Free Silence by Becca Fitzpatrick

the same. “We’re square.”
    Inside the main office, I expected to have to talk myself out of a tardy slip, so I was surprised when the secretary saw me approaching and, after completing a double take, said, “Oh! Nora. How
are
you?”
    Ignoring the buttery sympathy in her tone, I said, “I’m here to pick up my class schedule.”
    “Oh. Oh, my. So soon? Nobody expects you to jump right back into things, you know, hon. Some of the staff and I were just talking this morning about how we thought you should take a couple of weeks to—” She struggled for an acceptable word, since there was no right word for what I had ahead of me. Recover? Adapt? Hardly. “Acclimate.” She was practically flashing a neon sign that read,
What a pity! Poor girl! I’d better use my kid gloves with this one.
    I propped an elbow on the counter and leaned close. “I’m ready to be back. And that’s what matters, right?” Because I was already in a bad mood, I tacked on, “I’m so glad this school has taught me not to value any other opinion but my own.”
    She opened her mouth, closed it. Then she went to work paging through several manila folders on her desk. “Let me see, I know I’ve got you in here somewhere… . Ah! Here we are.” She pulled a sheet of paper from one of the folders and passed it over to me. “Everything look okay?”
    I scanned my schedule. AP U.S. history, honors English, health, journalism, anatomy and physiology, orchestra, and trig. Clearly I’d had a death wish for my future self when I’d registered for classes last year.
    “Looks good,” I said, throwing my backpack over my shoulder and pushing through the office door.
    The hall outside was dim, the overhead fluorescent lights casting a dull gleam on the waxed floors. In my head, I told myself this was my school. I belonged here. And even though it was jarringevery time I reminded myself I was now a junior, despite the fact that I couldn’t remember finishing sophomore year, eventually the strangeness would wear off. It had to.
    The bell rang. In an instant doors everywhere opened and the hall flooded with the student body. I fell into step with the current of students fighting their way to the restrooms, locker bays, and soda machines. I kept my chin tilted slightly up and leveled my gaze straight ahead. But I felt the eyes of my classmates when they looked my way. Everyone took a surprised second look. They had to know I was back by now—my story was the highlight of local news. But I supposed seeing me in the flesh cemented the fact. Their questions danced front and center in their curious stares.
Where was she? Who kidnapped her? What kinds of icky, unspeakable things happened to her?
    And the biggest speculation by far:
Is it true she can’t remember any of it? I bet she’s faking. Who just forgets months of their life?
    I fingered through the notebook I’d been hugging to my chest, pretending to search for something highly important.
I don’t even notice you,
the gesture implied. Then I threw back my shoulders and faked a look of indifference. Maybe even aloofness. But under it all, my legs were shaking. I hurried down the hall with only one goal driving me forward.
    Pushing my way inside the girls’ bathroom, I locked myself in the last stall. I dragged my back down the wall until I was sitting on my bottom. I could taste bile rising in my throat. My arms andlegs felt numb. My lips felt numb. Tears dripped off my chin, but I couldn’t move my hand to wipe them away.
    No matter how hard I squeezed my eyes shut, no matter how dark I forced my vision, I could still see their leering, judgmental faces. I wasn’t one of them anymore. Somehow, without any effort on my own, I’d become an outsider.
    I sat in the stall several minutes longer, until my breathing calmed and the urge to cry faded. I didn’t want to go to class, and I didn’t want to go home. What I really wanted was the impossible. To travel back in time and get a second