Ch. 2: This Isn't What I Wanted
It's hard to feel safe when other people are involved.
This is chapter 2 of 8, that I’m publishing one chapter at a time every Friday. I wrote this first draft of my novel for NaNoWriMo 2022, and I’m sharing it here along with new artwork exploring what it could be like if I turned it into a graphic novel.
PREVIOUSLY: June hasn't spoken a word since her mother's death almost a year ago, but she mostly prefers it that way—she has painful secrets to keep. June navigates her new life in a small New England town, living with her previously estranged but warm-hearted Grandmother, Imogen, and observing the stories of the townsfolk in silence from her corner booth in Imogen's diner.
You can also listen to me read this chapter—just hit play above.
CW: bullying and dissociation
It’s Friday.
Crap.
I keep my eyes closed even though I’m awake, clinging to the last quiet moments of peace before I have to face everything. Namely school, and the Halloween dance today.
School’s not all bad, but it’s hard in ways it didn’t used to be.
I’ve always been socially anxious, and even before I came here, I didn’t talk all that much. Sometimes talking was hard and painful then, too, and I’d have to force myself to do it. But the invisible wall inside my head was shorter, then. I could mostly manage it. And I was a lot more anonymous then, too. I went to a bigger school, and people weren’t as focused on me. Here, there aren’t any other kids that have child welfare meetings and multiple kinds of therapists.
My alarm goes off, and I open my eyes.
Here we go.
I sit up, and steal one more moment under the warm covers while I peek out the window. I love having a window right near my bed. It’s hard to open, though—it’s an old window, in an old house, where everything’s been painted over too many times to count. Sometimes I pick at a chip in it more than I should, just to see more layers underneath. Right now it’s a soft cream, but before that, it was a weird avocado-y yellow, and before that, a soft blue. How long ago was it blue?
I wonder at all the people who have lived here over the decades, and what their stories were like. This rowhouse isn’t as old as the town, but it’s still pretty old. How many other girls woke up here, next to this window, and looked out at the English oak tree every morning, and the aging, mossy roof and all the other roofs and chimneys with smoke rising close beyond it (the next house so close it’s literally connected), and wondered what today will be like?
At least I have opening the diner as a buffer. That always helps.
I take a deep breath, and let it all out.
Okay.
The floor gets colder every morning this time of year.
I go through my usual routine, get dressed quickly, and hurry down the hall, pulling on a sweater. I’ve been wearing lots of big sweaters lately—it feels like you’re taking a bit of a safe, cozy blanket with you everywhere you go. Baloo, our gray tabby cat, meets me at the landing and rubs against my legs. He became a part of our unusual little family last spring, and I named him after the bear in Jungle Book. I remember watching the Disney movie over and over as a kid, wishing I had as good (and huggable) of a friend as Mowgli had in Baloo. Our Baloo is sweet and cuddly and has the best purr. He showed up one day, all wet and sad and alone, and maybe because he looked on the outside how we felt on the inside, Grandma let me keep him.
I pick him up and give his ears a good scratch, carrying him with me as I head downstairs. Halfway down, just as I hit the landing, I pause, trying to listen over Baloo’s freight train of a purr. These old wooden stairs are always a bit creaky, and I even know which parts of which steps to avoid if I’m trying to get downstairs at night without waking Grandma, but lately there’s been another noise, and I haven’t been able to pin it down.
Tap, tap. Scritch. Scratch.
That’s it! I freeze, and listen.
For a while last week I thought it was a squirrel or something outside on the roof, but no.
It’s inside. But not here.
Tap, tap, tap, tap.
A mouse?
I tiptoe down the stairs, using my Stair Creaking Spot knowledge like a pro. Baloo doesn’t seem to have noticed the sounds at all, and rubs his face harder into my hand.
He’s not much of a mouser.
We don’t usually have mice, but I think that’s mostly because of Lucifer, a huge, long-haired black cat with an intense eyes that comes and goes as he pleases from the house a few doors down. He seems to prowl the whole set of row houses and narrow yards, but always leaps away if you try to pet him.
Tap. Tap.
Meanwhile Baloo has twisted himself upside down in my arms for a belly rub.
Scritch. Tap.
I think it’s in the pantry. That’s right around the corner, and shares a wall with the stairs.
I creep to the bottom landing and turn to inch my way to the edge of the pantry doorway.
Tap.
Ha! I spin, fast, to stand in the doorway, ready to catch a little furry rodent halfway through a bit of walnut or something.
But there’s nothing. Baloo, disturbed by my sudden movement, jumps down to the floor and hurries away to the kitchen for some breakfast.
If there is a mouse, it must be hiding behind something in the back of the pantry, but I don’t have time to look right now.
Grandma’s already been up for a long time, and is ready to head out the door—I’ve never properly gotten up before her in the morning, even though she also has problems sleeping. I have a lot of nightmares, and can’t get back to sleep a lot of the time. They’ve been getting worse lately. My therapist, Colleen, says that’s common around anniversaries.
But that’s not what I was talking about.
Sleeping. Right.
Sometimes, after waking with a start and trying desperately to get back to sleep for what feels like hours, I’ll come downstairs for a cup of tea, and Grandma’s there half the time, too, sitting at one of the stools at the kitchen counter, reading a book or scratching at her notepad with a pencil, working up next week’s specials menu. Sometimes we’ll sit there together, with just a couple of lights on low, sipping tea and wrapped up in robes and slippers and silence while the world sleeps. Sometimes I’m too scared, after waking from a nightmare, to make my way downstairs, and I’m trapped in my sweaty pajamas with my still-vivid dreams swirling around me in the dark. In those moments, picturing Grandma in the kitchen helps. In my mind, I see her licking her finger to turn the page of her notebook (why is it older people do that?), and blowing on her chamomile tea, and it takes awhile, but eventually just imagining her there helps my heart beat slower, and my mind to stop racing quite so fast. I wish we could both sleep better, though—I often wonder what we could accomplish if we got an actual good night’s sleep, like other people do.
Anyway.
