I use sign language to communicate, which makes a lot of people think I’m deaf. Sometimes I roll with it, it’s a lot easier that’s for sure. But sometimes I’ll correct them and let them know I’m actually a selective mute. I’m never sure which is worse, being the poor pitiful deaf girl, or the weird freak girl who doesn’t talk.
“How was your day Mickey.”  Dr. Listener asked as she pulled out a pen.
“Good” I used sign language to respond.
“Did you try talking to anyone today?” Dr. Listener had her pen ready obviously optimistic about my answer
“I talked to Johnny but he didn’t hear me” I snicker at my own joke.
Dr. Listener sighed, “Did you try talking to anyone who wasn’t deaf?”
“No” I shake my head.
“Okay, that’s okay.” I can tell she’s disappointed, I watched as my fingers traced the swirling pattern of the fuchsia paisley couch cushion to distract from my shame.
She looks back up at me, “What kind of things do you and Johnny talk about?”
“Just normal things, like college, plans for the future.” I shrug and lean back on the fuchsia couch.
“Oh really? What kind of plans do you have?” She takes a sip of her coffee.
“Well I really want to be a radio morning show host, or maybe a stand up comedian.” I smile brightly at her.
“Well you’re in quite a comedic mood today.” That’s why I like Listener, she doesn’t get mad when I make jokes.
“I really want to teach deaf kids,” She’s still smiling but it’s different, it’s a gentle smile. She gestures for me to continue, “I’ve always wanted to help people, and if I’m a teacher for deaf children then I wouldn’t have to speak to them, I could just sign.”
“What about if they have hearing parents who can’t sign?” I bite my lip, Listener doesn’t beat around the bush. And I can appreciate that, most of the time. I just shrug in response.
“Well you think about it and get back to me.” I nod and we change topics.

As I walk down the stairs the sweet smell of syrupy pancakes greets me good morning. I check my phone and cringe 7:45. I’m always running late, and my mom is always cooking me such wonderful breakfasts that I never have time to eat. But as I turn the corner I realize the breakfast wasn’t for me it was for Johnny.
“Well good morning Princess Mickey,” My mom says as she flips another pancake. I scowl but give her a kiss goodmorning. I hate being called princess, “At least someone is awake early enough to eat my cooking.”
I look to Johnny who waves with his fork as he shuffles more food in his mouth. I roll my eyes and sit across from him. I’ve known Johnny for 9 years and I’ve yet to see someone stuff their mouth like him. I begin to eat my own food when I feel a nudge on my arm. I look up to see Johnny signing to me.
“Whoa you can’t eat we’re going to be late.” He says grabbing a handful of bacon.
“If you can eat more bacon I can have a single pancake before we go.”  I sign back knowing I’m the one going to win this battle. He looks annoyed for a second until he remembers if I eat so can he.
8:03 is when we finally walk into school.
“A deaf and a mute walk into school late sounds like the beginning of a bad joke.” Johnny chuckles at my joke and I could swear I heard a hiss of pain at the end. I give him a confused look.
“What?” He signs nonchalantly. I give him a long stare, as if the real answer to my question is written on his face. His hazel eyes are staring so intensly at his shoes someone might think the answer to all life's questions were hidden in his converse. The bags under his eyes stand out against his pale skin, it isn’t unusual for a teenager to be tired but his look especially dark.
“I could’ve sworn you were in pain when you were laughing.” Johnny turns his head to side a scowl grows on his face.
“I’m fine okay.” He stalks off angrily before I could stop him.
“Johnny wait.” My voice is raspy and quiet. I haven’t used it in awhile, not that it would’ve mattered Johnny is the one person I can talk to, but the only one who can’t hear me.

