Speechless

She rummages through her backpack and tears a blank page from one of her notebooks. She scribbles something down and then passes the sheet of paper to me.

You’re the girl taking the vow of silence, right?

News travels fast.

I hand the paper back and start returning to my homework, except Asha keeps writing, and a minute later she pokes me in the shoulder with the corner of the page. I take it back, assuming that she’s written a profanity-laden attack on my character, but when I look down, that’s not what I see. And she doesn’t look mad or mocking—there’s something weirdly sincere about her.

Since she doesn’t appear hostile, I decide to humor her. What can it hurt?

I hear things. People say a lot in front of me because they don’t think I’m listening.

What else have you heard? Don’t answer that. So what are you in for?

I punched a teacher in the face.

Seriously?

No, but it sounds cooler than having a bunch of tardies.

Point taken.

Hey, your answer to problem number four is wrong. To find the domain you need to set the denominator to zero.

Wow. I was not even close.

Not really, no.

It goes on like this for a while, until the teacher glances at the clock and says, “All right, you’re all excused.”

Everyone clears out of the room like it’s on fire. Asha is the only one who takes her time packing away her knitting needles, zipping up her bag and tucking the newspaper under her arm. Now that we’re both standing up, I can tell exactly how short she is. I mean, I’m no giant, but I tower over her by a good three or four inches. Her sleek black hair sways back and forth as she walks in front of me out the door. I wonder how she deals with it—it must take forever to wash, and even longer to brush. I have enough trouble keeping my own tamed, and mine only goes a little past my shoulders. It’s flaming red and wavy, and no matter how much product I use, it always ends up looking wild and tousled within an hour of drying. Ridiculous.

Asha and I head in the same direction, and we end up walking side by side through the parking lot together. Outside the weather is clear and cold. There’s snow blanketed on the grass; it’ll be there for another two months, at least. Michigan winters are like that. Last year there was a blizzard in April, bad enough to close the schools. Usually I’m eager for all the snow to melt, for spring to start and the birds to sing and the flowers to bloom, all that jazz, but today I’m glad for this miserable weather. It suits my perfectly miserable mood.

“I love winter,” Asha announces out of the blue, winding her scarf tight around her neck. “I get to wear all of the stuff I knit. I need to buy some new boots, though. My old ones fell apart.”

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