Downstairs, Grandma smiles, gives me a hug and tucks my hair behind my ear, and we put on our coats and head out in silence. I think we get so used to sitting quietly in this old still house at night that sometimes we don’t want to break the silence of it in the mornings. It helps me, too, to sort of ease into the day like this, without a lot of hustle and bustle. We’re up before most people are—as the days get shorter, it’s darker and darker every morning, and it’s lightened from pitch black to a charcoal gray as the sound of our footsteps bounce around the porch. The iron gate in front of the house creaks as I open it, and a few birds are singing, but besides that and a few lights on in the houses around ours, it’s quiet and still, and might as well still be night as we make our way to open the diner. I can’t help but look as we walk by those faintly glowing windows, where I can see the other early risers shuffling into their kitchens, their dreams still clinging to them. I hope they were better than mine. Mrs. Gardner is up, drinking coffee and reading the paper in her bathrobe. I know it’s like eavesdropping, which I know I also shouldn’t do, but I can’t help it. I’m not trying to be creepy or anything. I just like seeing people. Seeing their worlds. It’s comforting to know they’re there; to watch them still going, running like home videos in an old projector, from my own silent world.
Sometimes I have a hard time making sense of myself—I prefer to be alone, to be quiet, and to have to exist and interact as little as possible, really. But I also feel so much better being around people and things happening. Maybe I like knowing the world is out there, turning, changing, around me. I like to see it, but not have to participate in it all the time, I guess. It’s a strange balance, this sort of tightrope I walk.
When we reach the diner, the big sign across the front is dark, asleep. It flickers on when Grandma opens the door and flicks the switch, and the little puddles on the street and sidewalk surrounding the restaurant flicker and glow with it, softly.
The Cozy Spoon.
Not yet open, but coming to life with a yawn and a stretch.
Grandma’s already back in the kitchen, tying up her apron. It’s the first thing she does when she crosses the threshold, no matter what. It’s her uniform, her armor, in a way. She’s always the same lovely person, in the diner or out, but when she’s here, apron in place, she’s like an orchestra about to begin, or a record needle, just placed in the groove, poised for the music to start—she knows what she’s doing, and what her job is, and I think the sleepless nights fade away, too. She may be tired, but she belongs, and she’s home, and happy. There’s always something a little extra clear about Grandma here.
In the early mornings, there’s a lot to prepare, but Grandma does it like a dance. She’s practically been doing this her whole life. There are other people who could do the morning prep for her, but she likes to do it herself. I don’t think it’s because she doesn’t trust anyone else, I think she just likes it. She’s almost always the first one here, and we’re often the last to leave at night. Maybe it helps her prepare for the day, or she just likes to spend time with the building alone (except for me, but I don’t think that bothers her, either), getting the “old gal” ready for the day.
“Old gal.” That’s what she calls the diner. She’ll pat the kitchen counter like it’s the shoulder of an old friend and say “Ready, then, Old Gal?” before unlocking the door and turning on the main lights.
It never feels like it’s imposed on them, somehow. They only do things when they’re ready.
Grandma never rushes in the mornings, and it always seems to me like she’s actually waiting, listening for an affirmative reply from the diner before she’s sure it’s time. And yet somehow it’s always, always at exactly the moment the clock strikes 6am, when the diner is scheduled to open.
But for now, only the kitchen string lights are on, so it’s dark and calm and still here, with only the sounds of the coffee machines starting up. I like how it almost feels like evening here in the early mornings, and all the Halloween decorations we’ve had up for a few weeks look perfectly at home in the twilight of it, quietly waiting for their moment. But there’s time. Just for now, we’re taking it slow.
I know my job here, too. I even have my own apron.
I pull out and line up the mugs, sometimes still warm from the industrial dishwasher, and the eggs out of the giant commercial fridge. We’ll make breakfast for ourselves here, and I’ll help with the early customers before I head off to school. While I make sure we have enough rolled silverware, and restock the toilet paper in the bathroom, most of my classmates are still asleep, but I don’t mind. This is my real day, starting here and ending here after school. This is the place I prefer to be, and I breathe it in and hold on to it for the rest of the day–especially on days like this one, when it’s not just about classes and homework.
Grandma’s humming softly to herself this morning, smiling as she starts up the griddle. It’s like the heart of this place starts beating, then. Grandma’s in a good mood, and puts some music on, not too loud, but it’s so quiet in here otherwise, I can hear good old Ella Fitzgerald all the way in the front where I’m turning the window signs on.
Autumn in New York
Why does it seem so inviting?
Autumn in New York
It spells the thrill of first nighting
Glittering crowds and shimmering clouds
In canyons of steel
They’re making me feel
I’m home
It’s always jazz or swing music here, first thing in the morning—and a lot of the rest of the time, too. It feels fitting, like that’s the old gal’s favorite. She was probably a bit shinier then, when this music was what everyone was playing. But she’s still beautiful, and peaceful, and happy, and you can almost feel her tapping her toes while Grandma cracks the eggs. On days we get here early enough, Grandma will be full-on dancing and twirling around the kitchen by the time we’re ready to open. This is another reason I love to be here at open and close, before and after everyone else comes or leaves for the night—to see Grandma dance. We have dance parties at home sometimes, too, but we’re here so much this is like a second home to us (or maybe even more our real home than the house), and there’s something about being here alone with the old gal that makes it extra special.
The way you wear your hat
The way you sip your tea
The memory of all that
No no they can't take that away from me
Lots of Ella this morning. I like it. Grandma’s singing now, and waving me over. She takes my hand and we dance in the kitchen while the eggs cook.
The way your smile just beams
The way you sing off key
The way you haunt my dreams
No no they can't take that away from me
I don’t sing, but I’m smiling big, and Grandma knows I’m feeling it, too. She twirls me under her arm and somehow scrambles the eggs with the turner on her way around, still singing.
The way you hold your knife
The way we danced till three
The way you changed my life
No no they can't take that away from me
No they can't take that away from me
Would you repeat that again deary please
No they can't take that away from me
Grandma twirls me again, toward the toaster this time, as the song ends. The toast is ready, and I put it on two plates—two for each of us—as the next song starts. Grandma’s still tapping her toes as she piles the eggs on the plates in perfect equal portions like the pro she is.