A lot of people think selective mutism is just when someone doesn’t want to talk so they don’t. But that’s not it at all. I must’ve spent eleven out of my 16 birthday wishes for the ability to talk to people. It’s really an anxiety disorder I just get too anxious to speak. It’s like in Harry Potter, when they get trapped in that plant, devil’s snare, and the only way to get out is to calm down and the more panicked you are the more it strangles you. That’s how it is with my voice, the more anxious I get, the more my voice is being strangled and trapped in my throat. But not that many people care to learn about that. People get flustered when they realize I’m a mute. They don’t know what to do, they’re almost afraid to talk as if they might offend me just by speaking. Johnny was the first person who didn’t care.
I sit down on a bench outside my class. I don’t care if I’m late, neither does the teacher, she never pays attention to me anyway.  Across from me hundreds of purple letters trim the walls. They’re letters from the elementary school telling seniors not to do drugs. The day I met Johnny my class was writing letters just like those. I always liked writing them, I felt like I could make a difference with them. Like my letter would change someone's life. Now that I’m in highschool I realize the harsh reality is kids find their letter, show off to their friends then shove them to the bottom of their backpack.
But back in Mrs. Peter’s third grade class I didn’t know that. I was just in the middle of writing Rebecca Goodman the best goddamn drug psa letter she would ever receive when Mrs. Peter’s asked for our attention. When we looked up there was a small boy next to her. His eyes were filled with that special type of fear that’s reserved only for new students. He was a scrawny kid with scruffy brown hair that fell to his shoulders. I didn’t pay much attention, like most new kids he’d find his place soon enough, probably be invited to play soccer during recess, receive unwanted kisses on the cheek from girls, soon he wouldn’t be new at all.
At least that’s what I thought. But Johnny’s fate changed completely after Mrs.Peters said five words to the class. “This is Johnny, he’s deaf.”  Suddenly he wasn’t a potential friend he was an alien no one knew how to communicate with. So obviously the teacher put him next to me, the girl who can’t talk, the boy who can’t listen,  what could possibly be a better combination.  And I’m not sure why, but I wanted to talk to this boy. Maybe because he was new. Maybe because he was outcasted like me. Maybe I was sick of being alone. I may never know what urged me to do it but I turned to Johnny and I whispered a small ‘Hi’. He didn’t move, he didn’t react at all. I wasn’t stupid, I knew he wouldn’t hear me. But I looked around Mrs. Peter’s third grade classroom and around me kids were still talking and laughing with each other. Mrs. Peter’s was still helping kids with their multiplication and everything was the same. I had talked to someone and the world didn’t end, and that’s what I needed.
I looked back at the purple letter and said a quick apology to Rebecca Goodman. I ripped off a little corner and wrote hi. I flicked it onto his desk and watched Johnny unfold the note. A small smile lit up his face. And as natural as the leaves changing colors we become friends.

I did finally go to first period about ten minutes late, but the teacher didn’t say anything. No one really said much to me anymore.
I didn’t see Johnny again until lunch. He didn’t talk to me much. When I noticed he didn’t have lunch I tried to ask him about it, but he brushed me off.
“Hey what’s up with you today?” He moves to leave the table but I wasn’t finished. I reached out to grab his shoulder, but he jerked his arm away  forcing my hand to land his lower rib cage. I watched as Johnny bared his teeth, he clenched his teeth so hard I could see the tendons and veins pop from his neck. He let out a low groan of pain and turned to me, his brown eyes flaring with anger.
“Mickey just…,” Johnny's eyes softened, for the first time in years he looked like the scared little boy I first met nine years ago, “just stop.” And for the second time that day Johnny left me confused and alone.

