The Girl with No Voice (chp 1)

The Girl with no voice1

By Elyse Byrnes2

Chapter I3

It was autumn—a cruel autumn for the small city of Fox Hollow. The bitter November breeze caused the trees to shudder with cold. The framework of the old Victorian buildings along the cobbled streets groaned uncomfortably during rain as the wood painfully bore the weight of the roofs above them. Fallen leaves of amber and burnt sienna littered the streets and sidewalks and the air smelt of wet decay. Blue skies were a long forgotten memory—stolen away by hues of gray.
The people of the town remained tucked away in their chary houses—intimidated by the officious caw of the ravens that stalked their streets and porches. The ravens and crows, who were given free reign, did not fear the bitter, northern breeze; they did not dread the prospect of cold, wet claws.
A lone figure walked steadily through the puddles, laced with ice. She trudged down the middle of the old cobbled street, and as approached, the cluster of carrion birds parted to either side like the red sea. The young girl ignored the winged crowd; much like she ignored the forceful wind that billowed against her as she soldiered on. She placed a hand to her chest, and began fiddling with the charm that hung there playfully. A cluster of leaves swirled about her feet and up to her waist, carried by the wind. She closed her eyes as she took in the crisp air. She paused before a large brick building and adjusted her tattered second-hand book bag. The frame about the large glass-inlaid doors read in peeling black letters: Fox Hollow High School.
With a determined sigh, she pushed open the doors. Immediately, she was accosted by the hustle of teenagers and the frustrated adults who were futilely attempting to maintain order. She walked as a boat passing over a tumultuous ocean; thrown side to side by the waves, but still maintaining her diminutive course. As she reached an empty corner in the hall, she allowed herself to catch her breath and pulled out a crumpled yet official looking letter. It read:

To the parent/guardians of Elizabeth Brandon;

On behalf of Fox Hollow High School, I would like to welcome you and your son/daughter to our community. We are positive that your son/daughter will find freshman year to be both an educational and enjoyable experience. Our knowledgeable staff and teachers will be there to help your son/daughter make the best of his/her High school experience. As your home is within one mile of the campus, your son/daughter will be expected to provide their own transportation, like most of our students. Biking is an acceptable mode of transportation. There are designated racks for your son/daughter’s bike to be stored safely during school hours. We strongly recommend a chain or lock of some sort.

Your child’s homeroom will be located in room 121 with Mrs. Parker.

If you have any questions or comments that were not previously covered by this letter or our last meeting, I can be contacted during school hours at 587-3804.