I grab us some forks and sit at one of the stools at the counter. Grandma slides the plate in front of me and sits down to dig into hers, too.
These are our mornings.
Hank arrives as we’re finishing up, and goes through his own routine.
“Mornin,’ ladies!” He smiles big, as always, as he puts on his apron, picks up a turner, surveys the counters, and he’s ready for the day. There’s a lot of folks around here who can talk and talk for hours, and Hank’s not one of them. Outside the diner, he’s a fairly quiet guy, and can look sort of awkward and out of place in social situations. Sometimes I wonder if he grew his big white mustache to hide behind it. But here, in his own spot in the kitchen, he’s happy and confident. He even throws the turner in the air and catches it behind his back as he cooks, winking at me while I watch. And he’s always happy to chat with whoever’s sitting at the counter, but I think he likes to know the counter is there. It’s a bit of a buffer–it keeps him in his safe place in the kitchen, and everyone else a few feet away.
“John’s on the way over,” Hank says, but he’s not in a rush. He knows how this works–that it’s up to the old gal.
I take care of our dishes, rinsing them with the big sprayer and loading them into the washer, and Grandma pats the counter.
“Well, old gal, what do you think?”
Grandma always seems to get an answer, because she smiles and nods, and reaches up to make sure she has exactly two sharp pencils stuck in her messy bun.
“Ready, June?” She asks me. I use my hands to sign Ready.
I don’t always use sign language, but I use some, especially with Grandma—not everyone knows it, and I like that it’s still quiet, unlike the app I use for school, where I type on my tablet or my phone and a voice says what I type out loud for me. I get that it’s good for when I need to talk in class, but somehow it makes me feel vulnerable, like it’s dangerous to make that much noise. Like it’ll break something important. So when I can—when I’m with someone who knows how, I like to sign better. And there’s something about the motion of the sign “ready” that I like, here in the diner where it’s our space. My space. The sweeping motion you make out from your body with your fingers crossed, feels confident and energetic. Here, I can feel that way–ready.
Grandma smiles, nods, turns all the lights on, and unlocks the door. In the kitchen, Hank’s pulling out the right ingredients ready for Mr. Laurent. I reach for a coffee mug.
Mr. Laurent is already waiting outside, hands in his pockets, ready for his breakfast: a black coffee with a refill halfway through, two eggs over easy, two slices of wheat toast with apricot jam, hash browns, and two slices of bacon. It’s the same every morning.
“Good morning, cozy spoons!” Mr. Laurent always greets us this way. I smile and wave back while Grandma and Hank say hello.
Grandma checks anyway, just in case, as he sits at his favorite stool at the counter and nods at Hank.
“The usual today, John?” Grandma’s pencil hovers over her notepad, but she knows she doesn’t even need to write it down.
“Yes, ma’am,” John smiles and spreads his hands on the counter, like he’s saying hello to the old gal in his own way, too.
“You got it!” Grandma turns and nods at Hank, too, but he’s already started everything on the griddle.
I pour Mr. Laurent’s coffee and place it on the counter in front of him. He thanks me with a smile and a nod, and the day has officially started.
An hour, four omelettes, three stacks of pancakes, five eggs benedict (it’s our specialty) and a few dozen cups of coffee later, and it’s time for me to head to school.
I stall a bit, taking off my apron as slowly as possible. Grandma passes by on her way to refill the coffee carafes and squeezes my shoulder.
“It can be a good day, love.” She leans in and says it quiet, and kind, and kisses my cheek. I force a smile and nod.
It can be.
But probably not.
I feel the most alone at school.
At least it’s cloudy today. I like it better that way—it feels less like the sun is staring you down, keeping you visible, and expecting you to be just as bright, and warm, and cheerful as it is. I grab my coat on the way out and wrap myself up in it tighter than I really need to. It’s not that cold now that the sun’s come up. It just feels safer.
I think sometimes the worst part is closing the diner door behind me, leaving behind the comforting bustle of people talking, and the smell of coffee, and the strange beautiful mix of calm and busy it can be. I pause with my hand on the door handle before I open it, knowing this moment has to last me for hours until I come back. I close my eyes for a second, listening to the sounds of silverware, and Grandma and Hank talking excitedly about Grandma’s Halloween party in a couple of days, and the burbling of the coffee machine. I take a deep breath, open the door–and feel the safety of the diner fade away like the sounds do as the bell above the door rings and I pull it shut behind me. The door’s a bit sticky sometimes, so it’s extra sad, somehow, when I have to work particularly hard to close that world off as I leave. I wish I could stay, but other kids are already passing on their way to school.
I keep my head down and focus on my boots stepping around puddles, and on the way some of the sidewalk has cracked, but as I turn the corner at the end of the street, I can already hear all the talking, and yelling, and laughing from other students as I grip my backpack straps and pull on them, reminding myself it’s there, like armor. Like Grandma’s apron.
As I climb the stairs that lead up to school, Gemma catches up with me. She’s pretty nice, really, but I feel my muscles tense as she falls into step beside me.
I don’t know what to do with this kind of attention.
“Hey, June! Happy Halloween!” Gemma says, grinning, and pushing up her glasses. They’re always falling down her nose—they’re thick and black and seem kind of big for her small face. Her dark hair is always falling in her face, too, and I think in a way it’s her own kind of armor. I guess we all have some.
“I mean, it’s not Halloween yet,” she backtracks, nervous, and talking quickly, “but, almost, right? And the dance is today!”
I smile weakly and nod. I seem to make her nervous, but she also keeps trying to talk to me, and I’m not sure what to do about it.
“Is your outfit all ready? What are you going to be? I’m really excited about my costume this year!” Gemma says.
A lot of people just talk over me, and don’t actually wait for answers beyond a head shake or nod, or a shoulder shrug, but Gemma pauses. She glances at me, but doesn’t keep eye contact for long. We both look away, but she’s still waiting for me to answer.
