Speak Without Words: Healing Bonds, #1

Part I

Family

Chapter 1

Of everything she was leaving behind, Claire would miss the smell of fresh herbs the most. She sat with her tailbone rooted in the earth, eyes closed, fingering the plants one at a time. Basil, oregano, tarragon, thyme—a symphony of smells over the ever-present base note of livestock. The first rays of sunshine warmed her face, and Reed crowed. Guess I’ll get to sleep in now.

Claire stood, stretched her stiff limbs, and shuffled through the tall grass to the barn.

Good morning, girls. She meandered through the rows and stroked each cow on the forehead. Susy, Vera, Donna, Molly…she stopped at Beth, scratched her behind her ears. Claire had helped the vet deliver Beth, and they’d shared a special bond ever since.

I’ll miss you. Claire kissed the velvety spot above Beth’s nose.

You don’t have to move, you know. Grandpa Elliot leaned against the barn door, though farm work kept him fitter than many younger men. Morning shadows darkened his summer farmer’s tan, and his frown pulled at the wrinkles that had recently multiplied. You only have two more years of high school. Finish them here, with us.

I c-c-can’t leave Dad. The words scratched her throat as they left, but they were true. Her grandparents supported each other, but her father needed her. Claire gave Beth one more heart-squeezing kiss and joined her grandfather, who wrapped his arm around her as they returned to the house. The gray-trimmed farmhouse had withstood generations’ worth of Wisconsin’s sticky summers and snowy winters, but the heartache inside threatened to succeed where nature had failed.

Claire passed the hideous-but-comfortable maroon couch, the charity auction cuckoo clock, and the leaf-filled collage on her way to her room. Tacky as they were, her throat tightened at the thought of leaving them.

She paused in her bedroom doorway, but with blank walls, an empty closet, and a made bed, it no longer resembled her space. She tiptoed across the hall to her parents’ room. The worn carpet peeked out from beneath the king-sized bed she’d often snuck into as a little girl. Despite Claire’s six-foot stature, the bed looked too big, too empty.

Is this the last of your stuff?

Claire whirled to see her father holding her suitcase. How long has he been standing there? Was he reminiscing, too? Would he regret this move?

Yeah, Claire said, but she wanted to scream no. The tree swing, the Amish-built dining room table, the secret spyhole in the attic—how could her life fit in a suitcase?

She followed her father to the driveway, footsteps heavy.

Claire-bear, Grandma Charlotte called. The porch steps groaned under her big-boned body as she descended. Claire’s vast mental thesaurus would never have produced the synonyms skinny, slight, or scrawny to describe her grandmother, but recently the woman ate as if preparing to play Mrs. Claus in the town’s Christmas fair. The extra fat smoothed the creases that had once rippled across her pale face, as if compensating for Grandpa Elliot’s multiplying wrinkles.

Grandma Charlotte wrapped Claire in a squishy hug and put a basket into her hands.

Honey wheat bread, raspberry jam, and cheese curds in case you get hungry.

It’s only a three-hour drive, Grandma.

Then you’ve no excuse not to visit me. She squeezed Claire in another hug while Claire’s dad loaded the suitcases into the car. Claire could barely see the scar on his cheek anymore, but he was still too thin.

Ready? he asked.

No. As if being the school freak weren’t hard enough, now she’d be the new girl too, all without her grandparents’ support.

Grandma Charlotte put her fists on her hips. Drive carefully, Darrel.

Claire’s father winced as if the bitter words had struck him.

I’m ready, Claire lied. No use delaying their departure. Leaving may be difficult for her, but staying would be impossible for her dad. Claire loaded the basket into the back and strapped herself into the passenger seat. The engine grumbled to life. Claire’s father had bought the car off a storeowner two weeks ago, and it still behaved as if it hadn’t adjusted to the early mornings of farm life. Guess it won’t need to.

The wheels ground the gravel until the driveway gave way to the roadway, which transitioned to the highway.

I’m just doing what’s best for us, her dad said.

Claire watched the trees rush past. I know.

I mean it, Claire. I—

Dad. She looked at him, but he fixed his eyes on the road, knuckles white around the steering wheel. I know.

