The One Without Words

❀ chapter two | he hates flowers ❀

"That was repulsive," I said. "And hilarious, but don't think you can do that again. But thats at least $3 off your next paycheck. But that's only if you last long enough to get one, Jack."

Because, let's be real, it was only a matter of time before Talia had to fire him. He'd been in a few of my classes throughout school, and he rarely did his work. The teachers, however, pitied him and let him scrape by. Once, in sophomore year when we had to work together for a group project, he didn't contribute at all. I told him to meet me and Megan at the library the day before it was due, but he didn't show up. I'd tried to talk to Talia and Greta, my stepmom, about this earlier, but they said we couldn't fire him before he got a chance to work. 

And it wasn't that he couldn't talk. He could. According to the rumors, at least. His vocal chords weren't missing or anything. It was more psychological. I'd looked it up after our failed group assignment. What could make a person refuse to talk. Even now, I remembered it:

Selective mutism, also known as situational mutism, is an anxiety disorder in which a person normally capable of speech cannot speak in specific situations or to specific people. Selective mutism usually co-exists with social anxiety disorder.

Since he'd gone to that troubled teens support group—or, more likely, his mom had forced him to attend—there was a good chance psychologists had analyzed him from head to toe by now. Which meant I wasn't the only one in the room with a diagnosis.

"Alright," I began. "Flower arranging 101." I picked a random bouquet and set it in front of him. "First, let's analyze what makes this pleasing to the eye. The colors. The flower choice. A balance of different types, not too overwhelming. You want to make sure..."

Yeah, he was not listening.

"No? Fine. Cleaning 101, then." I went into the back closet. It stunk of mold and bleach. Gross. This place with its cracked walls would probably collapse in less than a month if Greta didn't pester the owner for a renovation. But it was too late to close the shop. We couldn't afford the lag in revenue.

I took out out the smelly mop, duster, and other cleaning supplies. I tried to show Jack where everything went, but he was really focused on that tablet, and it took all my people skills not to break the mop in half.

This was me making an effort. This was me being nice and patient, but maybe he didn't deserve it. Spoiled rich boy who had mommy hold his hand throughout his whole life. No wonder he was so stunted.

The sun sure put everyone else in a good mood today, though. Customer after smiling customer stopped at the shop, bought bouquets or packages of flowers, and left empty spaces in our displays I filled up. 

A large group of tourists came in—why they were sightseeing in this ugly part of the city was beyond me—and I helped them with the biggest smile I could muster. When they left, I turned on the small radio Talia kept, bobbing my head to some cheesy pop song. Better than Jack's silence.

Before the song finished, the music stopped. And there was Jack, finger on the power button.

"Oh, so you hate music, too?"

He turned the radio on, except this time, he twisted the dial until the static cleared and opera music blasted through the shop, so loud the passerby outside would probably hear.

"You're not serious."

He raised the volume, but not before I pried his hand off the radio and turned it down. His gaze flickered to where my fingers met his wrist. "Are you stupid? We'll scare off all our customers if—"