I fumble in my bag for my phone—I don’t usually have it out, ready to talk to people, like I think my speech therapist would like me to. I sort of assume people won’t talk to me much unless they have to, which, to be fair, is usually true. But not with Gemma.
“Jane Goodall.” My app announces for me. I guess I should have said, “I’m going as Jane Goodall,” or “Yes, I’m ready. I love Jane Goodall, so I’m dressing up as her,” but I don’t. I’m not sure why, I just… Gemma makes me nervous, too. She pays too much attention.
“Ooh!” She grins so wide I have to look away again. “That’s amazing, she’s so cool!”
We’ve fallen into step with each other going in the main doors and finding our way to our lockers. I change pace.
“I’m going to be Marie Curie, and my brother helped me make this really cool glow-in-the-dark beaker, like for the radium?” Gemma’s talking a mile a minute now, “I mean I’m not sure that’s exactly how it would look in the lab, you know, but I think it’ll be really visually effective, don’t you?”
I shrug and focus on sorting through the giant pile of books in my locker to find the right ones, but I know exactly where they all are. I always put them in the right order—it feels important, and also keeps me from having to interact much in passing periods.
“Oh. Yeah.” Gemma’s been facing me, apparently forgetting about her locker this whole time, but she looks a bit crestfallen and starts rummaging in it now. “Maybe it’s kinda childish, I dunno.”
In my head, I hear my speech therapist’s voice prodding me, and I wince–I forgot to be an Active Conversational Participant.
I feel bad, and I’m about to type out “No, it’s not childish, it’s cool.” But the bell rings, and we have to hurry to class.
School’s not all bad. I’m good at English, and I like the challenge of puzzle solving in math, sometimes (sometimes it’s just the worst). History’s okay. I do pretty well grades-wise, overall. It’s the times in between the actual learning part that are hard. The passing periods, and lunch.
Ugh, lunch.
And how does it come so soon? Before I know it, we’re all putting our bags away and filing into the cafeteria.
It’s a lot harder to be generous with all the groups of kids in school than it is watching the groups of people at the diner. I mean, there are plenty of other kids like me (well, not exactly like me), trying to just keep their heads down and get through, or kids who are perfectly nice but just keep to their own friend groups, but as a whole, a cafeteria is a much more hostile place to be, and it can feel a little like watching a nature program where you know the lions are hungry.
And now we see the whole valley gathering at the water hole—the only source of water for miles. I hear the dramatic, nature program announcer voice in my head as I go through the line and fill up my tray.
Around me, the lions are circling. Louis, the mean kind of popular, with his cronies Rafe and… I don’t know–the other one– posturing around like idiots. The fashionable girls, flocking around their leader, Naomi—although I’ve heard she’s pretty nice. And all the regular kids, just trying to get anything on their plate that isn’t the tuna salad.
For all, it’s a necessary risk. For some, it’s a deadly one.
I laugh a little to myself at my own joke, but stop quickly.
One little mistake, and they’ll be someone else’s meal.
I think because kids are often so much less confident in themselves, so much more insecure, that they aren’t nearly as happy to let the quiet or unusual ones just be the way they are. But mostly it’s fine. Liveable, anyway. I follow all my usual rules, and just be a little extra careful about it. I get through most days ignored, and unscathed. It’s fine.
I turn and realize I still have to figure out where to sit.
It’s almost frustrating that this is just as bad as they say it is in all the movies. You’d think it would be exaggerated, but it’s mostly not, although I guess I get a break because I’m really just looking for a place to sit alone, instead of trying to decide who to try to sit next to, and whether or not they’ll like me being there. But I still have to stand here, looking around the room like a gazelle on the savanna, eyeing everyone and jumping at any sign of danger. It’s also funny that that’s what I do quite comfortably most of the time—watch people–it’s just now, at this time of day, in this particular place, that my usual people-watching routine makes me feel so vulnerable.
I hurry over to the side, toward the back of the room to be less in everyone’s view, and look around for a place to sit.
Lots of full, bustling, raucous tables. Kids telling jokes, teasing each other, talking about their plans for Halloween.
There! Perfect. I’m already on my way.
There’s an end of a table across the cafeteria that I keep my eyes on as I weave through other students, hoping desperately someone else doesn't take it before I get there. I breathe a sigh of relief as I settle in the very last seat by the end—there’s three buffer seats between me and the next kid. Too few for someone to be likely to sit there, but enough to give me some peace.
Today, things have gone in the prairie dog’s favor.
Am I a prairie dog? What animal would I be? Not sure. Either way, I survived the dangers so far today.
But I’m nervous about tonight. Everyone’s buzzing about it this afternoon.
Back in my old school, the high schoolers were definitely too cool to participate in Halloween publicly, but not here. This town does Halloween BIG. There have been decorations everywhere for a month at least, and every business in town gets really into it. There’s a scarecrow contest, and all the houses in town have at least one pumpkin on the steps (some of them a dozen or more), and there are parties like crazy. I’ve managed to avoid most of them—things have been busy at the diner as people stop by before and after events just to hang out in their costumes, but even Grandma’s having a party on Saturday. And tonight (Friday) is the day everyone at school dresses up in their costumes for a dance.
It’s going to be a lot harder to stay out of the way when everyone’s comparing costumes and wanting to see all the details everyone’s been working on for weeks. And dances… I don’t think I need to explain nerves about that one.
“June!” Gemma’s found me again, and plops her tray next to mine. We’ve fallen into a sort of pattern this way. I spend my time before she catches up with me trying to find a safe place to sit alone—usually at as empty of a table as I can find—as she shows up like a… like a prairie dog, I guess, popping up suddenly out of nowhere. I stifle another smile at my own stupid joke.
“What’s funny?” She noticed, and is already laughing. It’s weird how that works, isn’t it? How people start copying each other even when they don’t know why.
Another defense mechanism designed to keep the small, weaker animals safe.
I shrug and shake my head.
Gemma hesitates, her baked bean-loaded fork halfway to her mouth. She’s staring me down, and for a second, I think she’s angry. She puts her fork down.