They drove west over rolling hills crowned with sunshine. The shadows shortened as the sun rose behind them. Woods transformed into fields, then back into woods. Across the state, people fed livestock, made coffee, and bailed hay, but Claire and her father drove. They passed a cheese factory, a meat and gift shop, and a few sparkling lakes before they reached the Mississippi’s little sister, the St. Croix. Across the river, a sign bid them welcome to their new home: Minnesota.

Not much farther now, her dad said.

Billboards became more frequent, and the freeway became a hive of angry bees. Car horns buzzed through the air as the vehicles jostled for space.

Her father cursed under his breath. I thought we’d avoid cabin rush coming in the morning.

C-cabin rush?

People in the Twin Cities leave for their lake cabins on the weekends. They create a mini rush hour when they come home.

Their progress slowed. Houses squished together, then morphed into apartments. Trees went extinct. The freeway clogged like an old pipe. Claire gripped the door handle as the buildings crowded out the sky.

They circled Aunt Monica’s apartment three times in search of parking. Claire saw a spot, but her father didn’t trust his parallel parking skills enough to risk scratching a new neighbor’s car. He pulled into a spot three blocks away.

Claire jumped out of the car, eager for fresh air after hours of confinement, but the air stuck in her lungs—hot and humid and thick with something that smelled worse than cow pies. How do people breathe here?

They hauled their suitcases into the apartment’s faded entryway and pressed Aunt Monica’s number. A whining buzz granted them access, and they ascended the rickety stairs to the third floor. Her father knocked on door 315.

You’re late. Aunt Monica’s frown was the only curve in her otherwise angular face.

I underestimated cabin rush, Darrel said. He stepped into the apartment’s living room and gestured for Claire to follow.

Aunt Monica tucked a strand of pitch black, stick straight hair behind her ear. There’s a reason I never wanted kids, Darrel.

Claire froze, hoping she hadn’t been meant to hear her aunt’s low-toned voice.

It’s just until I get a job and we find our own place. Three months tops. She won’t be any trouble. Her father ran a hand through his own dark locks, highlighting Claire’s outsider status. She took after her mom’s family of round-faced, curly-haired redheads. With dour expressions on their pale faces, her father and aunt looked like they belonged in The Addams Family.

Aunt Monica mumbled something and showed them the second bedroom. A twin bed crammed into the far corner, and an ancient computer sat atop an even older desk. Aunt Monica pulled another twin bed down from the wall. Claire tried not to think of Grandma Charlotte’s handstitched quilt as she fingered the thin blanket.

Aunt Monica glared at Claire. You’ll sleep here. I wake up early for work, so no screamo or whatever other garbage teens are into nowadays. Understood?

Claire nodded. She preferred classical music, but she doubted her aunt would appreciate her pointing that out.

Good. Any questions?

Yeah. When are volleyball tryouts?

Claire’s father kept the engine running after pulling up to the school. You sure you still want to play?

"It’s all I want to do." It’s all I have left. Claire retrieved her gym bag from the back and entered a building four times the size of her old high school. A film of car exhaust replaced the hint of livestock Claire was used to, but otherwise, the place smelled like a school—old books, sweat, rusted lockers. If she spoke as little as possible, she’d be fine.

Claire wandered the halls, hunting for the gym. She stopped short when she spotted a girl who could be a model for volleyball spandex. Her long limbs dropped elegantly from her lean torso. A thick headband held her tiny black curls away from a sepia-brown face blushed with sunburn. Her large oval eyes narrowed at Claire, no doubt taking in her pale sausage legs, freckled face, and red hair that sprung loose from its braid.

You need something?

Claire flushed. I’m lllllllooking for volleyball tryouts. One minor blip, not bad.

The girl jerked her head. Claire followed, clenching her hands into fists to keep them from shaking. She knew nothing of this school’s social hierarchy. Her old school divided the student body roughly in half: girls with big boobs and perfect hair, and girls who shouldn’t bother with makeup because nothing could make them attractive. Claire belonged to the latter. Her guide belonged to that disgusting third category of girls so pretty they didn’t need makeup. Not a good sign.

