The Silenced

Chapter One

Hazel

The first time I communed with the dead—­at least officially, if you don’t count my dreams—­resulted from a project assigned in US History.

Our teacher bellowed the dreaded words, “All right, class, partner up! No more than four in a group!”

No eyes turned my way.

It wasn’t that I was disliked by my classmates. To the best of my knowledge, no one hated me. But no one thought about me either. I was the girl you sat next to in science, the one who always lent you a pencil. Kids knew my name, Hazel Perez, but that was because there weren’t many Latinos in our school district. There was this one girl, a volleyball player, Marissa ­Rodriguez. She was in tenth grade, and I was in eleventh. People sometimes called me by her name. We looked nothing alike.

My gaze skirted around a room that was modern and sunlit. Our high school had been recently rebuilt, so most classrooms featured high-­top tables with scarlet metal stools like art rooms, even in history or calculus. My tablemates, three guys on the Ridgefield High lacrosse team, automatically excluded me from their group, which was fine. So I tried to make eye contact with Evelyn Kaplow and Mary Beth Long, but they were so tightly huddled together that their matching best friend charms practically clanked. Quinlynn Dubicki, who I sometimes spoke to in chorus, was already in a foursome. And Landon Berk managed to squeak in with the band kids.

Clusters formed around me, and my stomach dropped someplace dark and cold, the deep pit known by every kid picked last on the playground. Loneliness welled in my throat. Popularity was never something I aspired to—­I just wanted to be someone’s first choice, the friend you’d call when you were really excited. I’d had that once, but for years now, I’d been a walking ghost in this building. My cheeks grew slick with sweat, sliding my clear plastic glasses down my freckled nose. My auburn hair hid my eyes, and I punched my Breathe app. A turquoise flower vibrated on my wrist. It swelled and retreated with my inhales and exhales. A conversation formed in my mind, preparing a response to Ms. Kravitz’s inevitable question: “Oh, we were supposed to partner? I didn’t realize. That’s okay. I can do the project by myself.”

And I could.

Each group needed to research a local landmark and put ­together a trifold poster board with photos and historical facts. Then we had to write a ten-­page research paper, with firsthand interviews from community members familiar with our chosen site. It all ended with an oral presentation. Even if I found partners, I’d end up doing all the work myself anyway. So why not claim all the credit?

Being alone wasn’t scary; it was just empty.

“Becca, what are you wearing?” Ms. Kravitz’s voice cut through the din of chitchat. “Do we really have to do this every day?”

Eyes shot toward Becca Mercer, her wavy blond hair cascading over her shoulders as she tugged at the hemline of her cobalt-­blue tank top. It was cropped enough to show a strip of pale skin above her baggy sweatpants. “Yeah, we do, ’cause it’s ridiculous.”

“I don’t make the rules.” Our teacher gave a look that conveyed an eye roll without actually giving one.

“No, but you enforce them. Look at Jack! He’s wearing a basket­ball jersey.” Becca pointed a bubble-­gum-­pink nail.

Jack Gibson was, in fact, wearing a sleeveless blue Sixers ­jersey with MAXEY emblazoned on the back.

“That’s not the same, and you know it. Just put on a sweatshirt.”

“Yeah, put your cleavage away, Becca!” Jack laughed, high-­fiving James Erieg.

Ms. Kravitz said nothing. She was a middle-­aged woman willingly upholding a dress-­code policy that supposedly prevented “distractions.” Because of course boys couldn’t be expected to concentrate if girls’ bare arms were flailing about.

“It’s not fair,” I grumbled, flipping my notebook page a little too loud.

Eyes shifted my way.

“Did you say something?” Ms. Kravitz sounded surprised.

There were plenty of students who talked back to their teachers, dropping sardonic remarks and well-­timed quips. I was not one of them. Reaching a rank of fifth in a class of more than four hundred required a lot of obedience—­the kind that left me in charge when a teacher stepped out of the classroom.

I cleared my throat. “Rules should be enforced equally, not based on gender.” My voice was small, but everyone heard. Their heads pivoted back to Ms. Kravitz, awaiting her response. All except for a single set of eyes that continued to drill into my skull.