“Is it…” She’s looking around the room for the words, I think. She finds them on the ceiling, but doles them out slowly, uncertain. “Is it hard using your app?”
What?
She’s back to focusing on her beans, pushing them around with her fork even though she already had a mouthful ready to go.
“It’s just, I noticed you don’t use it much,” she’s talking so fast I can barely keep up, “and I wondered if maybe it’s awkward or feels weird or something, and I thought maybe we could use some other way of talking, like… … like a code or something?”
A code?
“I know you use sign language sometimes, too, and I know a few signs, but I, um…” She trails off, blushes, and says the rest in a rush. “I love puzzles and secret codes and stuff like that, and I have this book on morse code and I thought it’d be fun if maybe we could use it to talk, and it could be more secret, you know?” She looks up at me.
I realize I’ve just been staring at her, and startle myself back to looking down at my tray.
“We could tap it out real quiet, like this,” She demonstrates softly on the table, just with her fingernail. “That way no one else would have to know you’re even talking, and it could be really quiet, so it’s not too much.”
How… how did she know that? That I don’t like the app because it’s too loud?
I’m still poking at my food, and in my panic to figure out what to say, and how, I find myself thinking it’s hard to enjoy a cafeteria sloppy joe when you get to eat diner food most meals.
Gemma’s still looking at me, waiting. She catches herself and looks away again, and takes a bite. Does she know you’re not supposed to stare down a person with trauma-induced mutism? I realize suddenly she’s often following the rules they tell you —minimize eye contact and be nonchalant, pay attention to body language, focus on something else while you talk, give plenty of time for them to respond.
I don’t know which thing to feel most— the surge of affection that she would care that much to look it up, or the absolute tidal wave of fear that someone is paying attention.
The tidal wave moves faster.
But as I type, I feel myself soften it a bit. I don’t want to hurt her feelings.
“No, I don’t think we need a code. But that’s nice of you to ask.”
I pause. I can see her fighting it, but she’s crestfallen, again. I’m such a horrible human being.
But I don’t want a code. We don’t need to talk like that.
“Okay,” she says, nodding. I know she’s disappointed, and she tilts her head so her bangs fall between us.
We eat the rest of the meal in silence.
“There you go, chick,” Grandma reaches out to adjust my blonde wig. It’s itchy, but people would probably think I was going as a khaki blob for Halloween if I went with my natural black ponytail instead of Jane Goodall’s iconic golden one, and even that’s not really enough. I’m wearing one of Grandma’s old khaki shirts from when she was a young woman, and a pair of high waisted pants we found at Goodwill. They’re definitely too big, despite the leather belt cinching them up. Even with the stuffed animal baby chimp hanging over my shoulder, I know I look more like a hobo being attacked by a raccoon than the famed primatologist—but I’m trying not to let the discomfort show. Grandma’s been excited about this dance for months, and it’s not her fault I didn’t choose something more glamorous to dress up as.
We’re on the porch, waiting for Gemma. Grandma insisted I walk to the dance with her, and I didn’t bother trying to explain what happened today to get out of it. This plan was set awhile ago, when Grandma and Gemma’s mom ran into each other at the supermarket and Grandma decided this would be good for me to practice socializing.
“Have your phone, love?”
She means the app, really. I think she’s more concerned about how many sentences I say “out loud” today than about making sure she knows where I am, or that I have it for emergencies. It’s a small town, and a small school, and she’ll be three blocks away at the diner the whole time. Right now, Hank and Tracy—a moody, twenty-something waitress Grandma hired part time a few months ago—are holding down the fort until she gets there.
She’s been perky and upbeat, but she can tell how nervous I am.
“It’ll be alright, June.” She says it softly, with care and nothing else—no pleading or judgment hiding underneath, like other people often do. “You don’t have to stay long if you don’t want to, and you know where I’ll be the second you’re done.”
I nod and smile.
“Just promise you’ll try, okay?” She’s not looking at my face, just fixing my shirt collar that doesn’t need fixing. I know this means a lot to her.
I promise, I sign.
“Thanks, love.” Grandma straightens up (I’m short for my age, and people often think I’m younger than I am), and reaches through the door to grab her tote bag. Inside is a jumble of notepads, pencils, a pencil sharpener, her wallet, and whatever book she’s been reading recently. She doesn’t need much, Grandma.
“Happy Halloween!” Gemma comes skipping up the sidewalk. She’s wearing a long, flowy skirt, a top with poofy sleeves and a high collar, and high heeled boots. Her hair is all gathered up in a bun, and I think she even has makeup on. I’ve never seen her wear makeup before—I can tell she’s put a lot more effort into this than I have. She waves the faintly glowing beaker in her right hand and grins.
I do my very best to smile and believe this is going to be a fun evening while Grandma takes more photos than is really necessary, and then it’s time to go. Grandma waves us off as we head down the sidewalk.
Gemma doesn’t seem to remember the awkwardness of our conversation earlier, and talks a lot on our way to school. It’s starting to get dark, and her beaker of radium is looking pretty epic by the time we arrive along with what feels like droves of other students, all buzzing with excitement.
The cafeteria is Decked. Out.
I had no idea it would be this big of a deal. There are fake spiderwebs draped everywhere, a group of giant cardboard skeletons dancing at the back, an actual live band on stage, and a disco ball and lights that flash along with the blaring music. There are long tables at the sides of the room piled with mountains of witch finger cookies and hot dogs wrapped up in biscuit dough like mummies and every other Pinterest Halloween food the town moms could find.
It’s a lot to take in at once, when you’re used to a quiet, dark corner in a diner.
And the kids.
It’s pretty dark in here, and the lights keep changing, but it looks like everyone’s already out on the dance floor. It’s a swarm of exaggerated silhouettes out there, doing dance moves I’ve never seen before. I think back to Autumn in New York with Grandma in the kitchen at the Cozy Spoon, and I feel the fear clutching at my throat.
I am not prepared.
