It's a dull Friday morning. The smell of wet leaves is seeping in through the window and the air is cold and windy.
Instead of sitting in a classroom full of overachievers, debating whether or not I truly belong there, I am here. Sitting like a duck in this tiny peach coloured office, waiting to be told I'm not actually as crazy as I feel.
Although it was pretty gloomy outside, I can still sense summer lingering by. So close that I can taste it. I don't want to let go of the sunny days yet. Maybe, I'm depending on summer for happiness.
I've given up on listening to the words being spoken at me rather than to me and instead I'm focusing on the little rose-shaped scar on the back of my hand. I've forgotten how I got it. Was it a burn or an old picked at scab?
I've always hated attending these therapy sessions. It makes me feel much less sane than I usually feel. I refuse to believe that 'talking it out' is going to fix me.
It doesn't help that it's on the other side of town which subsequently makes me late back to the sixth form every single week.
One of the other reasons I hate coming here is Dr. 'Please call me Tracy'.
Tracy is my psychologist, my therapist, my counsellor or whatever you call it. She's the woman my brother hired to find out why I stopped talking.
Her wavy ginger hair reminds me of that Disney movie, Brave. The deep dark rings under her eyes that she tries to cover up with cheap concealer makes me believe that she's having as much of a hard time as I am.
I can see she's trying her best to understand me and I'll admit, it does slightly hurt me knowing I'm not the easiest person to help.
"Harley? You need to answer the question," she asks calmly, her pale skinny fingers clench around that silly little clipboard of hers.
Her voice is soothing and slow as though she's trying to coax a baby to crawl to her.
I fiddle with my tight sweater sleeves before finally working up the courage to answer the question.
"Huh?" is all I can manage to get out.
I kiss my teeth in frustration. This is my third session with this new therapist so I'm still trying to get used to feeling comfortable speaking to her.
My old therapist tried and tried for months to get me to talk to her but I didn't budge. There was just something off about her that couldn't get me to open. I always felt like she was judging me somehow. Eventually, she gave up and referred me to another specialist. Tracy is meant to be much better and I'll admit she is better than the others but it is still early days.
She watches me closely before she skims through her notes, "I said have you made any attempt, since our last session, to speak to anyone new?"
She purses her lips together tightly and her red lipstick cracks under the pressure.
A little bit like I am now.
I swiftly shake my head as she continues to purse her lips and briskly write away on that damn clipboard. I wish I could just snatch that thing out of her hands and break it in half. But, of course, I have self-control.
The truth is I haven't tried to talk to anyone new. Why should I? What's the point? No one listens anyway. They never do.
I've barely even made eye contact with anyone outside of my family and the thought of doing so makes my stomach lurch. Just imagine, stuttering and spluttering trying to get a simple sentence out and then the other person realises that they don't actually want to talk to you after all.
I'd rather not, thanks.
She finally looks up at me through her white bottle-rimmed glasses and sighs. "Look, Harley, I know this is hard for you but the only way to work through this is to talk about it. That's why you're here, so why don't you let me help you."
She unclenches her fingers and puts her board down on the little red table beside her.
"You know the kindest thing you can do for yourself is make friends because every new friend is a new adventure and the start to new memories." She says, reciting the quote from the silly cat poster on her wall.
She's saying all this as if I even asked for my brain to work like this. I'd give an arm and leg to be able to talk about my feelings like normal people do. I'd give an arm and a leg for a miracle to happen that would make me talk at all.
I think about what she said for a while as I try to string a few words together for a response. "Thank you... but the time is up...and I'm gonna be late." Even that was a struggle for me to say out loud.
But it is progress after all.
She waves her hand and sighs as if she's permitting me to leave.
"Don't forget what I said!" She calls out to me as I rush out of her office.
I step out into the wind and instantly realise it may have been the wrong day to wear this not warm enough sweatshirt.
I think about the day I got the diagnosis. It was exactly one month after Papa died and I felt like the bad times would never get going.
My world was filled with darkness that found its way inside of me.
I couldn't talk.
Nothing motivated me anymore to speak. My other dad barely spoke too since he was still dealing with the tragedy of losing his husband. My brother was all cooped up with A-levels and using that as a distraction rather than just addressing the fact that Papa left us. I was all alone. At least, it sure felt like I was.
I remember standing in the family's GP office with my older brother. He had been so stressed that day, he had his first mock exam in the afternoon but he had to take me before he went. He was sitting in the corner of the room in one of those uncomfortable skinny waiting chairs, anxiously running his hands through his buzz cut, shiny jet black hair. He was probably just as scared as I was.
We didn't speak much before we left. He just took my hand and dragged me there.
As soon as I heard the words 'Avoidant Personality Disorder' exit the doctors mouth, a lot of things began to make sense to me.
