Not a Sound

I'm crying in shame. My feet pound into the cement outside and I push past the kids returning to class from lunch. My back is soaked with soda. People give me strange looks and it makes me cry harder. I almost break into a run. I don't get a chance to, though, beause a soft hand on my shoulder stops me.

It's the trumpet-boy.

Hey- but I can't look at him. I turn and briskly walk away. I'm going home. It's a long way home, but I can manage it. I feel like he's calling after me, but I don't know until his fingers brush my wrist in an attempt to stop me. I pull my hand away and still don't look back. A second later I feel something flump onto my shoulders.

It's the boy's bright orange sweatshirt.

This time I look back and he catches me around the shoulders. Are you okay? he asks.

I shake my head and tears stream down my cheeks. The boy's face is flushed with emotion and his dark green eyes, green like the forest, are worried. He tugs his sweatshirt around me. I'm so sorry. I didn't know that was going to happen. Who was that? Does she bother you all the time?

I just shake my head and try to pull away.

You can talk to me. I don't know sign language, but you can talk to me, okay? I look away and scrub my face of tears. I keep crying though. I can't move my hands because I'm crying so hard. That's when I feel the boy's arms wrap around me and his warmth envelop me. I'm too ashamed to move.

Then it's just one arm around me. I feel him tug on me just the slightest and I dare to peek through my fingers. I'm going to take you home, okay? he asks. I'll give you a ride home. Let's head back to the parking lot.

I shake my head viciously.

It'll be okay. No one can see the wetness through my sweatshirt. Besides, my car is parked at the end.

Please, I want to say, I'll manage on my own.

But I go with him anyway.