ Tem promises. ‘You’ll barely even sweat.’
‘As tempting as that is,’ I say (I am not a runner), ‘I can’t. I’m at Dad’s.’
‘Oh,’ she says. ‘That came around fast.’
I smile. ‘The summer’s over for me. I moved my stuff in last night.’
Even though they are divorced and have both remarried since, my parents live in the same town, for my sake. This was an agreement they made years back so I could alternate living with them both but also not have to do anything annoying like move school or get three buses in the morning. They live on opposite sides of town – Windham is pretty much in the middle, which is useful – and I move between them. Since I started secondary school, I’ve stayed with Dad during term time and Mum during the holidays.
The main downside to all this, at least during term time, is that Tem lives a two-minute walk from my mother and a ten-minute drive from my dad, so it’s less easy for us to see each other.
‘I can still come over to you,’ Tem suggests. ‘I don’t mind.’
I shake my head. ‘Maybe this weekend, but not tonight. I’m pretty tired and I promised Dad I’d make dinner.’
She sighs. ‘Fine. But you’re just missing out on my company.’
‘Call me tonight, OK?’ I say. ‘It’ll be just like I’m there.’
She smirks. ‘Hearing your voice is weird enough, let alone if I can’t see you at the same time.’
I glare at her. ‘No mute jokes on my first day back! You promised!’
‘No, I didn’t. You asked and I made a joke about penguins.’
I roll my eyes. ‘You’re impossible.’
‘I’m wonderful.’ Tem throws open her arms and beams at me. She looks so ridiculous I have to laugh.
What I mean to say through all this is that however hard it is to be the girl who doesn’t talk, the girl who dithers in the corner then shrugs a reply, I have Tem. And if there’s only one person in the world I can talk to I’ll choose her every time.
The top five worst times to be mute
5) When you need the toilet
I am six years old and Tem is off school with suspected mumps (it will turn out to be the flu). I navigate my silent day alone, without my trusty interpreter, who pays as much attention to my needs as she does her own. Everything is fine until I realize I need to pee. I cannot say so. I can’t even lift my hand to gesture at the door. I sit, rigid, staring at my worksheet. I wet myself. ‘Ewwwwww!’ the class screams in delight.