The costumes are all cool. Sleek. How did they know to do this? It’s like they all coordinated ahead of time–besides that there are maybe too many pirates with fewer clothes than you would think they would need, you know, to be prepared for sword fights and all. But it’s like they all planned to be as cool as possible without making their parents worry.
I underestimated the situation, and I’m beginning to regret refusing when Grandma suggested I dress up as a pop star or a vampire, or something less… nerdy. My plan to disappear into the less intense, brainy crowd I assumed would be standing on the sidelines is not going to work.
“This is so awesome!” Gemma yells in my ear—it’s the only way to communicate in this din. I don’t think my phone goes loud enough for this. I find myself stroking the stuffed chimpanzee clinging to my neck for comfort, and I feel like a total loser.
“Hey, Gemma!” Ishaan, a tall boy from my Algebra class, emerges out of the crowd. He’s dressed as The Mad Hatter, with a top hat and suit, and heavy eye makeup. He looks crazy, but in a good way. How did they all know to do this? I glance at Gemma, and I think she’s blushing.
“Hey, Ishaan!” She yells.
“Marie Curie?” He takes a guess at her costume.
“Yeah! I love your costume, too!” Gemma shouts, grinning.
“Thanks!” He pauses, starts to speak, and coughs. “Uh.. Do you… um…” Ishaan stammers, but he pulls it together pretty quickly, “Wanna dance?” He gestures toward the dance floor.
Gemma’s grin is brighter than her radium beaker.
“Yeah, okay!”
“I’ll be back, okay, June?” She yells into my ear again, and I nod. I appreciate her effort, but it really doesn’t matter. I feel like I’m not supposed to be here, and her being here in the awkwardness with me can’t possibly change that.
They disappear into the crowd.
I’m thinking of just leaving, right then and there. Barely anyone has seen me yet, right? The door is right there, decorated with spooky tree silhouettes on either side, and full of the possibility of freedom.
Then I remember my promise to Grandma.
I’m pretty sure thirty seconds of being here is not really trying.
I sigh and slip off to the side, away from the dance floor, through the circular tables gathered around the edges.
Now that my eyes adjust, I can see a few other stragglers in the darker corners of the room. Mostly the other nerds, god bless them—there’s an Orc, and I think that’s from StarTrek, there, and oh no, someone’s done the static electricity thing and pinned lots of socks all over themselves—even I know that’s not cool. But here I am, also a nerd, dressed as a scientific hero.
At least this is normal, right? Normal teenager angst stuff. Not traumatized teen stuff. I guess that should be a comfort.
There’s a cluster of massive styrofoam headstones with names like “Seymour Worms” and “Berry D. Hatchet” painted on them on the far end, away from the stage. I make my way there, where I can hide a little better, and make a plan.
Reading the names, though, I feel like this is a missed opportunity to do some of Edward Gorey’s Gashlycrumb Tinies.
A is for Amy who fell down the stairs.
B is for Basil assaulted by bears.
C is for Clair who wasted away.
D is for Desmond thrown out of the sleigh.
Before I know it, I’m re-designing the entire party in my head around Edward Gorey’s illustration style. Yep, I’m a nerd. But I’m resigned to it, as long as I can stay fairly hidden here, at least for a minute.
Grandma did want me to try, though.
What do you think counts as trying? Is smiling at someone enough? Waving?
Maybe if I go get some snacks. It involves a long walk back the way I came, across a corner of the dance floor. And there are some other kids around the food tables. Maybe I could just wave hi. Smile a little. That feels like enough.
It takes me a bit to work up to it. I watch the traffic patterns carefully.
There’s Louis, dressed as a football player, doing what I’m guessing is a touchdown dance? I don’t do sports, but you can tell how cocky and rude this guy is just by watching him. He’s the kind of guy you avoid at all costs unless you’re one of the popular kids, because he’s so insecure he’s never not looking for someone to pick on. It’s stupid, really. We all know the stereotypes. We’ve seen the movies. But we still do the same things.
And I’m not about to break my own stereotype. I shuffle closer to my “Here lies Mozart- decomposing” headstone and wait for Louis to grab some handfuls of chips and dip, and whoop and chest bump his goons on his way back to the dance floor.
Now there’s just a ballerina (is that Stacy from English?) and one of those optical illusion alien abductions at the food table. They look harmless enough.
I steel myself and head over. As I’m getting close, Stacy looks up. I smile and wave, and I’m feeling like this may not be so bad when a giant group of dancers catch up with me from behind and swarm the table.
It’s loud, and everyone’s laughing—are they laughing at me? Why does it always feel like everyone is laughing at me?—and I can’t do it. I panic-grab some food to keep myself busy (I don’t even know what I’m scooping onto my plate) and bolt as soon as there’s an opening in the crowd.
Once I’m far enough away, back in the relative safety of the (mostly) empty round tables, I look down at my plate.
Dang it.
Somehow I took about a pound of peanut butter-covered celery, topped with edible googly eyes, and one skeleton gingerbread man cookie.
Whatever. I made it.
Halfway back to my graveyard spot, nibbling the arm off the gingerbread skeleton, I see Static Electricity sitting alone at one of the tables, a pile of cookies on a plate in front of them. Poor kid. Didn’t they have an older sibling, or even a parent, to tell them that would be a bad idea?
As I get closer, I realize it’s a boy called Colin. He’s one of those kids that makes a really big deal of being different. I don’t think it even matters exactly how he’s different, it would still be the same story, but he has a nose ring, and paints his nails all mismatched colors, and I guess is just the wrong combination of weird to be considered cool. Maybe that’s why he’s Static Electricity. Maybe it was intentional—from what I know of him, he’s made a high school career out of pushing everyone else away, and doesn’t seem to understand the concept of hiding to survive. He stands right out, daring anyone to call him on it. The problem is, they always do anyway.
A group of girls—all dressed as very fashionable angels— pass, eying him with disdain. He notices right away. Despite how walled off he tries to make himself, he’s always paying attention.
“So? So? What’re you looking at?” He gestures big with his arms in the air, static-clinging socks swinging, palms up, daring them to respond. “I don’t care!” He yells into the noise.
