I say the words to myself, chewing them, tasting them. I feel my tongue move, forming silent sounds, over and over. And before I know it, it’s my turn, and I look up at the woman behind the counter and open my mouth to speak, but before I do she turns and calls out, “Andreas!” She ducks into a doorway behind her. Andreas emerges. He stands before the cash register, looks at me, and waits.
I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out at first, probably because of the boy’s eyes. They are melted amber, surrounded by a fringe of the longest, blackest eyelashes I’ve ever seen on anyone, girl or guy. He has high cheekbones, honey-colored skin, glossy, dark hair. He says something and I stare at his mouth. I even think his lips are beautiful. And I don’t remember what I want.
He raises his perfectly shaped brows above his gorgeous eyes. “What do you want?”
“Uh, I—” I start to say. I panic. I swallow nervously, while the young man taps his fingers on the counter in front of him, and I can tell he’s getting impatient. So are the people behind me.
“Croque banane!” I blurt. I skipped a word. “Chocolat!” I practically scream.
My words didn’t sound like French, or English, or any other language I recognize.
Andreas looks down at me. His forehead is wrinkled with confusion. He asks me to repeat myself. I try to speak, but can’t. My tongue is glued to the roof of my mouth.
Before I can think of what to do, a man behind me shouts out something and shoves his arm past me. Andreas turns and takes a sandwich from the case beside him, hands it to the man and takes his money. I step back, shocked.
But my mouth is still glued shut. And then a woman orders something, and Andreas helps her. And then he helps another person, and another, and another. Gradually, I’m pushed aside and away from the counter. Andreas doesn’t even look at me. Not once. I feel burning, stinging blood flood my face. I shove my way outside.
He didn’t understand me. Why did I think life would be any different for me in France? It doesn’t matter if I speak English, or French, or Swahili, or Pig Latin. I’ll never be able to say anything correctly. I’ll always be a freak.
Fourteen
J. You there?
She doesn’t answer. I just wanted to hear her voice. I wasn’t about to tell her what happened. I know what she’d say.
Hashtag so not impressed. Or Hashtag bring it, girl!
Jada, a major Twitter fan, started using that stupid word “hashtag” before practically every other sentence last year. She thinks it’s funny. I did at first, until this guy named Crey Lewis started using it every time he saw me in the halls between classes.
Hashtag Mama’s girl walking.
Hashtag mutation at four o’clock.
Hashtag Silent Hill.
I didn’t get that one until Jada showed me a picture of a girl with no mouth. She understood the reference because her mother doesn’t control what video games she plays like mine does.
That last comment bothered me more than the others, because it’s true. I’m the girl with no voice.
I’m actually hungry now. I try to ignore my stomach, but I can’t. So, instead, I sit and feel sorry for myself. Apparently, the only way I’ll get food is if someone mistakes me for a garbage can and tosses their leftovers in my direction.
After I finish my pity party, I try to figure out what happened. I’m mortified by what went on at the sandwich shop. Why didn’t I stand up for myself? What was I afraid of?
Two old men on a nearby bench toss crumbs to tiny swallows that hop and peck without fear at their feet. One even flutters up to land on the outstretched palm of one man, who twitters and chirps to the bird, like he’s talking to it. Then, the man glances up and catches my eye. His eyes crinkle as he smiles and he speaks. I catch a few words, something about lunch time, but look away quickly and shake my head like I understood nothing when I really did.
I know what I’m afraid of. That fear is always with me. I’m scared I’ll get the funny looks and the sideways glances. I don’t want to see the faces wrinkled in confusion, the annoyance, the impatience, or the expressions of dawning comprehension when people learn that I can’t speak correctly.
Hashtag hate being me.
More and more people head out to enjoy the sunshine, and I walk aimlessly among them. My stomach growls again when I pass a little outdoor food stand. I recognize socca, a thin kind of pancake made from chickpeas that Nice is famous for. I practically drool. The seller, an older stocky man whose square body is covered with a greasy apron, looks up and catches my eye. He grins a jack o’lantern smile and says, “Deux euros,” holding up two fingers.
It’s easy to buy stuff when you don’t have to talk.
I should have thought of that in the sandwich shop. Just point to something.