Without even looking, I knew it was her, just like I knew her laugh, the real one when she snorted, not the fake one she tittered at school. Becca Mercer and I went back to the days of seesaws and family BBQs.

Hazel, sweetie, something’s happened . . . I shook off the memory.

“Always happy to hear your opinion, Ms. Perez.” Our teacher spoke through clenched teeth. “Do you have a group yet?”

Her gaze said that she knew I didn’t. She was putting me on the spot, on purpose, in front of everyone. Some teachers really loved flaunting their power.

“Hazel’s with us,” announced a familiar voice.

My neck twisted toward Becca, two tables back. She wasn’t asking me to join, nor was she ordering. It was a declaration. I was in her group. Becca Mercer was welcoming me back into her orbit for the first time since sixth grade, when my whole world spun off its axis.

I should say no. I should insist that I couldn’t ignore the dizzy­ing coldness of Becca’s avoidance, five years ago, when I’d needed her most. But an unexpected tingle spread inside me, a surge at being seen—­by her, the last real friend I’d ever had.

Slowly, I rose, hating the smile that spread across my face. I gathered my books, and collective interest followed my steps, back to her.

It was a funeral that had ended our long-­standing friendship. And we didn’t realize it in that classroom, but it was the dead who were bringing us together again.

Chapter Two

Hazel

I sat at a table alongside Becca Mercer, her boyfriend Simon Bloch, and the girl who had taken my place when Becca excised me from her life, Amber Franklin.

My knee bopped, rattling the zipper of my heather-­gray hoodie, which appropriately covered my full-­length burgundy tank top.

“Thanks for saying something.” Becca smiled, and her gratitude slipped inside an internal wound I’d thought was long healed, that gaping desire to matter—­to her, specifically. I chewed my bottom lip and nodded, faking a no big deal gesture.

Becca swatted her boyfriend’s shoulder. “Unlike some ­people!”

“Ouch!” Simon flinched. “What was I gonna say?” He rubbed his arm, as if Becca’s blow had actually hurt; meanwhile, his biceps required two hands to wrap around. Simon was six foot two, with fluffy black curls that added an extra couple inches of height. He was also half Jewish and half Afro Latino, which meant we were united in comprising the school’s 1 percent Hispanic population.

Becca yanked on a hoodie, white with hunter-­green words printed around a megaphone: Central League Cheerleading Champs on top and It’s Not Bragging If You’re Telling the Truth on the bottom.

I didn’t need to be on the cheerleading squad to be certain it was Becca who’d chosen that slogan. It could serve as the motto for her life.

Amber tugged on a matching sweatshirt, either in solidarity or in deference, and pulled her black hair from under the collar. Amber was half Thai and half white, with thick, wavy locks that bounced every time she spoke. Swish swish.

The entire group peered my way, and it was unclear whether they expected me to lead the project or describe what I was doing here. A Sesame Street song rang in my head: One of these things is not like the others . . .

My exclusion was never about appearance. Physically, I mimicked my classmates to the point of parody. My clothes were sweatpants, tank tops, and hoodies. My reddish-­brown hair was straightened and parted down the middle. Thick mascara coated my long lashes. I wore white-­and-­black Nike Blazers. My backpack was on trend. And while I sported glasses (contacts irritated my eyes), I let the hip purple-­haired salesgirl choose my cat-­eye frames.

I blended. Purposefully. Meticulously.

And yet I didn’t have any friends, at least not lately. Kids were nice to me in classes. I sat with a couple of girls at lunch, but we were all loners who had wordlessly decided that being lonely together made the cafeteria a less scary place to be. We didn’t see each other outside of school, or anyone else, for that matter. We were each simply missing that “thing,” that spark inside teenage girls that told them exactly what to say and when to say it to achieve some semblance of belonging. For the first twelve years of my life, my awkwardness didn’t really matter. I had Becca. We’d formed a friendship in nursery school that kept us bonded for nearly a decade, until the day I truly needed her and she wasn’t there. Nor did she show up the day after that, or the day after that. It was like me being sad and going through something horrible was a burden. I was no longer fun. She never even asked if I was okay.