After traversing twisting corridors that made Claire question the architect’s sanity, they reached the gym. Claire hesitated in the doorway. The groups suggested the girls organized themselves by skin tone rather than bra size. Her old school had only two such categories: girls who returned from spring break sporting a tan, and unfortunates like Claire who just freckled. This gym, however, had an entire paint strip of color varieties.

Her guide approached the closest group, whose skin tone varied from sandy brown to deep umber. Claire glanced at a cluster of pale-skinned girls at the far end of the gym. They huddled together, identical ponytails bobbing as they whispered and giggled. Claire shuddered and followed her guide to the first group. With social interaction, one rule superseded all others: steer clear of gossips.

As soon as she set her gym bag beside them, the girls’ chatter stopped. Claire kept her gaze down as she changed into her volleyball shoes, but she felt the others’ curious eyes. Her own skin was a glowing neon sign that read Doesn’t Belong.

Whatever. I’ll take outcast over gossip-fodder any day. The initial rejection may even benefit her. If these girls didn’t want her in their clique, they might skip the small talk. Claire could prove herself on the court. It was introductions that killed.

Hi, the girl next to Claire said. Her definitively non-cliquey smile sparkled beneath the dark scarf wrapped around her hair. She wore a long-sleeved undershirt and leggings beneath her gym clothes. I’m Saafi.

Claire shook her hand, noting the girl had trimmed her fingernails to nothing, just like Claire, just like all volleyball players. Maybe this won’t be so hard.

Hi, Claire said. H was her golden sound. She could say hi all day.

I found her gawking in halls, the girl with the headband said. Claire stiffened.

"No se preocupe, new girl, said a girl who lounged against her gym bag, inhumanly long limbs sprawled starfish style. Betty is always cranky with new people."

The girl with the headband released an exasperated sigh. It’s Beth. B-eh-th.

Bay-t, the long-limbed girl said.

No. B-eh-th. Beth. Jeez, Maite. Lorena didn’t need this long to learn to pronounce it.

The other girl sat up. Lorena went to English immersion school. I learn English from old movies. She grinned at Claire. See, is like I said. Betty is cranky with new people, but she is a nice girl. She held out her hand, and Claire shook it. I am Maite. Mai, like ‘my,’ and te, like ‘Taylor.’ Maite. From Colombia.

Claire nodded to Maite and turned to Beth. D-do you mind if I call you Betty too? It’s just—her cheeks flamed—I had a C-ow named Beth.

A cow? Beth’s mouth widened enough to compete with even the most flexible frog.

Oh my God, another girl said. She’s not kidding.

You mean a real cow, that moos and everything? Saafi’s eyebrows rose to her headscarf.

Shoot. She hadn’t expected her rural background to attract attention, but it wouldn’t be the star for long. Attention meant questions. Questions meant answers. Answers meant talking. Better keep it short.

I’m from Wisconsin.

Well, you’ll have to get over your old pet. My name is Beth. The girl’s expression shifted into a disappointed frown rather than the angry scowl Claire had expected. Claire wondered how many people never bothered learning her name.

What’s your name? Saafi asked, her voice as warm as Beth’s was dour.

Speaking of messing up names. Claire’s stomach became a trampoline park filled with bouncy balls.

Uh—

You don’t know? Beth said.

Yeah, it’s C- C- shit.

Your name is Shit? another girl sneered.

No, it’s C- it’s C— My name. Why is it always my name? It’s C- The sound lodged in her throat, and Claire’s blood migrated to her face.

Is she having a fit or something? someone asked.

Are you okay? Saafi asked.

I’m fffffffff- I’m ffff-. Stupid f’s.

A few girls chuckled. The Gossip Girls’ ponytails wobbled as they turned toward the sound.

I’m-I’m-I’m— Claire’s mouth got stuck on replay. The fluorescent lights beat down on her. This isn’t happening.

Claire bolted.

She raced to the hallway and took deep breaths to douse the fire on her face. She smelled gym mats and floor polish—familiar smells, familiar embarrassment.

Running away won’t help you talk. A woman, about thirty, approached. She stood shorter than Claire, but her blue eyes struck like a blow. The hand she offered Claire was tough-skinned and tanned after a summer outdoors. Coach Larson. I double as the speech therapist, so whether or not you make the team, we’ll spend a lot of time together.

