Muffled: Chapters 1–5

Warm air and city commotion burst into our apartment building.

I walk eight more sidewalk lines, noticing city sounds more than before: the beeping of a backing-up truck, the one-sided cell phone conversations, the rattling of tires over potholes.

Under my earmuffs, at least, everything is muffled, every sound is bearable. Almost.

Dad and I move toward and away from the shelves, like hopping bugs, trying to make a buffer of space between us and other shoppers.

Dad is methodical, examining each item before he adds it to our cart.

“Fifth grade will be a medley of new things.”

“Well, try not to wear the earmuffs too much,” Mom insists.

“We’re doing what the school counselor said, reducing reliance,” Dad says.

She picks up the trumpet, and when she presses her lips to the brass, her three fingers make a loud parade of blaring notes.

For fun, I take out the weekly spelling list and start writing the words backward, sounding them out in my head:
“Boycott” is T-toc-yob.
“Colonial” is Lain-o-loc.
“Representative” is Evitat-nes-erper.
“Revolution” is Noi-tu-lover.

“Social isolation,” Mom had explained to me last year, means “difficulty making friends.”

“Do I have to take music class?”
“It may be hard, but I think it will be good for you,” Mr. Fabian says.
“Ah, yes, to acclimate to everyday sounds,” Mr. Skerritt murmurs.

Mrs. Spitz pats me on the shoulder as if I’m a pet. I flinch.

The “rockets’ red glare” high part explodes in my ears, and my shoulders tense at “bombs bursting in air.”

I cross my legs even though it is my throat that is constricted.

I close the door on the bellowing choir.

After dinner, Mom suggests stoop sitting. I do not want to go outside, but Dad says I can wear my earmuffs, so I agree. The three of us sit on the top step to our apartment building, Dad in the middle.

One bird singing is bearable but not with the other sounds happening all at once.

“Can I boycott music class for the rest of the year?” I add, hoping to win a smile for using a spelling word.

I have to wear the earmuffs every day. Stubbornly, I keep them on, even though it’s perfectly quiet in the classroom now.

Madge, who won’t be upstaged, unpacks her trombone and blows one blat like a big fart, and my hands fly to my ears.

I remember the trills Deb made, fingers light on her flute. They sounded like birds, and I think of Dad, counting the birds in the trees.

“Want to play catch?” I hear Jax say as we get close to our apartment buildings.
Deb tosses him a dismissive look. “I’ve outgrown that, Jax.”

Her too-close trill jolts me like thunder. I throw my flute onto the bed, crush my hands against my ears.

The ringing in my ears wanes.