Say It Out Loud Page 16

* * *

  When I get my journal back toward the end of English class, I flip to my last entry as fast as I can and steel myself for Ms. Harper’s reply. It says:

  I see you, Charlotte. I see all that you’ve done, and I can’t wait to see all the things you’ll do. Keep writing. Write with fire. Write with truth. Write with your whole heart, and don’t you stop until you’ve told your story.

  If it were possible for my heart to fill with happiness and carry me away, it would happen right at this moment. I glance over at Ms. Harper, who’s supposed to be writing, but her pen is nowhere near the paper when her eyes meet mine. She beams and gives me a small nod.

  I knew words were powerful, but I never knew how much until today. I feel like I could do anything! I’ve already written with my whole heart and reached Ms. Harper, a newspaper editor, and the kids at my school. If I can do all that, how can I not use my voice to help my best friend?

  I lean over my bag to dig for a pen, and my breath stops short. There’s a red notebook in my bag, and it wasn’t there last night when I did my homework. It is THE red notebook. I’ve seen it a million times. I place it on my desk and open the cover. There’s a sticky note inside that says in pink gel pen:

  I ended up with this notebook, and I was so embarrassed that I didn’t know how to give it back. I know you’ll do the right thing.

  The Is are dotted with hearts. The handwriting matches the notes I’ve found around school! And now I’m pretty sure that I know this writing.

  I replay the morning in my mind. I sat with Ben, and before that, I drew on the sidewalk while Lyric watched. I glance back at the note, and my jaw drops when I see a smudge of blue chalk on the paper. Lyric had the notebook all this time? Her weird question about Maddie makes more sense now. Lyric asked if Maddie and I were still friends because she wanted help returning the notebook! And it was Lyric sending the random kind notes? Seriously? I just…I don’t understand. How could she act horrible in person, and then do something like that? I cringe. Probably the same way I did. I was never mean, but I completely messed up. Maybe she was trying to replace some bad with the good, like I tried to do. I don’t know. Maybe I’ll never know.

  I stare at the notebook. I have to give it back to Maddie, I know. I will. And yet, I wonder. Should I look inside?

  Maddie never wanted me to read any of her stuff. But what if Lyric gave it to me for a reason? Am I supposed to look?

  The bell rings.

  “See you tomorrow! Make good choices!” Ms. Harper says.

  The good choice is not to read the notebook. I can’t invade someone’s most private thoughts. That would be yet another Bad Thing, and I’ve had enough of that. I stuff the notebook back into my bag.

  * * *

  I walk through the auditorium doors and make my way down the main aisle. I take a seat next to Grace.

  “Hey, superstar,” she says.

  I laugh. “Maybe in another universe.” A few rows up, Aubrey is slumped in her chair. Jack sits beside her, chatting away about all the things she missed during the shows over the weekend. I’ll bet she really appreciates that.

  The bell rings, but there’s no Ms. Harper. After a few minutes, she walks in the back door. “Sorry!” she says. She makes her way to the front. “I’ve just come from Principal Sinclair’s office.”

  Every single kid leans forward in their seat, and no one dares to speak.

  “We had news coverage from the local paper and school board members in attendance.” She pauses. “Nice job, you. Give yourselves a big hand for that.”

  We break into applause, and just as quickly, we stop, eager for her to continue.

  “They’ve definitely heard from the community,” she says with a chuckle. “If it were up to everyone at opening night, we’d have musical theater every semester. But unfortunately, they’re not the ones choosing where money is spent.”

  The whole class starts whispering, and Ms. Harper has to shush us to be heard.

  “I will not be teaching musical theater next year. And I’m so sorry for you. For us. For all the kids who are going to attend school here after you grow up, who won’t have the same experiences that you did.”

  It was all for nothing. How could the district do this?

  She scans the rows and looks into each of our disappointed faces. “Which is why from now on, musical theater will be a club, and Ms. Bishop and I will be sponsors. We’ll do one play a year. This means that it will be after school, so your parents will have to provide transportation unless you live close enough to walk. Best offer. Whatcha think?”

  We jump out of our chairs and yell so loud, the custodian runs in to make sure everything is okay.

  “Sorry!” Ms. Harper waves, and he leaves. “Also, my condition of doing this club is that you should all greet me like that every day, forever and ever. I think that’s fair.”

  We all laugh, and then we get to work taking apart the set.

  I don’t know why I do it. Maybe it’s the way Aubrey’s head is leaned to the side, and I recognize the same sadness in her that I see on the bus every morning. The why isn’t important. What matters is that when I’m passing by Aubrey’s seat, I say, “Hey.”

  She looks up at me without even moving her head. “Hey.”

  “I finally saw your music video. You’re really talented. Maybe you’ll be singing in your own video someday.”

  The corners of her mouth tilt up the tiniest bit. “Thanks.” She fidgets with the cuff on her sleeve. “I, um, heard you were really good,” she says. She looks me in the eye. “I’m sorry I missed it.” She seems like she means every word.

  I smile back at her. “I’m sorry you missed the play, too.” What I really mean is that I’m truly sorry she didn’t get to be part of it.

