Page 3 of A Summer to Save Us

I glance from him to Arizona, who’s still listening to music and intentionally ignoring me, then to Dad. He notices, and I quickly look down, feeling the burden on my shoulders grow even heavier.

We’re supposed to be a family, yet here I sit next to them, and they don’t know anything about what I’m going through. They all think my silence is defiance or rejection.

Instinctively, I clench my hand and press my nails into my palm, making the wounds there sting, though the pain is almost relieving.

It’s not like I’ve always been silent. As a child, I was painfully shy, and Arizona was always the chatty twin. She was my mouthpiece to the world, and I managed to get away with it for a long time.

Later, when Mom abruptly disappeared, I stopped speaking to teachers and classmates. At first, it wasn’t even noticeable because Arizona had often spoken for me at school anyway. It wasn’t until middle school that Dad caught on.

He and the principal sent me to the school psychologist, who came up with a diagnosis for this phenomenon: selective mutism—not speaking because of fear or anxiety.

And it only occurred during certain situations.

Unfortunately, therapy was unsuccessful.

I painted and did crafts, but I only continued to talk at home, although I never talked to Dad much.

My dad is a serious, intimidating man. He’s tall, with wild black curls and piercing black eyes, and discipline is important to him.

Even as a child, I could only whisper in his presence, which often drove him crazy.

Someone who has no problem speaking doesn’t understand what it’s like for me.

For me, speaking is much more than simply opening your mouth and saying something.

It’s like I’m giving up a part of myself, as if silence has become a part of my character.

And the longer the silence lasts, the further I move away from the border between two countries—the land of silence and the land of language.

The land of silence is like quicksand: you sink, and if no one pulls you out in time, you disappear into it.

I feel a dull pressure in my chest and push back the feeling of rejection. When I glance at Dad, he’s frowning and looking up from his newspaper. At first, I think he’s trying to say something to me, and my heart skips a beat, but he turns to Arizona.

Naturally!

“I’ve got something here that might interest you,” he calls to her over the noise of the mixer and the music from her headphones.

“What?” Arizona shouts back so loudly that I flinch. She pulls the headphones down around her neck and turns off the smoothie maker. She drinks the bright green contents straight from the blender and grabs a bagel from the kitchen countertop.

“Thanks, I made that for my break at fucking Wilcox,” James remarks dryly.

“Jamesville,” Dad snaps. “Stop it! You’re twenty, not fourteen.”

Arizona blows James a kiss and takes a big bite.

Dad taps the newspaper. “That concert in Minneapolis you wanted to go to this weekend... those Sinners ’N Saints...”

“They’re called Demons’ n’ Saints, Dad! You’re deliberately saying it wrong to annoy me. You know exactly what they’re called. Now, what about it?” Arizona forgets the bagel, her blue eyes almost piercing Dad.

“The concert has been canceled.”

“ What? ”

Dad is leafing through the newspaper next to me, still pretending I’m not here.

Okay, I look like Mom, and there were misunderstandings between us, but that doesn’t give him the right to pretend I don’t exist. Misery creeps even deeper into me.

I could be invisible, and my family would live the same way. My existence doesn’t matter at all.

“Demons ’N Saints cancels planned summer tour due to personal illness,” Dad reads aloud, pointing to the headline, underneath which is a photo of the popular lead singer.

He’s ensconced in black from head to toe—just like James.

His dark hair stands out from his head, and his eyes shine like light-blue ice on his black-and-white made-up face.

He looks scary, more like a demon than a saint.

I don’t understand why the whole nation loves him when the music is okay.

If you like punk rock. Okay, but not good.

“This is punishment for fucking eating...”

“James!”

“My bagel, but that’s fine!” James stands up and grabs a packaged sandwich out of the fridge.

“As far as I’m concerned, they don’t have to give any more concerts.

The singer screeches like a cat whose tail’s been stepped on.

And those stupid masks... Psychoanalytically speaking, people who hide their true face are profoundly?—”

“Stop analyzing everything. Analyze the cereal,” Arizona interrupts, looking as if she’d like to slap the bagel right across James’s face. “Asher Blackwell doesn’t screech at all. Besides, he has the most amazing ice-blue eyes in the world. Like Ian Somerhalder.”

