Speaker

“Hi. My name is Arcadia Goodman.” I speak from an uncomfortable metal chair in an isolated room with sheen white walls and a single two-way mirror. The light is bright, shining on the secrets that do and do not show.

“Hello Arcadia, it’s nice to meet you.” The recently assigned Institute Agent smiled. They were short, lean, and had their hair pulled back in a tight ponytail. I noticed the gun on their hip, the badge next to it was Psychic Human Enforcement or P.H.E issued.

This individual was a P.H.E Agent tasked with determining if I could handle becoming one of them.

“Today should be relatively painless, it’s just an evaluation. We want to know more about you.” The agent glanced up at the mirror acknowledging those watching. “Start wherever you feel most comfortable.”

I inhale deeply, nothing about this was comfortable, but I need this opportunity. Needed this job and resources. Where do I begin?

Seeing my internal struggle, the agent cleared their throat.

“If you could only tell me one thing about you or one moment where you knew you could overcome your differences. When would that be?”

A single day came to mind.

I’d been homeschooled the majority of my life because my parents, wanting to give me a good life chose to keep me as protected from the world as possible. But my first day at an actual high school was my chance to thrive.

When I was born, my parents couldn’t communicate with me. She won’t make it, the doctors informed them. Although I’ve defied those expectations, I’ve lived life in near absolute silence without being able to telepathically connect with my mom or dad let alone anyone else in the world. I was diagnosed as a Speaker Only at birth, a rare disorder hardly ever seen or survived.

Without the ability to telepathically communicate, I had no future. How could I get a job if I wasn’t a telepath? They couldn’t intuitively know what type of person I was, I couldn’t contribute to most entities. On a granular level how could I form relationships? But if I could do this, make it through high school, I may have a chance at building something for myself with the Institute.

Walking up the stairs to the large brick building, everyone around me quickly figured out who I was. The girl who can’t telecommunicate, the grotesque burden on her family. A thousand words shared between them and not one said aloud. I offered a weak smile as I passed by.

Go straight there, don’t linger. My father’s handwritten words seared into my mind. Frantically searching the room numbers, I do my best to ignore the unease that trails after me. The noise of my shoes is the only sound in the hallway. As I passed each face, I could hear the rumbling of life start to grow. Lockers started to open and close, the synchronicity of it all was enchanting. Being able to hear one another’s thoughts, anticipate the next move, sound, step. It was a silent dance that I wasn’t part of, couldn’t be a part of.

I clung to hope that I’d be able to make at least one friend.

Finally, room 103. Relief spread over me like butter on toast. Eagerly I open the door and am greeted.

“Hello!” the voice is booming, he’s too loud, I wince. Recognizing the error, he quickly scales back the tone, “Hello?” A bit more tolerable to the ears, this repeated greeting was now more a question of the sound. Was his volume okay?

I smile at his effort.

“Much better,” I offer to him. The surprise in his eyes is evident. He tried to reach out to me telepathically but couldn’t connect. How strange it must be, for me to be right there and not be able to reach my mind. If he doubted my story, he just proved what he’d been told about me.

Without any other speakers in my household to communicate with, doctors feared that without a parent’s bond I’d fail to thrive. A small portion of the population retained vocal cords, but also had the ability to telepathically communicate -- rendering their need for speech practically useless.

I am the only one in the world as far as anyone is aware who is unable to communicate through telepathy.

Lucky me.

My parents did everything they could think of to communicate with me. Sign language was the easiest, but handwritten notes were also used. Getting used to me was a challenge my parents worked daily to navigate.

When I was a toddler playing near the fireplace, my father had absentmindedly warned me to stay away, with his mind. He forgot- didn’t realize I didn’t “hear” him. I still have a faint scar on my right hand from the burns that day, my screams piercing the otherwise quiet and serene afternoon.

Like nearly everyone else, my parents are strictly telepathic, making me a genetic anomaly in my own family. As a result of this anomaly, I’ve been studied and prodded for as long as my parents could stand it. Which was far longer than I wanted. Although they’d never admit it, I think they wanted to hold out until it was an absolute certainty I’d never be telepathic.