The girls pass quickly, some laughing, some rolling their eyes, some just eager to get back to dancing, but I slow down before I reach him, too. His shoulders are hunched, and he circles his arms around his plate protectively as he takes a sullen bite and glances around from under his scrunched eyebrows. For a second, he lets it down. His wall crumbles, and I see his eyes.
“This isn’t what I wanted.”
It’s almost like I can hear him say it, and I feel the heaviness of his heart inside his angry forcefield. I watch him being just himself for a moment, when he thinks no one can see, tugging at another sock on his sleeve, and watching everyone else enjoy themselves.
“Hey, creeper!” Someone yells way too close to me, and I jump. My startle response is off the charts these days. Googly-eyed celery flies everywhere up in the air, and as it falls, I see Louis’ face behind it, staring right at me.
No, no, no, no.
I know what comes after this.
“What’re you creeping on Colin for, huh?” Louis grins. “Is he your BOYfriend?”
His cronies are behind him. It’s a wall of football players, and my palms start sweating. I know this is dumb. I know this doesn't matter, and he just wants to look cool. But I still feel cornered. Helpless.
The panic is coming.
“Or are you haunting him? Huh?” He knows I won’t answer. It’s too easy for him, he knows this is a home run. I glance around for a way out, but he steps in front of me again as I try to escape past him.
“Are you a ghost, June?” He’s having way too much fun—he’s not going to leave this be anytime soon. Behind him, people are starting to turn this way, to see what’s going on. “Are you a ghost, like your dead mom?”
No, no, no. My heart is beating so fast, and I can feel it in my forehead, in my fingers. There’s a crowd, now, gathering behind Louis. Stacy, the ballerina, tugs at a friend’s sleeve and points at me. On the dance floor I see Gemma’s radium beaker slow and stop as she quits dancing and turns my way. Colin shifts in his seat to see what’s happening, and we lock eyes for a moment. I’m not sure if it’s pity I see in his eyes, or relief that it’s not him for once.
“Or maybe,” Louis leans in close and jabs a finger at me, “you’re planning to kill Colin.”
I can’t breathe. The music sounds years away. My feet are made of cement even though my brain is racing, telling me to move, move, MOVE.
“It runs in the family,” Louis accuses me dramatically, like a lawyer in court, gesturing to the growing crowd, “doesn’t it, June? It’s a family trait, isn’t it—
being a murderer?”
There it is.
I can’t think.
Why are they laughing?
I can’t.
I can’t.
From a million miles away, I hear them whispering:
“Do you think that’s true, about her dad?”
“My dad says…”
“That’s not fair, she can’t say anything back.”
“I heard he’s getting out of jail soon.”
“Do you think she saw him do it?”
There’s a loud bang somewhere in my head.
In a flash I see my old kitchen floor, and smell blood.
Suddenly, somehow, I can, and I run. I don’t have any idea where yet.
I know I’ve bumped into so many people, knocked over a bowl of punch, ruined some decorations, but it’s just my footsteps I care about—how many I need before I’m safe.
There’s more yelling, and those lights flashing, and then music fading as I barrel down the hall, and someone following me.
“June, wait!” Gemma is chasing me, breathing heavily, her skirt tripping her up.
I shake my head and keep running, and I don’t see her anymore after I burst through the door.
I don’t even remember the run to the diner.
When I get there, I don’t explain. I can’t.
I burst through the door, and I know I’m a mess—the chimp is gone, and my wig is half off, and there’s a giant pink stain of punch all over Grandma’s old shirt.
Grandma, halfway through topping off Mrs. Gould’s coffee, takes one look at me, and practically throws the coffee carafe at Tracy.
“Nothing to see, everybody.” Grandma announces it calmly, herding me into the tiny bathroom. Deep in the fog of my own brain and numb body, I feel terrible. Grandma’s so kind to help me, when it’s my own fault I’m here. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, pale and shaking, and for a second I think I’m a ghost.
Louis was right I guess.
That’s when I lose it, and my knees buckle.
Grandma wraps her arms around me even as I fall, and together we’re a pile of tears and punch and hair pencils on the checkered floor.
Awhile later—I don’t know how long—I’m curled up in my booth. Tracy lent me a sweatshirt she had in the back of her car, and Grandma’s taken my wet shirt to wring out. I feel wrung out, too.
The customers have all left, but I keep my eyes down anyway.
I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been here before, sitting in my booth, tracing the lines of this table with my eyes when I can’t seem to get my muscles to do anything else. My vision is blurry at the edges, and even though my mind is racing, I can’t seem to blink. I’m frozen here, stiff and uncomfortable, but unable to change position.
This happens a lot.
I have a nightmare, and the next day I’m barely human. Someone at school mentions Mom, and I shut down.
My therapist, Colleen, calls it dissociation, and says it’s my brain protecting itself–but it feels anything but safe. I go numb and often can’t move, but underneath all that calm and blankness I can still feel it–the fearsome, undeniable reason it’s not safe to be present. I can’t quite reach it with my conscious mind, but I feel its teeth.
When this happens, I try not to let on as much as possible–but this time it’s really bad. Everything narrows in, and I’m so stuck in my brain it’s terrifying.
And I can’t stop thinking, in a rush of half thoughts:
Why would he do that do they all talk about me like that all the time am I going insane and all their parents talk too I am never going to get out of my brain I can’t do this I can’t do this I can’t do this
When it’s bad, I repeat things a lot, in my head. My eyes are still locked on the same spot on the table. The grain looks like a spider. I’m terrified of spiders, but I can’t look away.
Being a murderer being a murderer being a murderer being a murderer runs in the family. My family my family I don’t have one of those anymore not like they all do how could they do that why am I like this a murderer a murderer and where is grandma she must be so upset so upset so upset
She was here awhile ago, holding my clenched-fist hand as best she could. Where did she go?
Come back come back but don’t come back I’m horrible you must hate me so much I’m so much trouble and you had to close the diner why why why why why
And then somehow my brain latches onto a thought from before, and I can’t stop composing Gashlycrumb poems.