“Deeply insecure or violated,” James unapologetically finishes his sentence. For the first time, he doesn’t swear when he talks about psychology.

Dad hands Arizona the newspaper and smiles lovingly at her. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

Unable to stop, I clench my hand again under the table, my fingernails digging painfully into the skin.

I hate it when Dad is so kind and attentive to Arizona simply to hurt me.

He thinks he can force me to speak by withdrawing his love, but he’s only making it worse.

I feel the pressure of all the unsaid words building in my throat.

You’re my dad! You’re supposed to love and protect me. You’re supposed to be there for me!

James takes long strides toward the door. “Be in the car in two minutes, Kansas,” he says brusquely. “I hope you can manage that! Ari—are you ready?”

“Almost!” She quickly stuffs the rest of the bagel into her mouth and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.

I nod cautiously, but James is already gone.

I wish I could tell him how much I miss him.

He wasn’t always like he is now. He used to be my sea of serenity when Arizona grew too excited for me.

I often sat with him in the garage for hours, especially when he was tinkering with his bike or repairing one for his friends.

He was always Mr. Fixit, and everyone in our neighborhood came to him.

The elderly Mr. Tabor with his old clock radio, the widowed Mrs. Wright to help repair her garden fence, and even four-year-old Tobias with his yellow duck that had a music box in its stomach.

James is fascinated by mending broken things, which is probably why he wants to study psychology.

At the time, I was simply happy that he let me watch, even if I hardly said anything.

Secretly, he was probably glad that at least one of his sisters was listening to him.

For some reason, the two of us had the same understanding of life, even if we couldn’t articulate it at the time.

When Mom left, the emptiness she left behind bonded the two of us much more than it did him and Arizona.

As far as I was concerned, they were always rivals: who was allowed to order for me in the restaurant, who bought my ice cream.

I stare at the door James disappeared through. Both of us literally no longer understood the world. It had become strange to us.

Subconsciously, I shake my head as Arizona pockets her cell phone and walks toward the closet, with the headphones still around her neck, the newspaper in her hand. She’s already engrossed in the article. “See you tonight!” she says mechanically to Dad, who shouts, “Take care!” after her.

I stare nervously at the hazelnuts floating in my still-almost-full cereal bowl.

The kitchen seems empty without James and Arizona, almost soulless.

I breathe in and out shallowly, wishing Dad would say something nice, something to help me get through this day, but the air is charged with tension.

It’s like the silence between us is a scream so loud it penetrates me to the core.

I can’t eat anymore.

“I’ve signed you up for summer school.”

It takes me a few seconds to realize that his words are meant for me and what they mean. A rush of adrenaline courses through my veins, chilling me despite the heat.

The principal’s daughter, Abigail, recently announced that Chester and a few Hills also have to attend summer school.

“Your principal called me. He says your teachers think you can’t keep up with the class material. Besides, you have too many absences.”

Oh God, no! With trembling fingers, I reach for my cell phone—my communicator with the outside world. Please don’t! I type nervously and push toward him.

He doesn’t even look at it. “Your senior year begins in the fall, and I don’t want you to get bad grades. It’s going to be hard enough to find a college that will take you, if it works out at all.”

From today on, I won’t miss any more days , I quickly add. I promise! I’ll study all summer! I hold the phone in front of his face, but Dad stands up, unmoved, without reading my words.

This is worse than a punch to the face. Don’t leave! Look at what I’m trying to say! Don’t ignore me! I scream in my mind.

Dad is already at the door. “You’re already registered, and you will go. That is final. The school has cost me a fortune so far, and I won’t have it squandered unnecessarily!”

Dad! I jump up, phone in hand again, feeling pathetic. Read what I wrote! Please read it! I can’t go to summer school. I’ll die if you make me!

Dad doesn’t seem to notice my panic. He pushes my hand down.

“Speak if you have something to say. You can speak. We all know that. Now get your things, or the others will leave without you.”