One of the doctors took a significant interest in my case and referred my family to the Institute. She followed us over there and has been my primary physician since I was a baby. She doesn’t possess vocal cords and primarily communicates with notes.

Over time I learned that the Institute is a government sponsored center that specializes in unique medical cases among other societal abnormalities. The Institute also has an enforcement wing that I learned about when I was assigned a keeper or an Agent known as Agent Blaine. His primary responsibility was to ensure my safety.

With optimism, I took my seat. My new teacher seemed nervous, I don’t blame him. This was the first speaking only class and it was heavily protested. Even though some individuals had vocal cords, the sound pollution wasn’t necessary. Sacrifice the one for the many type of mentality. But the Institute stood steadfast behind me, their investment.

When it was clear I was going to get to go to school, open-minded parents with kids who had vocal cords and wanted to experience something different showed interest. Slowly, the students arrived, a total of four, each sitting safely away from me. I’m not contagious, but how would they know?

From what I was told, only those who demonstrated they had the vocal cords required and showed earnest interest in learning how to speak with their voice could attend. Here it was being treated like a lost art, for me it was about integrating into society.

“Welcome all,” my teacher started. “I’m Mr. Aidan, and welcome to this extremely exceptional class.” His enthusiasm was not returned. I was thrilled, but that tapered when I glanced around and noticed I was the only one. The other expressions around me seemed closer to fear then it did excitement.

I kept my breathing as steady as I could, unease slithered through me, a snake of doubt I’d coiled tightly within was coming undone. Maybe I couldn’t do this.

“In this class we will try and only speak with our mouths,” Mr. Aidan sternly looked at two students.

My face flushed red. I’ve had sixteen years of this, why should this be any different? I’m used to being left out of nearly all conversations outside my parents, but I still let myself get ashamed. Something my mother told me to never let myself fall too.

It was hard not being able to play with other kids on the playground. Not understanding or realizing they were creating whole worlds between each other and the sandbox while I was on the outside. It was like peering in through a glass dome. I was there and I could see them, but no one was looking back at me.

During class it was made clear pretty quickly that some students were without basic skills on sounding out words. Something as easy as pronouncing a word seemed to be surprisingly difficult for them. How were they pronouncing it in their minds to one another? I had a hard time stifling a laugh when someone uttered the word apple ‘appley’.

“It’s a lot harder when it’s not a projected image, isn’t it?” Mr. Aidan gently advised the student.

I had to admonish myself and remember in this class, I was the only one capable, primarily thanks to the Institute. I agreed to be a part of a study, the Institute provided me with recordings of words to help teach myself to read. I only knew how things sounded because of this rare series of recorded vocal tapes.

Sometimes I wondered if I was related to the person speaking in my tapes. Hearing their voice, I would picture them in my mind. What if they looked like me? Did they have my same long brown hair and dark brown eyes? What about my tanned skin and crooked smile? When I would have these thoughts and then see my mom, I felt embarrassed. I love my mom, I do, but she isn’t like me. She can’t speak.

As I got older, I grew to resent hearing that voice on the recorder. It started to taunt me, and when I thought I couldn’t stand it anymore, the Institution was out of editions in the series. I didn’t realize how much I needed to hear that voice, new words, new stories. My resentment was rooted in my loneliness. I remember crying myself to sleep, mourning a loss of a person I never knew.

Morning lessons were over faster than I expected, I took my lunch bag and went outside, where I was isolated, but could at least hear the wind through the trees. The rushing sound through the branches was like fast water over rocks.

A burning sensation on my back told me I was being watched. Turning around I found who it was. Sighing and rolling my eyes, I bunched my lunch bag back up as Agent Blaine walked up to me.

I shrugged as I recounted my day to Agent Blaine, tried to show him I wasn’t bothered. He’s one of the few individuals who could speak at the Institute. He seemed just as excited as I was that I was going to get to go to school.