Claire surrendered her hand to the woman’s callused grasp.

You this big of a coward on the court?

Claire tightened her grip. No.

Coach Larson jerked her head toward the gym. Prove it.

Claire re-entered the gym. The girls stopped chatting, and Saafi left the cluster of gawkers.

Are you all right?

Claire forced a smile. I’m ffff- okay. I ssssss— Whoever invented this word better be roommates in Hell with the person who put an s in lisp. I ssssss- sssstutter.

Huh? Beth said.

What is stutter? Maite’s accent rendered the word eh-stutter.

She has trouble speaking, which has little to do with hitting a ball over a net. Coach Larson threw a ball to Beth. Let’s get to work, ladies. She gestured to Claire. Let me know when your name decides to come out.

Claire’s nervousness morphed into excitement as she ran through the passing drill. These girls were good. Better than her teammates back home, better than the girls who won state last year. I need to step up my game.

Claire pushed herself, diving for balls even when she thought they were out of reach. After they finished passing practice, Coach Larson called Saafi and two other girls to the net. They set while the other players hit. Claire lined up on the left side and watched the ball leave Saafi’s hands—no spin, perfect placement. Claire approached…and shot the ball into the net. Shoot. A perfect set, and I spoil it.

Keep your arms tight to your body as you approach, Coach Larson said. Claire nodded and got back in line.

On her next turn, she followed the coach’s advice. Her approach quickened. She planted her feet, sprang into the air, and drilled the ball into the opposite floorboards. Yes. She’d never hit so close to the ten-foot line.

Coach Larson whistled, no less shrilly for using her lips. Water break.

Saafi caught up to her. Nice hit.

Thanks. Your sets are amazing.

Feeling better?

Claire nodded. C-can you show me where the bubbler is?

Saafi furrowed her brows. The what?

The b-bubbler. You know, where you G-et water?

You mean a drinking fountain? Beth said. What planet are you from?

Wisconsin.

I will show you. Maite draped a long arm over Claire’s shoulders and ushered her into the hallway. Claire wasn’t used to feeling short, but Maite’s affable attitude put her at ease as they waited in line for the bubbler/drinking fountain.

What’s with Beth? Did I do something wrong?

Betty is a nice girl, but she build walls.

What does that mean? In hindsight, mentioning her cow hadn’t been the best way to win the girl’s trust, but Claire didn’t think she’d deserved that comment about being from another planet. She’d heard it before, but usually in reference to her stutter, not her vocabulary. As if I don’t have enough trouble fitting in.

Claire and Maite drank and returned to the gym. You find the bubbler, Cheesehead? Beth said.

Claire. Claire paused. Her name never came out so easily. She capitalized on her momentum. My name is Claire.

Clara, Maite said. Pretty name. You are a nice girl, Clara. Claire’s name became three-dimensional in Maite’s rendition, a straight line given curves.

"She said Claire," Beth said.

That’s okay, Claire said, though she appreciated Beth’s defending her. Maybe she’s just a stickler about names. I lllllike how she says it.

Coach Larson whistled. Let’s wrap up with queens of the court.

In the four-vs-four game, the losing team of each rally rotated out. Claire joined the servers’ line. Some players performed complicated rituals before serving to combat their nerves—bounce the ball three times, spin it twice, deep breath—but Claire’s mother had drilled that out of her. The simpler the better, she’d said.

Claire aced her first serve.

That had wicked float, the opposing player said.

Claire grinned as she jogged to the winners’ side. Her team lasted two rallies before being kicked off. She aced five more serves before Coach Larson called her over.

You play right side?

Claire shrugged. I’m from a small town.

Which means you played everything, and the strategy was ‘get the ball to Claire.’ Coach Larson nodded. I can tell. You’re a ball hog, but that’s okay for now. Cassidy is our right side. She’s left-handed, so she has a better angle than you do. You’re tall enough to play middle, but try left next time.

Claire nodded, not sure whether to be disappointed or excited. Left sides got more sets, but more girls played that position, which meant her competition would be tougher.