  She nods.

  And when the bell rings and I step through the double doors into the sunlight, I feel lighter.

  It’s a gorgeous fall day. The ground is covered with leaves, the sky is a brilliant blue, and the buses snake around the sidewalk behind the school in one continuous row. It’s a good day to finally help my best friend.

  I take a deep breath. It’s now or never. I board the bus, and this time I don’t fight it. My feet remember where I’m supposed to be.

  I stop at Maddie’s seat.

  She looks up, her eyes wide. “Are you lost?”

  That’s an understatement. “I was. Can I sit?”

  She stares at me like she’s afraid it’s another cruel joke. But then she moves over, and I drop my bag and sit down.

  We wait in silence as the rest of the kids board the bus. Maddie gets out a new notebook and starts writing in it. It’s okay that we’re not saying anything. I’m here, where I should be.

  Ben reaches the top of the steps and grins at me as he takes his seat.

  It’s never too late to do the right thing. Then why are my hands shaking?

  And then Tristan and Josh slide into the seat behind us. I brace myself. This is it. This is the moment I tried so hard to avoid that it cost me my best friend.

  Josh leans over the back of the seat. “Hey, look! She came back. We m-m-missed you.”

  I stare ahead. I can be stronger than they are. I have a voice and I will not leave.

  “Did you miss us?” Josh asks.

  I turn slightly so I can see what he’s doing out of the corner of my eye. Tristan elbows him.

  The bus pulls away from the school as Josh shakes him off. “Hey! Did I s-s-stutter?” he says with a laugh. “I asked you a question!”

  My cheeks grow warm at the word “stutter,” but I push through the feeling. I can’t write my way out of this moment. I have to speak up, or I might lose Maddie forever. I turn around, my voice calm as I say, “You know what? I don’t c-care. If you want to make fun of me, fine. Do it if it makes you feel better. You can’t hurt me a
nymore.”

  Tristan elbows him again. “Knock it off.”

  “What?” Josh says to Tristan.

  “You heard me.” Tristan’s eyes meet mine, offering an apology he’ll never say. “Leave her alone.”

  “Whatever,” Josh says. “What’s your problem?”

  A few minutes later, Maddie puts away her notebook. “You stayed,” she whispers.

  “I never should’ve left.”

  She looks out the window and says nothing.

  “I never should’ve done a lot of things.” Already I feel better, and my shoulders relax slightly. If I’d just had the courage to stand by my friend in the first place, things would be so different. I wasted too much time being afraid.

  She turns and considers me for a moment. “Do you have any idea what it was like?”

  “No. But I hope maybe you’ll t-tell me. If you want.” I reach into my bag and hand her the missing red notebook.

  “My notebook!” She turns it over in her hands. “I—I don’t understand. What are you doing with it?”

  “Someone wanted you to have it back.” I shrug. “Not sure who.”

  She stuffs it into her bag like she’s afraid it’s going to disappear again. “Thanks.”

  “Maddie?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m sorry,” I say in a quiet voice. As the words leave my mouth, an enormous weight lifts from my heart. “I never meant to hurt you.” Now that I’ve started speaking, I can’t say the words fast enough. “I made a huge mistake when I didn’t sit with you, and then I was too afraid to talk to you because…” I take a deep breath and own exactly what I did. “I knew how wrong I was.”

  Maddie stares out the window at the blur of fall colors. “Well. You are a big chicken,” she says with a hint of a smile.

  I wince. “Yeah, I know. I’m working on that. I’m just so sorry, Maddie. I didn’t mean any of it.” The word “sorry” hangs in the air, finally out where it should be.

  “I know,” she says. “I read your letter.”

  The brakes screech as the bus approaches my stop. “I really missed you,” I say as I stand up.

  “Me too,” she says.

  Does this mean we’re going to be okay? I hope so.

  As soon as Lyric and I step off the bottom stair onto the pavement, I say, “Hey, I got the notebook.” I don’t mention her notes, even though I’m dying to tell her that I figured out her other secret, too. If she wanted me to know the notes were from her, she would tell me. But still, she had to care enough to send them. Maybe she even cares about me.

  She darts a glance back at her house, like she wants to run away from me as fast as she can. “What notebook?”

  “The one you slipped into my bag this morning when I wasn’t looking.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  I’m not letting her wiggle out of this one. “You d-do so.”

  She sighs and throws up her hands. “Okay, fine. I didn’t know what else to do,” she says.

  I know how that feels.

  “I wish the thing had never landed in my lap, but when it did, I couldn’t let them have it.” Lyric scuffs her shoe against the curb. “I didn’t speak up, and I should’ve. But at least I got her notebook back.” She sets her jaw and glances up at me. “I had to do something.”

  I know what that’s like, too. We’re not so different, even though she’s been pretending otherwise for a long time. I have, too.

  For just a second, it’s like it used to be when everything seemed so easy. Before bad choices and time changed everything, and I had a good friend just a few doors down. I miss her. A kind of hope swells in me that maybe she’s still there, that she’s been there the whole time. Maybe broken things can be fixed. All we need is the right words. “I gave it back to Maddie,” I say.

