Not a Sound

The trumpet-boy owns a plain green Jeep. He opens the door for me and then goes in on his own side after I get in. I close the door and he settles in. He starts up the car and gets going.

So, you can point to me the direction I need to go, is that fine? The trumpet-boy makes sure he's full-on facing me when he says this.

I nod and point to the left from the parking-lot. I'm done crying, but I feel like I'm going to start again. My temples throb and my eyes are sore, and the stickiness of the soda is gluing my shirt to my back. I feel like it's staining the boy's sweatshirt, but I don't want to take it off and stain his car too.

The boy is tapping his hands on the wheel. I wonder if he's listening to music. Then I feebly touch him on the shoulder.

Yeah? He turns, his eyes concerned.

I point back to the school and frown. I mime writing and reading with my hands.

Oh, class? He blinks. Did you want to go back?

No, I shake my head to try to get it across. I gesture to him. I mean you.

Oh. Little by little, a wry smile snakes onto his face. I can live without it. Besides, it's not too important. Band is my important class.

I nod and face front. Then I point to the right at the stoplight. The boy doesn't initially see it, so I tap him again and he nearly swerves through the intersection turning right. Oops, he says. I feel myself blanch and grip the seat. The boy's shoulders rack with laughter. I didn't mean to do that. Ah well, we're not dead, right?

I feel a nervous giggle in my chest and I let rise up, though I'm not sure if it comes out or not. The trumpet-boy just grins cheesily and drives on. Is there any more turns coming up?

I shake my head and exhale all the nervousness out. The rattling in my chest disappears through the breath coming through my mouth. The boy still taps his steering wheel in a random, silent beat with his hands.

I motion with a long gesture forward. It's a long way, huh? he asks.

I nod and make a number with my fingers.

Three miles? I nod. But it's straight down? I nod again. That's pretty convenient if you're biking, but I guess it can get boring too. The trumpet-boy grins and continues his beat on the steering wheel. I look at his radio and see nothing on, not even a CD playing. For some reason this makes me smile.

The rest of the ride is without conversation, but it's comfortable. I let myself ease back into the seat and watch the boy's hands move along the wheel, and at that moment, I really feel the silence. It's okay, though. It's not terrifying. It's a peculiar feeling, though.

I almost doze off before I realize we're almost at my house.

I jolt to a start, but gently touch the boy's arm and point to the creamy white house at the end of the block. That one? he asks. The one with the blue mailbox?

I nod, and he swerves again into the driveway, nearly taking out said mailbox. I'm fully awake now. The boy steadily parks and turns off the car. We're here in one piece, he says.

I breathe in and out. Then I relax. Thank you, I motion.

No problem. He smiles.

But then it hits me. I left my backpack at McDonalds. My eyes widen and I look at the trumpet-boy urgently. I gesture shrugging a backpack on. He watches me for a moment before he understands.

You left your backpack. I nod swiftly. The boy smiles a little. I'll bring it to you after school, don't worry. I won't go through it or anything. It's blue, right?

I nod again. Thank you, I sign.

No problem. But he frowns. I hope you feel better. Don't hesitate to get me of something goes wrong again.

That makes tears well up in my eyes again. I hold them back as much as I could, but that was like stopping a flood from a broken dam by plugging the crack with a twig. They pour out and the trumpet-boy wraps me up in a soft hug. I can only stand there. After a few seconds, the boy releases me. I'll see you soon, he says.

I nod and look at me feet. Yeah. See you soon.