Without The Words

Chapter 3

Seeing as it was now lunch time, I grabbed a quick salad and headed to Mr. Garcia's office back on the first floor.

When I reached his door, I tapped and a "comeeee in!!!!" echoed in a sing-song voice.

I smiled and opened the door, walking into the comforting room with a smiling Mr. Garcia.

"How did your first official day go?" He asked lightly, sliding over a piece of paper and a pencil in the process.

I wrote:

It was good. Confusing and scary, but good. I was wondering if you could tell me where I could sign up for cross country?

He smiled knowingly. "Ah, I see. Running must be your therapy."

He grabbed a schedule that was a duplicate of mine and eyed it.

"Your history teacher, Mr. Lee, is the cross country coach. There's also another teacher as a side coach, although I don't remember who it is. But anyways, Mr. Lee has the flyers that promote the team. All you'll need to do is get one from him. You'll need a guardian to sign it as well as filling out a few questions, and when you bring it back the next day, Mr. Lee will take it."

Of course Mr. Lee is the coach. It was just my luck that his good looks were the most distracting thing I'd ever come across.

Okay, I wrote onto the piece of paper in front of me.

Thank you.

"You're welcome, dear. I hope the rest of the day goes well for you. Please stop by again soon, I enjoy your company. You're very unique." He smiled and I returned the gesture.

"One more thing." He said. He dug in the drawer beside him.

"You'll probably want this." He handed me a small notebook and a pen. "To communicate with others." He added. I smiled again and left the room with the notebook and pen firmly gripped in my hand.

I approached the lunch room, taking a seat farthest from where majority of the students were seated. I took out the salad I had bought earlier.

I ate my salad littered with tiny pieces of ham and cheese while doing the little homework I had, but began to grow restless with Mr. Lee flooding back into my head.

This dangerous train of thought was unhealthy. Thinking my teacher was attractive was clearly unacceptable. He looked to be in his late twenties, and it's not like he was hot. He was just really, really cute.

I dismissed the thought and finished my salad, grabbing my belongings and making my way back to Mr. Lee's classroom. Thankfully, the classroom was empty and Mr. Lee sat at his desk, the sunlight pouring into the room with blue and white tiled floors with green walls.

"Hi Poppy," he greeted, eyeing my complexion while my cheeks impulsively heated up.

I scribbled on the notebook.

Can I have a cross country flyer? I'd like to sign up.

"Of course," he responded, a side-smile on his lips. His glasses were off, folded on the desk next to a stack of papers. His eyes were beautifully dark and instead of noticing that he was handing me the paper, I was distracted by his oceanic blue eyes.

"You okay?" He asked, chuckling a bit.

I wanted to mutter a "yeah I'm fine" or "yeah, sorry" but of course I didn't. He probably thought I was a freak.

What am I saying? He's a damn teacher, he clearly doesn't categorize students like I would disgustingly assume.

But as much as I wanted to believe that he thinks I'm normal, I'm clearly an outcast and the stupid notebook and pen is enough proof. It was hard to not let my own insecurities get the best of me, especially in the position I was in.

I quickly took the paper, my fingers lightly brushing against his palm. I purposely stared at the colored tile my worn-out Converse were placed upon in order to avoid awkward eye contact.

It seemed ridiculous, having to write every time I wanted to comment or say something that shouldn't have to be written. Instead of writing a thank-you, I gave him a quick and awkward nod. He returned it, but looked at me for a second longer from what I observed.

He cleared his throat and tore his gaze away, focusing his attention on the papers in front of him. My eyes darted away from him as I swiftly made my way out of the classroom, standing outside of it for a second time while the anxiety became moribund.

When I got home, my backpack falling off my shoulder and thumping onto the hardwood floor, something emotionally broke in me. My cross country flyer crumpled up in my hand and I dropped to the floor, letting myself fall apart into a heap of sadness and desperation.

"Poppy?" I heard my dad say. His form appeared from the kitchen entryway, nothing but pure concern outlining every feature of his aging face.

"Poppy?" He repeated, his voice raising. He came over to me and crouched down, looking at my dysfunctional self.

"I miss her," I whispered. The first three words that came out of my mouth in five years. A gasp that did not belong to me echoed.

"You spoke," he breathed. "You spoke!" His hands wrapped around my figure and he picked me up, twirling me around and planting a wet sloppy kiss on my forehead.

"I miss her too." He said, his eyes dulling a bit at the thought of how full our family used to be.

He placed a thumb under my eye and wiped a tear away.

"I know." He said softly, putting me down gently and letting my head fall onto his hard chest.

A sniffle later, I was crying again, my tears soaking my fathers' shirt. We both just stood there, immersed in sadness, but at the same time with a comfort that had always lingered in this house.

Later on that night, the reality of me speaking began to settle in. I couldn't even believe it myself- the fact that I had spoken. A part of me loathed myself for it. I wanted to cut open my skin with a razor and watch the blood pour out. Or I wanted to overdose on anything I could find in my father's bathroom cabinet. However , I knew better than to get back into that stage. I didn't want to go back to the psychiatric hospital.

So I sucked it up, let my hunger for self destruction melt away, and continued to let the heated water spray in the shower all over me, hopefully taking me down the drain with it.