  “You didn’t tell her where it came from, did you?” Lyric says, her eyes panicked. “I wouldn’t want her to think that I, uh, that I had anything to do with it. I would never.”

  “No. I won’t if you won’t.”

  “Deal,” she says, relief visibly washing over her. “Thanks, Charlotte.” She opens her mouth as though she’s about to say something else, then closes it. She shifts her backpack and looks down at her shoes. She says, “I, um. I’m sorry. I feel so bad about last year….” Her eyes meet mine, and I understand what she’s trying to say. She just doesn’t have the words.

  I don’t want this to be the end of our friendship, either. I blurt out, “You want to come over this weekend?”

  A flicker of surprise crosses her face before she breaks into a smile. “Yeah. Maybe we can watch a movie or something.”

  “Great!” I say.

  “See ya tomorrow.” She starts for home.

  “Hey!” I call after her.

  She turns, her hair flying in the cold breeze behind her. The leaves rustle around our feet on the sidewalk.

  “Why did you give the notebook to me?”

  “Are you kidding? This is you we’re talking about, Charlotte,” she says with a smile. “I knew you’d do the right thing.”

  My eyes fill with hot tears. I wanted to do the right thing the whole time. As I turn to go home, I plunge my hands into my jacket pockets to keep them warm. I pull a folded piece of paper out of my left pocket.

  Charlotte, I was so mad at you. Everything was bad enough, and then you did something even worse. REAL FRIENDS don’t run when things get hard. But I read your letter, and it meant a lot. You can’t change what you did, but you can sit with me tomorrow. I’ll save you a seat.

  Maddie

  I hold the note to my heart. Finally I did something right. I kick a small pebble a few feet ahead on the sidewalk, and it lands where someone has written You are extraordinary in blue chalk and dotted the I with a heart.

  Not yet.

  But I will be.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thank you to the following people whose support means the world to me:

  Caroline Abbey, my brilliant and kind editor, who sees what could be. She is always right. It is a vulnerable thing to write a story like this one, but I knew that it—and therefore, I—would be safe with her. I could not have written this book without her tremendous heart and wisdom guiding the way.

  Jenna Lettice, for her invaluable feedback that helped shape the course of this book.

  The entire team at Random House Children’s Books—I appreciate how hard they work to bring books into the world.

  Rick Richter—literary agent extraordinaire. I’m so lucky to have him on my team.

  Educators who shared their expertise—Crystal Braeuner, who walked me through the steps of school theater productions; Jennifer Sharits, who detailed speech services from the other side of the table; and Amy Beld, who affirmed more than she will ever know.

  Kari Lavelle, for her read and advice.

  Carla Bruce and Sandy Wilson, who did everything they could to help me all those years ago. I have never forgotten them.

  Susan Groenke, for telling me to write this book after she was forced to listen to the pitch in my graduation line.

  Tricia Holman Gillentine, Jo Angela Edwins, Sarah Malley, Becky Wilson, Natasha Neagle, Katie Bailey, Olivia Hinebaugh, Kesi Thomas, Danielle Selah, David Dwyer, and Matt and Leigh Ann Jernigan. They know what they did.

  My parents. They still talk to me.

  Amanda Varnes, for always being there.

  Dear Reader,

  I stutter. I am sometimes tempted to say I “used to stutter,” as though stuttering is something in the past, from my childhood, but that isn’t true or helpful to anyone. Stuttering can’t be cured. After years of hard work, I still stutter sometimes, and that’s okay.

  It was not a
lways okay. My speech was a source of pain for many years because of those who mocked and misunderstood it. I felt alone and different. And when, at age eleven, I needed so desperately to see myself in a book, I could not find stories about kids like me.

  I did not plan to write a book about a girl who stutters. It was supposed to be about finding your voice and the bystander effect, which happens when you see someone who needs help but you don’t act, because other people are there. I wanted to explore a character who was neither bully nor victim, but whose choices would inevitably determine whether she became a hero in her own story. As I worked out the details, I realized there was a missing piece. Why would someone choose not to speak, and what would it cost them? Deep down, I knew what I had to write. This was always the story that I needed to tell.

  We all have had moments when we were afraid to act. For me, those moments often coincided with being too afraid to speak—at large gatherings, in class, and when a girl was tormented by bullies on my bus each day in middle school. I tried to help her, but when it backfired, I gave up. Sometimes I think back on that moment and imagine a million different scenarios. If I had been stronger. If I hadn’t stuttered. If I had been popular and anyone had cared what I thought. If, if, if. It doesn’t matter how I spin it. The ending remains the same.

  But being a writer means I can tell a different bystander story. This one is full of big mistakes and hard choices that lead to finding your voice—not losing it. The seeds were planted long ago, when I was in middle school and I didn’t know what to do.

  I hope that the next time you hear someone stutter (and you eventually will), you’ll think about this story. Remember how you felt when you experienced through Charlotte what it’s like to stutter. Then choose to be a friend who listens and never mimics.

  If you stutter, it does not define you. You are not alone.