Hearing him describe all the symptoms was like putting pieces of a puzzle together. It was the main reason why I barely had any friends or why I felt so inferior to everyone else. I had even felt like this before Papa died. His death only amplified my emotions.
I couldn't eat, sleep or even talk to anyone.
I couldn't even talk to Pops and that's why I sometimes feel responsible for the way he is now.
The doctor said eventually my selective mutism would go away and I just needed to keep working at it. He suggested a bunch of therapists that could help.
I could see the look of relief on Silas' face. He was just glad I wasn't bipolar like our Papa. To him, AvPD was much 'safer' and less volatile in comparison to what our Papa had. To him, it was no big deal, something I could overcome. But to me, it was like a kick in the face.
Silas knew I could get treated, and hopefully, I'd be all better in a matter of months or years. To him, it meant I wouldn't be like dad and that's all he wanted to hear.
He treated me to an ice cream sundae in the old diner in town before he rushed back to school and even let me get extra maraschino cherries.
That was four years ago.
Now, I gaze onto the streets of central Beaumont. The small crowds of people either taking their kids to the nearby primary school or going for a tea in the coffee shop next door. It's weird thinking how just by looking at someone you could never tell what kind of person they are or what kind of life they're living. Anyone could be anyone. I could be anyone.
Luckily, I have double A-level English literature for the first and second periods, so I don't mind missing my lesson to tour Beaumont rather than listen to Mrs Evergreen give crappy interpretations of poetry.
Fortunately, Silas had taken the liberty of informing the school about my appointments so I was practically already excused.
I decide to grab some more of my favourite sweets, maraschino cherries, from the nearest Sainsburys before I catch the bus.
Actually, now as I think about it, are they really classified as sweets?
Because technically they're fruit but they're so heavily soaked in sugary syrup it must cancel out any nutritional value?
I let a sigh escape through my lips as I rush to pay. It is way too awkward to look the blonde cashier boy in the eyes so I keep my head down. My braids shielding my face from his gaze. The poor lad probably thinks I've stolen something.
Just as I exit the store, I see my bus rolling down the hill without any intention of stopping soon. In order to catch it, I must run.
Running is fun but not in front of people because there's always the possibility of tripping followed by the eruption of ridiculing laughter which has happened to me before (primary school-terrible experience-let's not talk about it).
And what if I have a weird running stance that I didn't know about? However, this time I do manage to catch the bus with just a little jog.
Another thing I hate is using public transportation.
The fear of the slight possibility of my ticket not being valid along with the dozen pairs of eyes slowly watching me as I find a seat.
Not to mention the odd chance that another human being may think it's acceptable to come and sit next to me and strike up a conversation especially if there's are other seats available on the bus.
There's nothing I can do about it though. I've been begging Pops for a car for ages but he doesn't particularly think I need one. My only personal mode of transport is my bike which I love and adore but isn't exactly always practical.
I press my ticket into the reader and providentially it worked. I don't have to worry about a dozen pairs of eyes watching me because the bus was scarce, there are only three people on it; an old man who was staring avidly at the suspicious-looking yellow crust on his elbow; a pregnant woman reading an ELLE magazine and a middle-aged man talking ridiculously loudly on his phone. I choose a window seat at the very back of the bus far away from everyone else.
Once I get settled in, I tuck into my cherries. A little bit more than 30 minutes later, I was walking towards Beaumont Hill Sixth Form's huge harry potter-like front steps.
Beaumont Hill Sixth Form was known to be the 'Hollywood' of higher education schools in Beaumont. Every person who attended the school was either gifted and talented or incredibly rich. Sometimes, both.
Everyone in this part of England knew that all the best Actors/Actresses, Artists, Athletes, Mathematicians, Scientists etc attended BHS.
The only reason I got in was because of my photography/videography skills. After handing in the reel of photos I took before, during, and after my GCSEs, the headmaster immediately gave me an offer.
Even I was surprised, I knew I liked taking photos but I had no idea I was actually considered talented at it. So I chose my three A-levels: English literature, Film Studies and Photography.
Maybe in the future, I'll be able to go to the MetFilm School in London and study film-making. Or maybe that is just wishful thinking.
I check my watch and realise it's definitely too late to go into the second period. So I walk to my favourite secluded spot in the school; next to the bins at the back of the building.
I know it may sound a bit grimy but it's actually one of the cleanest places in the school, funnily enough, the cleaners actually clear this place properly. God knows why, the only people that come out here are the smokers or couples hooking up at the end of the day. During lesson times, it's usually always empty.
That is until today.
I warily approach the dumpster and sit on the little stool next to it. It's wet from this mornings rain. One of the stoners must have stolen it from an art room somewhere.
I gently pull out my Nikon Z50 from the brown little camera satchel bag that I bought from a thrift store in town and flick absent-mindedly through the dozens of pictures of Caesar rolling around in my bed.
That generic saying that a picture could say a thousand words often reminded me of my inability to even say one. The camera is my way of speaking. It shows what I can't say.
