Marked with Silence

To say that my infatuation for Sapphira Torres was solely due to her beauty, would be a lie. It was her mystery, it was her devotion, it was her solitude. I so far had had three classes with her, and I’d only heard her voice once. In AP Chemistry, third period. The class was checking over a worksheet, and the teacher went down the rows of her classroom. I would never forget the way she said ‘copper sulfate.’ I swear—I heard music.

As planned, I met up with Dylan, and we ate lunch together. He ushered me to a table where four other people were already seated—two guys, and two girls.

“Hey, guys,” he said, and all heads looked up. “This is Jerome Washfield. He just transferred from Arkansas.”

The guys acknowledged me with a nod, and the two girls smiled their greeting. I recognized one of them as a cheerleader that Dylan had pointed out in the morning.

They were very friendly—asking how my day was so far and if I missed my old school. As the lunch bell rang, I made sure to remember their names.

John is the one with curly hair. Timmy has really big ears. Beatrice is the girl with the annoying laugh. And Sarah is the cheerleader.

Dylan walked me to the History Hallway before heading in his own direction. And I smiled as the girl in purple walked passed me.

“Let’s welcome to the class Jerome Washfield, everybody.” Mr. Grafter, my Honors World History teacher was a very intimidating Italian man. His voice was deep and his shoulders broad. He should have been drilling children to do jumping jacks, not to remember the main beliefs of Hinduism.

I was already seated at my desk, which was unfortunately, on the other side of the room from Sapphira. My surrounding classmates gave half-hearted claps; she didn’t clap at all.

Mr. Grafter turned his attention to me, “We actually are in the middle of a project that we started last week. In groups of two you have to pick a country, and make a PowerPoint which you will present in front of the class about that country, such as its history, culture, and climate. In addition, pick an aspect of that culture you’re interested in, such as a certain sport, game, or food, and demonstrate that in front of the class.”

I merely nodded, feeling very out of the loop.

He grabbed a piece of paper off of his desk.

“Hmm,” he looked over what I assumed to be a list of the groups, “Sapphira is the only person in this class working by herself. She opted to go solo instead of making a group of three.”

I swelled with joy and anticipation. My luck couldn’t have been better.

Mr. Grafter turned to her, “Sapphira, you wouldn’t mind if Jerome worked with you, right?”

She shook her head. After all, he really wasn’t looking for her approval.

Mr. Grafter looked at his paper again, “Sapphira chose to research the Philippines. Is that all right with you, Jerome?”

I smiled, “Perfect. I lived there for two years.”

I looked over at Sapphira to find her staring back at me. My lips faltered when I saw that it wasn’t happiness, or anger, or even disappointment on her face. It was sadness.

“Okay, now that that’s taken care of,” Mr. Grafter said. “Break up into your groups and continuing planning out your project. Remember, it’s due in three and a half weeks.”

Sapphira didn’t move so I made my way to her. The entire class was rearranging desks and walking about, separating themselves into groups.

I pulled an empty desk over and positioned it so that she and I faced each other, if only she would look up at me. She kept her eyes on her desk.

“Hi,” I said nervously. “I’m Jerome Washfield, it’s nice to meet you.”

She finally raised her head, and gave me a nod.

How is this going to work if we can’t communicate to each other? She has to talk to me at some point, right?

Sapphira bent over and reached into her backpack. I tried not to look at her butt.

When she straightened again she slid several packets of papers towards me.

I picked them up and studied them. An outline for the PowerPoint. Research on the
Philippines’ large Catholic population, Spaniard occupation, climate, and Christmas celebrations. A recipe for “casaba cake.” The rules and dangers of cock fighting.

I looked up at her with wide eyes, “You basically have done the entire project already.”

She shook her head. I raised my eyebrows, hoping for her to explain further using words.

Sapphira bit the inside of her check, looking as if she was contemplating the most complicated of things.

“I haven’t done the PowerPoint presentation, or decided whether to feature food or a sport,” she said in a very meek voice, before returning her eyes to the wooden desk.