N is for Neil, rotting in jail,
D is for Daisy, lifeless and pale,
J is for June, heart in a shredder.
J is for June, broken for ever.
Forever forever shredder
And Grandma. I know she’s around—I hear her in the kitchen, even though I’m stuck here, staring.
She must be so sad so sad and so scared and this isn’t fair for her this isn’t fair how can I do this to her I’m a horrible granddaughter move move move move June move
I give it everything I have–tell my feet to move, to get up and head into the kitchen, to help Grandma close the diner, to tell her I’m sorry. But I can’t.
A blue plate slides gently over the spider spot on the table. The chocolate chip pancakes on it are steaming. I see Grandma’s wrinkled fingers, and her knobby knuckles, and she reaches for my hand again.
I still can’t move.
I stare at the pancakes for what feels like hours, but Grandma stays the whole time.
Sometimes food is love.
Graphic Novel Development: Hank & Gemma Character Design
DRAWING CHARACTERS AS ARCHAEOLOGY
When I sat down to first do some character design sketches for the graphic novel version of Things Not Said, Imogen came pretty easily. June took pages and pages to develop (mostly because I needed to make sure I could replicate her well enough). Hank was a bit tougher—even though I thought I had a really clear picture of him in my head.
Turns out, I think my brain works less in fully-formed images, and more in impressions. Obviously I knew about Hank’s big mustache, and kind eyes. I knew he probably had a big nose, bushy eyebrows, and large ears, too. But They weren’t exactly tied to a specific, highly-detailed mental image. Most of the time for me, drawing characters feels like more of an archaeological process: I have some sense of where I’m digging (maybe it’s the type of feeling the character gives you), and some specific bits to be on the lookout for (maybe a handful of types of features, but not necessarily anything super detailed), so I get started excavating with a rough sketch and slowly hone in, seeing what I unearth in the process of just making marks. But this isn’t how most people talk about drawing. Mostly people talk about struggling to capture what’s already in their head. To me it feels more about finding things.
I sometimes wonder if any of this is a neurodivergent difference. Do neurotypical illustrators all have very clear mental images that they’re trying to directly capture on paper? I absolutely have mental images—but they’re not usually very defined to start with. It’s like my subconscious has been turning it over and over, and maybe some pieces of the whole are there (albeit fuzzy), but my hand has to do the work to put them together. Does anyone else experience that?
Anyway, Gemma’s character design, on the other hand, came almost fully-formed, as if it existed all on its own without my input at all—and this right after I had been struggling with Hank’s design for what felt like ages. When I could feel it really NOT working with Hank, I did something I never would have used to do, and stopped. I set Hank aside, took a little break, and moved on to Gemma.
Which leads me to another thought:
WORKING HARDER ISN’T ALWAYS BETTER
I used to think (at least subconsciously) that it was always, ever, just a matter of time and effort. That if I worked long enough, hard enough, “right” enough (whatever that means), drawings would just appear, quickly and perfectly, every time. Which of course means that if something isn’t working, it must be my fault—because I’m not working hard enough, long enough, “right” enough.
I can tell you that is absolute garbage, and is probably (at least for me) a trauma response.
This is a really big topic to unpack, but let me just say this:
There’s so much more to our creativity and “flow” than how hard or how much we work.
I think it’s more about being in tune with ourselves—that includes our bodies, our spaces, our feelings, and the events of our lives. All of which can be difficult.
At least for me, right now, I’m in a place where my creativity is less about hustle and showing up to go through motions than it is about listening, and responding to how I’m doing with honesty and gentleness. And somehow, if that little spark deep inside can tell I’m listening, and I care, and I’m not just trying to force it into submission, it opens up and pours things out and I end up with more capacity than I thought. Funnily enough, I’m honestly busier right now than I’ve been for ages, with a to-do list a mile long, and yet somehow pulling these posts together doesn’t feel like a slog—it feels like a gift. A difficult one to squeeze into the time I have, but still—a gift.
I think some of it is because I’m spending lots of time and effort on something important to me, even though I’m not getting paid for it, which is another thing Old Gracie would never have done—would never have thought they were important and worthy enough to do.
Now, I stake out my work time with an iron fist—not because I’m going to beat the work out of me, but because I know I need it. Because I listened to something deep in there that needed to tell this story now even though it doesn’t quite make sense with everything I have going on in life.
So I’m working hard, but not in the same ways I used to. And I’ll take that as a win.
SPLIT SCREEN BAD DREAMS
As a prose novel, Things Not Said is basically a giant monologue. I loved finding June’s voice and exploring her thoughts and letting her speak that way. But as a graphic novel, this story would need to be told a bit differently. There’s a saying in storytelling that goes “show, don’t tell.” I tried to do this (as much as is possible in a first draft) even with June talking us through everything that happens, but I think a graphic novel would give me the opportunity to push this further, and do a more with a lot fewer words.
Restructuring the entire story as a graphic novel is a big, big process that I haven’t fully jumped into yet, but as I was reading the manuscript, this scene is one of the first that popped into my head as what could be a graphic novel sequence, where I can show (not tell) about both June and Imogen having nightmares and trouble sleeping, and hint even better at what is haunting Imogen (because it’s not coming straight from June’s limited knowledge).
I wanted to get to the next spread or two, showing both June and Imogen taking a moment to recover from their nightmares, putting on robes, and heading downstairs using the same sort of split screen method. Then a third spread would be one single image of them together, sipping tea in the middle of the night, tv on, watching old movies together while they can’t sleep. I ran out of time this week, but stay tuned—maybe I can finish out the concepts for this sequence next week!
If you’re enjoying Things Not Said so far, leave me a comment— even if it’s just a 🥞 emoji!
I know the pressure to formulate a comment can be stressful, but a simple digital stack of pancakes is all it takes to let me know you’re out there—and it all helps on this long journey to bring this story to life!
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I love the giant monologue in this, like you said. It gives me that fly on the wall feeling and I’ve always found it comforting to hear someone’s life reflections. It’ll be true that this will change in graphic novel form and I’m excited to read the different versions! 🥞