Almost as if my mind has been read, a voice coming from above me spoke saying "I've always wondered if a picture of me closing my mouth could still say a thousand words"
God, is that you?
I look up quickly to sneak a glance at the face behind the amused voice. Of course, it wasn't God. It's a tall, skinny teenage boy with a bright, cheesy smile looking down at me.
His full red lips and big captivating grey eyes startle me a little and I almost drop my very, very expensive camera.
He's wearing an old black Marvel logo t-shirt that clung to his slim tanned arms. His jeans hung low on his hips and I can see the outline of his boxers. He has the type of face that you would imagine seeing in a Sundance film set in the Italian countryside.
I can't help but stare at him but then realise I'm staring and turn my head back to my camera.
Maybe he wasn't actually talking to me,
Even though I am the only other person in the vicinity and I am also holding a camera in my hands.
Great. I haven't even entered the actual school building yet and already I'm forced to endure human interaction.
I don't get to flick to the next photo before the boy speaks again after loudly clearing his throat.
"What's your name, camera girl?" He says with a quiet intensity. I was going to ignore him and pray that he eventually gets bored and walks away but something in my head reminds me of the words Tracy mentioned to me earlier today.
'You know the kindest thing you can do for yourself is make friends because every new friend is a new adventure and the start to new memories.'
And I need new memories.
Maybe, I should be kind to myself. If I help me then I can help her help me and then maybe she'd have an easier time sorting me out. Even if he recoils in disgust once I speak, I can just transfer schools and never speak again.
Problem-solved.
I clear my already dry throat and wipe the nervous perspiration from my forehead before I finally lower the camera and face him.
What if I have any sweat patches? I'm bound to with all this sweating, I think. So I make a mental note to keep my pits down and push the thought to the very back of my head.
"H-H-Harley- Blair Thompson." Oh shit. The dreaded stutter, it's happening again.
Why did I say the whole name? I should've just shortened it to Harley. That's less nerdy. What if he thinks I'm dumb or weird? What type of girl hangs out around dustbins alone? What if he laughs? What if he walks away and suddenly decides he doesn't want to talk to me?
My mind always goes straight to the worst case scenario.
But he doesn't laugh or walk away instead he beams a smile so warm I can literally feel myself getting a tan as dark as his.
"Harley? Like Harley-Quinn? Hmm, clever." He places his hand on his chin and rubbed it thoughtfully. He has the longest eyelashes I've ever seen on a boy and he makes a show of fluttering them whenever he speaks.
Well, he wasn't wrong. I was named after Harley Quinn. Papa was a huge DC fanatic and loved the name Harley whereas Pops wanted to name me after my birth mother thus the name Harley-Blair.
Nowadays, Pops spends most of his time watching the T.V while it's on mute and not doing much else.
"You don't talk much, huh?" He says, now rubbing his elbow, waiting for me to speak. He looks as if he's finally going to turn and walk away and that would have been my only chance of friendship gone.
Again, I take a big sigh and try to make a sound - any sound - with my lips.
"Name?" Surprisingly, my voice didn't crack or stammer. I blink back in surprise at myself. It didn't falter in the slightest.
Warily, I stand up, tucking my camera back in its satchel and walk towards him, testing my luck.
"Parker." He smirks, extending a hand for me to shake "Parker Angelo Sorrisi."
An immense wave of relief works its way through my body. I've done it. I've spoken! I made a friend!
I've spoken to a real-life person and not just my dog, Caesar. A boy. If that isn't a cause of celebration then I don't know what is.
I half want to jump up and down in excitement but I definitely can't do that in front of him. I can't wait to email Silas later and tell him the good news.
I point my finger at the logo on his top as I stand up. "Well then, you must be Beaumont Hills very own Peter Parker, who'd've thought it?" I say sarcastically, as I pick up my rucksack. I absolutely can not afford to lose or break my camera in any way.
He was about to say something even sarkier but the loud shrill sound of the break bell drowns it out.
He glances at the open fire exit door where another tall boy with long hair in a Nike BHS tracksuit is waiting for him, probably wondering what on earth he's doing out here with a girl like me.
"Nice to meet you, Princess. Zach'll kill me if I'm late but hopefully, I'll catch you later."
He winks at me then jogs after his friend through the door, leaving me wondering what the hell has just happened.
Despite how terrifying the idea of talking to people is, it didn't feel that way with him.
It's just something about those eyes.
I felt so comfortable talking to him, even if the conversation lasted for like 5 minutes.
Maybe it's just a fluke and I'm looking too deeply into things once again or maybe it isn't.
All I know is that I want to know more about this Parker guy, just how do I do that?
Maybe one day, I'll take his photo.
Maybe one day, he'll take mine.
Authors note- I know it was a bit of a long chapter but it gets better I swear! 😁please vote and comment! Love you all and thanks for the support!