“Uh…I’m great at doing PowerPoints, so I could do that on my own,” I offered, all the while hoping that she would reject the idea. She had clearly already did more than her share of the work.

She shook her head and reached into her backpack again. I couldn’t help stealing a look at her backside this time around.

Sapphira took out a folder which had “Honors World History” written across it in bubble letters. She took out a piece of paper and handed it over to me.

It was the guidelines for the project paper. She leaned over to look at the paper, and her hair swung towards me so that I could smell the scent of her shampoo; coconut or mango, or maybe both. She pointed to the sixth bullet point.

I read it out loud, “Partners must meet a minimum of two occasions and keep a log with the time and signatures of both members of those meetings. Oh,” I finished, trying to hide my excitement. This was perfect. I had to spend extra time with her—as many hours as it would take to get the project completed.

I thought, I get to talk to her more than any other person here has. I get to learn about her. Maybe I could even get her to like me.

“I am. The luckiest guy. At Cadbury High School,” I told Dylan at the end of the day. “Not only do I have four classes with the most beautiful girl in the senior class, I’m her project partner.”

“Oh, for World Hist.?”

“Yep,” I bragged.

“So how is that gonna work? Does she sign to you? Or get a piece of paper and write you notes?” He chuckled.

“Hey,” I hit his shoulder. “Don’t make fun. Her silence makes her all the more attractive.”

Dylan stopped both of us suddenly, “Do you really like like Sapphira? Or do you just want to get with her for her looks?”

I shrugged and thought it over, “A little bit of both I guess. It was her looks that got my attention, but it’s her personality that’s got me mesmerized.”

“How do you even know what her personality is like? You know nothing about her.”

“My point exactly,” I responded as we exited the school. “With some girls they just thrust all of their obnoxious habits and weird tendencies right into your arms when you meet them. But with her, I’m hoping she gives a little about herself bit by bit.”

He scoffed, “You’re a romantic, aren’t you?”

“Hopelessly.”

“You’re digging yourself into a hole man. A very big hole.”

One of his buddies jogged up to him and said, “We have to be on the field in ten.”

“Hey, Jerome. I gotta go to practice, Catch up with you tomorrow?”

“Sure,” I nodded as the two departed from me.

I wondered if Dylan felt obligated to still talk to me, or if he actually liked me. I stood on the curb, waiting for my mom to pick me up, when I pulled out a slip of paper from my pocket. I had convinced Sapphira that we should exchange phone numbers—for the project’s sake, of course. I smiled when I saw the number neatly printed on the scrap of paper. I thought about what a conversation on the phone with her would be like. I wondered if she would feel the need to talk more at all.


I thought about calling her, or texting her, all the while I was trying to complete my homework. I had a lot of catching up to do, but most of my teachers didn’t pile it on too badly. As soon as I had finished my Pre-Calculus problems, I laid down on my bed with my cell phone on my stomach and Sapphira’s phone number in my hand.

I decided to text her. It probably wouldn’t be as awkward seeing that she didn’t need to use her to let me know what she had to say

what time can u meet up 4 the project, I typed quickly and pressed send before I could change my mind.

Her reply came two minutes later, Whenever is good for you.

I read her message twice, fri. afterschool

It was thirty seconds before I felt the vibration of my phone, Fine. Where?

I looked around my room to see many unpacked boxes and clothes all over the floor. The rest of the house wasn’t much better.

my house is a mess wat bout ur place?

I would rather not.
There’s a library on Duke Street, it’s a ten minute walk from school

That was when I first noticed that Sapphira didn’t use any type of chat speak and properly punctuated sentences when she texted. I suddenly felt very dumb when I thought about the quality of the messages that I had sent her.

I read the first line of her sentence over. She seemed rather final with her decision about not doing the project at her house. Was she really that guarded about her entire life? I really didn’t want to go to the library, so I tried to find a way around it.

Library computers are timed, I tried to sound more literate. It would be a hassle.

Sapphira’s response didn’t immediately come like her other messages did. I started to sweat, wondering if she regretted having me as a partner.

Meet me at the front after school. We’re walking

I grinned, screamed, and then started jumping up and down my bed.