Claire played left side for the rest of the day. She had a few good digs and one amazing block, but Saafi’s sets gave her the biggest thrill. Saafi had the featherlight touch of an angel. No matter what haywire spin the ball had when she got it, it floated smoothly off her delicate fingers. Claire needed several rounds to overcome her excitement and pull off a good hit, but soon she felt like she’d been playing with Saafi for years.

By the time Coach Larson whistled the end of tryout day one, Claire was sweaty, exhausted, and bruised, but for once, she smiled without forcing it. Minneapolis isn’t so bad.

As Claire unbuckled her seatbelt, her father gave her a ghost of a smile that vanished before reaching his eyes.

I’m sorry, honey. It’s just your—

I know.

He smiled for real this time and patted her knee. Break a leg, kiddo.

Claire grabbed her gym bag and power walked into school for her last day of tryouts. Sticking with volleyball had been a good decision, if only to learn the maze of a building before school started.

She reached the gym well ahead of start time, but a yelp stopped her.

Yikes. Saafi jumped away from a group of other early arrivals. She pointed at the floor. Spider.

The girls scattered. Claire looked from her potential teammates to the spider and back. You have to be kidding me. She grabbed the spider and threw it in the trash.

Saafi’s eyes widened like a calf after its first vet visit. You squished it with your bare hands.

It’s a spider, Claire said.

That you squished with your bare hands. Beth squirmed as if covered with spiders herself.

Gross, Saafi said.

The girls regarded her as though she’d just eaten her own barf. If they think that’s gross… Claire laughed so hard she had to sit down.

What is funny? Maite asked.

Claire waited until she could breathe before answering. You guys wouldn’t last one d-d-day on a farm.

If my family farmed, we would still adhere to basic hygiene principles, Saafi said.

I think Abuela kills spiders like that, Maite said. "They come to the shop."

What shop? Claire asked.

Abuela’s flower shop. We live on top, Maite said.

Just you and her?

Maite nodded. I come to live with Abuela when my parents died.

Oh, I’m ssssssorry.

Maite plopped her bag down and changed into her volleyball shoes.

I live with my aunt, Saafi said, breaking the awkward silence. Well, it’s hard to say whether Dad and I live with her family, or if they live with us.

You’re single kids of single parents. Beth shook her head. I can’t imagine that kind of privacy.

With the spider threat vanquished, the girls joined Maite on the floor and changed into their volleyball shoes.

Well, I may not understand farm life, but I know setting, Saafi said, her bright smile at odds with her black leggings, undershirt, and headscarf. Want to try a quick set, Claire?

A quick? Claire had never played with a setter precise enough to run quick sets.

We tried last year with Ashley, but it flopped.

Claire shrugged. Worst that c-could happen is it flops again. Want to practice now?

Maite’s phone rang before Saafi could respond. Maite squinted at the caller ID before answering. She listened for a moment before responding in Spanish.

"No se preocupe, por eso existen los autobuses…Okay…Adiós."

What’s up? Saafi asked after Maite hung up.

Abuela said she can’t drive me to hapkido tonight. I said I take the bus.

Hop-what? Claire asked.

Hapkido. Is like karate. You know Jackie Chan?

Claire nodded. When it was her dad’s turn to pick for movie night, he often chose an action-comedy.

"He do—does hapkido. Here, I show you." Maite stepped away and performed a dizzying series of kicks and flips, her prodigious height allowing extra reach.

It’s best not to get on Maite’s bad side, Beth said.

Claire was more concerned about Beth’s bad side than the easygoing Maite. Though Beth hadn’t demonstrated active hostility, her dour constitution made her difficult to read. She could just be guarded, as Maite suggested, or she could be Claire’s new worst enemy. Given Claire’s track record with pretty girls, she prepared herself for the latter.

Maite rejoined them, breathing as easily as if she’d just gone for a stroll. Her face regained some of the light it had lost while discussing her parents.

I love Jackie Chan. He is funny, and he kick ass. Soon, I will be a black belt. Her growing excitement must have flipped a switch in her brain, because she continued in Spanish. "Y después, seré policía."

Claire scoured her memories of her one semester of Spanish. Her school hadn’t had a local instructor, so the course had been online.

Beth