“How’s it really going?” Agent Blaine asked, glancing around us. His aviator glasses shiny and wide, showed me my reflection. I turn away not wanting to see myself.

I balk at his question and took out my sandwich.

“Here.” He hands me a folded piece of paper. Taking and opening it, a single name was written inside, Emma.

Confused I glance up at Agent Blaine.

“I have it on good authority she’s a nice kid.” Agent Blaine sniffed.

“You ran background on a student? That seems like an abuse of power.” I scoff quietly, embarrassed but also touched at his gesture.

Agent Blaine groans with annoyance. “She’s in your class.”

“Still creepy.” I take a bite of food and laugh a little.

“I won’t tell if you won’t.” Agent Blaine stands as the bell sounds in the distance.

We head back towards the school, Agent Blaine keeping up with me. Walking back resulted in scaring some of the students who sensed the Agent but didn’t realize I was walking alongside him.

“Reach out to her, I think you might be pleasantly surprised.” Agent Blaine nodded his head in goodbye.

“If I don’t, will you have to stalk more teens?”

“Running a background check isn’t the same as stalking.” Agent Blaine takes a piece of gum out of his pocket and peels it open. He’s trying to quit smoking.

“I’ll consider it.” I head inside without another word.

Due to the uniqueness of what was happening, our class didn’t have to rotate through the periods. It was just us, all day. Trying to sneakily glance at the desktop names (for my benefit), I found Emma. She had long curly brown hair and circle frame glasses. When she smiled, dimples would appear. She caught me watching her and I snapped my head straight forward, refusing to look back at her again.

Unfortunately, the rest of class was much like the first part of the day. All of us stumbled through the awkwardness of getting used to me and of getting used to speaking.

I spoke over others, sometimes the opposite occurred. The flawless interactions around one another outside in the halls disintegrated in the class with me.

The highlight of the entire day came near the end. Mr. Aidan found some ancient records where individuals were doing something called singing. We had never heard anything like it before, a voice being used as a type of instrument or to enhance what was being played. Each of us were shocked that this was something Speakers were capable of doing. I’d never heard of this before and the other students peered at me likely wondering if I could do the same thing.

When the school day ended, Mr. Aidan let me borrow one of the records. “I think you’ll appreciate it more,” he told me when he put it in my hands.

As the last bell rang for the day, I went to the student pick up where both of my parents were waiting for me. I felt a light tap on my shoulder. It was Emma.

“Hi, uhm Arcadia?” She cautiously asked, her cheeks turning bright red.

I nod enthusiastically. “Yeah, that’s right.”

“Can I listen to that with you sometime?” Emma pointed to the record in my hand.

“I have to ask a friend if he can get me a player, which I’m sure he could. But yeah, you can come over any time.” My stomach was doing somersaults, my palms sweaty from nerves.

Emma faces my parents, the concentration of their conversation evident in their eyes. Smiling at me, Emma says, “See you tomorrow.”

My father clenches his hands and raises his fists in excitement. I. Am. Mortified.

“Get in the car,” I mouth to him and dive into the front seat. Turning back, Emma was standing at the curb, she waved and I waved back. For the first time in my life, I made a connection where I didn’t need to use words.

“Where was the moment?” The agent asked me, they’d been taking notes the entire time I’d talked. “In that day?”

“To be honest, there were several of them. Agent Blaine giving me hope or reigniting my hope at making a friend. Mr. Aidan honestly trying to make sure I felt heard and respected. Giving me that record because he thought I’d like it. Emma, for being brave enough to speak to me even when I couldn’t. And my parents, for letting me go.”

“How do you know that you’ll be able to be successful in academy training?”

“I am a living ghost. No one can sense me or hear me unless I actively try to be seen. I know, I can make a difference, I mean absolutely know, because people are most honest when they think they can’t be seen. I’ll be successful in academy training because no one will “hear” me coming.” I grin, thinking of my advantages. “Plus, I found out, I can sing.”

Article © Jay D. Falcetti. All rights reserved.
Published on 2024-12-02