The ride home was quiet, Johnny always had a way of making the car ride so smooth you could forget it was even moving. I began to slip into a daydream of a memory, around me the car vanished and the blacktop of the elementary school playground surrounded me. I was carrying a ball to go play with Johnny, when I felt a strong push come from behind me and force me into the brick wall next to me.
“Why don’t you talk?” Another hand forced my face against the gritty brick wall. They asked me again “Why don’t you talk you freak?’ I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t scream, and I definitely couldn’t talk. My throat felt like a hundred cotton balls had been stuffed into it and more and more were accumulating. Tears began to swell in my eyes. The force of the kids became stronger and I could feel the brick cutting into the skin of my cheek. “Just tell me to stop and I will” Through my blurry vision I could spot Johnny watching from across the blacktop. I couldn’t understand why he was just standing there. I wanted to call to him but the cotton balls filled my mouth trapping my voice inside. Tears began to fall as I watched Johnny run out of sight. “Just say stop you idiot.” Stop. Stop. Stop. The words filled my mind but was chained to my lips not allowed to leave. Then suddenly the the hand was gone and when I turned around I found Johnny sitting on top of the kid punching him mercilessly. When his nose started bleeding Johnny got off of him. I’ll never forget how Johnny saved me.

Johnny parked in my driveway and we walked into the kitchen. Immediately John opened the pantry. I went for the fridge and pulled out a coke and dropped it on the floor. It made a loud crash but Johnny didn’t turn around.  I picked it up and shook it for good measure. I readied my amo, aimed and fired.  Diet coke sprayed everywhere on the walls, the floor, the cabinets and most importantly Johnny. He spun around soaking in carbonated sugar.
“I’m so sorry Johnny I have no idea why it exploded. You can borrow one of my dad’s old shirts.” Before he could even reply I took his hand and pulled him upstairs, quickly grabbed a shirt and pushed him into my room. I watched the door close, counted to ten, and silently thanked my mom for never putting locks on the door.  I threw open the door unprepared for what I saw. I knew he was hurt but this was too much.
All down his right side there were square bruises in horrific shades of purple, green, and yellow. Each one was a clearly defined shape of a belt buckle. Like some sort of twisted mosaic pattering his pale skin.
I took a step forward “Johnny.” He scrambled to put the shirt on.
“It’s nothing Mickey, I just fell off my bike.”
“DON’T” I didn’t even realize I had yelled, “Don’t brush this off. Don’t treat me like an idiot. You and I both know what those are.” I lifted his shirt up to reveal the ugly bruises once more. “Who did this?”
“My dad.” Nothing happened for a moment. I didn’t know what to do, I was furious, confused, and scared.I reached for his chin forcing him to look at me, his eyes glowed red, his lips quivered, I could tell it took all his might not to burst into tears. I pulled him into a hug so tight I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to let go, I didn’t want to let him go. I felt tears fall on my shoulders, I didn’t bother to wipe them off, I just held Johnny tighter as his body shook with sobs.
The chance of abuse is much higher with deaf kids. I had read about that when I first started to learn sign language. I knew that it happens, but I didn’t know it had happened to Johnny. And for that I’ll never forgive myself.
Now I’m standing in my room, the abuse helpline number is queued on my phone ready to be dialed.  Johnny begged me not to tell, he kept saying he can handle it himself. But I already know he can’t, and even if he hates me forever and never talks to me ever again at least I’ll know he’s safe. I press the call button.
“Hello you’ve called the child abuse helpline, what can I help you with?”
I open my mouth to reply but nothing comes out. The silence is like a dagger slowly cutting through my stomach. The cotton balls filled my mouth, I try to take a deep breath but I can’t feel the air coming through.
“Hello is anyone there?”
My hands are shaking and I want to cry, I can feel myself lowering the phone I’m about to end the call when the image of Johnny sitting on top of that bully, punching him again and again flashes in my mind. I stop moving, take another deep breath this time I can feel the oxygen reach my lungs.
“My friend is being abused by his dad.” The words quivered as they came out of my voice, my knees wobbled like I just got off a roller coaster.
“Okay I’m going to need to ask you a few questions.”
I breathe in slowly.“Okay.”
Neither me or Johnny realized it, but the day we met we made an unspoken promise to always be there to protect each other, because misfits are only outcasts with the rest of society. But with each other misfits find exactly where they belong.