Sincerely,
Principal John Hewman 4


The girl stood still, staring blankly at the letter. She bit her lip nervously and turned to the tumult that was her fellow peers. With a determined sigh, she pushed her long dirty blonde hair behind her ears, straightened the long, emerald floral skirt that she herself had made especially for her first day at her new school and treaded uncomfortably in her shiny black shoes. With every step, she winced. Her shoes dug painfully into the back of her heels. She did not mind. She wanted to look her best.
An official looking woman was scolding a boy not two years older than Elizabeth for chewing gum. She forcedly stuck out her hand, palm up, and he spit the gum into her hand. Satisfied, the woman glared at him reprovingly and tossed the offending wad into a nearby trashcan. He continued walking, giving her a reproachful look as he carried on. The girl in the green skirt walked sheepishly toward the stern woman in the grey tweed dress suit. She gave her a gentle, yet insistent poke on her arm. The woman looked down at her with hawk-like severity.
The girl said nothing, but held the official-looking paper before her.
“Lost, are you?” the woman demanded. She tore the paper from the girls clasped fingers, unfolded it, and gave it the once over before the girl could say a word. “Room 121,” She muttered to herself. “Very well, Miss Brandon, follow me.” The stern woman did not look behind her to see whether the girl could catch up with her. Instead, she strode like a malevolent queen through the crowded hall. The girl nearly had to run to keep up with the older woman’s long legs.
Panting, she followed the woman through hall upon hall and pushed through teenager upon teenager until they reached their destination. The woman paused at a bare taupe door and without looking at the girl next to her, said, “Here is your room.” Without another word, she ran after a girl who was screaming at an older boy who, apparently, had taken her notebook.
The shy girl in the green skirt bit her lip nervously and, awkwardly, she pushed open the cold door to the room where she would be spending the first eighty minutes of the greater part of the next ten months. It was a generous room, floored in tattered linoleum tile that looked as though it had been pounded upon by thousands of sneakers. The walls were bare, with the exception of a plain calendar and that week’s announcements which hung loosely on a peeling bulletin board. The ceiling tiles had cracks that revealed nothing but darkness. There were twenty or so uncomfortable looking desks sorted about the room in columns and rows. It was a though they were placed there with a straight edge. Before the desks hung a large blackboard which seemed to span for ages.
Seated in the desks, were twenty students—they looked no older than sixteen, and no younger than thirteen—facing an elderly woman who was seated behind a large metal desk. Elizabeth clutched the straps of her book bag protectively and walked over to the group. The elderly woman gave her a disapproving look with her squinting, gray eyes.
“You’re late; it’s your first day of school—am I to assume that you will be late every day now?”
Elizabeth blushed. Everyone was looking at her. A group of three girls, who were seated closest to the old woman, put their hands to their mouths and giggled to each other, while giving Elizabeth pointed sardonic looks.
“I…g—gawt w—w—wost.” She said with some difficulty.
“’wost’?” asked Mrs. Barker, raising a poorly penciled eyebrow. Again, more giggles. “Very well—you’re wasting your classmates’ time; take a seat.”
Elizabeth quickly turned away from the cold woman as her throat began to tighten uncomfortably, and her eyes began to sting. She quietly removed her book bag and placed it upon the empty desk in the back row where she intended to sit.
“What are you doing?” demanded Mrs. Parker.
“I—I’m sitting d—down.”
“Don’t get smart with me!” she pointed a harsh finger at the wall of hooks. “That is where your bag goes. I will not have you make a mess of my classroom.” She waved an impatient hand at the now silently weeping girl and said, “Now hurry up!”
Elizabeth, her eyes a terrific shade of red, walked over to the row of hooks and hung her bag carefully. She returned to her desk cautiously.
The teacher scoffed.
“And what, may I ask, do you intend to take notes with?”
Again, Elizabeth blushed. “I have a n—n—“
“Notebook?” she curved her upper lip and pointed to the row of book bags. “Well I suggest you go and get it so I may continue the lesson!” she rolled her eyes, stood, and began to write in French on the blackboard. The rest of the students reached under their desks, and pulled out identical black .5 inch spiral bound notebooks. Elizabeth bit her lip and quietly ran over to her bag to retrieve a notebook and pencil before Mrs. Barker turned around again.
She sat prudently in her desk, and opened her kitten-covered notebook, warm tears now flowing freely and unnoticed from her hazel eyes. Elizabeth vaguely heard Mrs., rather, Madame Barker conjugating the verb, adore. She wanted desperately to see how much more time she would have to spend with the dreadful woman, but was too afraid to turn around and glance at the plain, black clock which hung on the wall behind her, ticking contemptuously. Each tick echoed through the back of her shoulders and neck as she tried desperately to pay attention, out of fear of reprimand. Elizabeth looked up at the board where the teacher was now writing something in French on the board. Elizabeth bit her lip, and began copying it into her notebook. After each word, she heard the resonant tick tock of the clock vibrating up and down her spine. She closed her eyes and willed herself not to hear it.
Tick, tock.
Elizabeth raked a fragile hand through her hair, flustered. Just when she thought she could take no more, the bell rang. A wash of cool, refreshing air seemed to wash over her reddening face as her fellow students hustled about, collecting their bags.
“I want everyone in here to be able to recite the pledge of allegiance en France by next class!” Madame Barker shrilled at her students, glaring at each one of them suspiciously.
Elizabeth slid out of her desk, and clutched her notebook protectively to her chest. The majority of the students had already rushed out of the room; only the three girls from the front row remained. 5