No Talking (8 page)

Lynsey's mom thought,
Maybe she's giving me the silent treatment because I said she couldn't go to that sleep-over at Kelly's this weekend. That's probably it. Kids can be so moody sometimes—goodness knows I was!

The truth is, Lynsey wasn't feeling moody at all. She was just thinking. Actually, she was thinking
about
thinking. Not talking all afternoon had made her realize something: For years now, she had done most of her thinking out loud.
I've been just blurting out whatever's on my mind—to my sister, to my mom—and at school? I just go on and on. And then I talk on the phone all night. Incredible!

Lynsey hated to admit it, but Dave Packer might have been right about the top of her head exploding. Because that's how it had felt at first.

She felt like a faucet had been wide open, gushing and gushing forever, and then suddenly it flipped
shut. And all her thoughts had been bottled up.

But by the time school let out, Lynsey had started to enjoy the change. And all during soccer practice, she'd felt like she was alone, just her and her own voice. And she'd felt like saying,
Hi there, I'm Lynsey—remember me? I live here.

Thinking. And being quiet. It was different. And it was good.

As the car turned onto their street, almost home, she looked up and saw her mom's eyes in the car mirror, and instantly felt how worried she was. So Lynsey gave her mom a wave and a big smile. And her mom smiled back.

• • •

All over town, the other fifth graders were figuring out how to get along without talking. Were there any mistakes made on Tuesday afternoon? Yes, but only a few. Every single fifth-grade girl and boy was working hard not to talk.

And later on, as it got to be dinnertime and family time and homework time and bedtime, there were other problems the kids faced—a phone call from Grandma, a little brother who needed help with homework, a family trip to the mall for new shoes—lots of situations that begged for spoken words. Every single kid had unusual
experiences Tuesday night, and every single kid had to be creative and alert . . . and quiet.

But it's not time to tell about all that.

It's time to go back to school, back in time to about three thirty on Tuesday afternoon, back to the conference room next to the office.

Because that's where the principal and the fifth-grade teachers had held a special meeting.

And they'd had
plenty
to talk about.

S
o. You've been with our fifth graders all afternoon. You've seen—and heard—what they're doing. What do you think should be done?” Mrs. Hiatt looked from face to face around the conference table.

Mrs. Marlow spoke right up. “We should get them all in the auditorium tomorrow morning and lay down the law—just stop it. It's silly and it's disruptive. I mean, it's interesting, and all that. And with these kids, it's maybe even an improvement. But it's still not right. It was sort of cute right after lunch today, but then I had the second group, and then the third during seventh period. And by then it was just a bother, a real distraction. We've got a lot of material to cover in science. So I say we should squash the whole thing right away.”

Mrs. Escobar nodded her agreement. “It's very
annoying in math class, these short answers they use. It's a game to them, and that's all they're paying attention to. I'm trying to work, and if they're playing a game, it's frustrating. Very frustrating. So if this is a vote, I say we stop it first thing tomorrow.”

Mr. Burton shook his head. “But why? It's very inventive, what they're doing. And it's creative, and they're all thinking. And I think it's mostly positive, too. They're all exercising some self-control—which is a big change for this group. I think we should try to have a sense of humor about it, just let it run its course. It can't go on for very long, can it? What's the harm?”

“Well, it's not a problem in the gym,” said Mrs. Henley. “Actually makes it easier, me not having to yell and all. I've got no complaints. If they want to be like they were this afternoon the whole rest of the year, it's perfectly fine by me.”

“It's
not
fine by me.” That was Mrs. Akers talking. “I only get them for music two or three times a week, and I need to make every minute count. And I asked Jim Torrey, and he feels the same way about art class. I went along with it this afternoon, and we had some fun, too. But I can't afford to waste more class time. I can't teach them songs if they won't sing more than three words in a row.”

“I just realized something,” said Mrs. Overby.
“You know what that little rascal Dave Packer did yesterday? Instead of giving an oral report, he stood up at the front of the class and coughed for two, maybe three whole minutes. And he was
pretending
, I'm sure of it. So he wouldn't have to talk! This really has to stop.”

Mr. Burton said, “But don't you remember? We're talking about the Unshushables. These kids have been driving the whole school nuts for years and years. And suddenly, like some amazing gift from elementary school heaven, they all stop talking, and what are we going to do? We're going to start 'em right up again. That doesn't make sense. Why not wait a little? You know, see what happens. Just for another day or so. What's the harm in that?”

Mr. Burton honestly didn't think it was a problem. But even if he had, he would have asked the other teachers to back off anyway. He was hoping the quiet time would go on long enough for him to gather more information for that paper he needed to write for his Human Development class.

The principal had heard enough. She was glad to get everyone's opinion, but she didn't want the teachers turning against each other. This was
her
school, and like everything else, this decision was her responsibility.

Mrs. Hiatt said, “Thank you for your thoughts—very helpful. But this is not a voting situation. And I've made my decision. You know I've been trying to get these kids to quiet down ever since they were in first grade. So it's tempting to go along with this activity of theirs and hope it will lead to an improvement. But I think that would be wrong. The sudden quiet might seem easier than all the noise, but neither behavior is really what we want. These children need to learn to be quiet when it's right to be quiet, and they need to talk and participate at the right times too. We don't want an all-or-nothing situation—which is what this is. What we need is real balance, real self-control. If we let them keep up this game or contest or whatever it is, I think we'll be sending the wrong message. So we need to have an assembly tomorrow. I've noticed that Lynsey Burgess and Dave Packer seem to be the ringleaders. And I—”

“Actually,” Mrs. Marlow interrupted, “I think it's more like Dave and Lynsey are sort of team captains. They're keeping score, counting words. And it's the boys against the girls. I intercepted a note.”

The principal raised her eyebrows. “A note? You didn't tell me that.”

Mrs. Marlow shrugged. “It was this afternoon. In my classroom.”

Mrs. Hiatt said, “It might have been helpful if you'd told me about this sooner.” The principal paused, letting everyone feel how displeased she was.

And in that moment, Mr. Burton thought,
Women—always keeping little secrets.

But he immediately corrected that thought. Because anybody who hangs on to stereotypes about girls and boys . . . shouldn't. Especially if he's a teacher.

The principal said, “Anyway, that's good to know. And I think I see a way to approach the problem. So at the start of homeroom, please bring all the students to the auditorium.”

It was quiet for a moment.

Then Mr. Burton said, “What are you going to do if the kids don't respond? To your approach.”

Mrs. Hiatt looked at him, a trace of frost in her eyes. “What do you mean?”

“Well,” he said, “I'm just saying that we've got five years of experience with this group. They've never obeyed very well when we've told them to stop being noisy. Why should it be any different when we tell them to stop being so quiet?”

Mrs. Hiatt stared at Mr. Burton a moment, and in her mind a little voice said,
Leave it to a man to say something negative.

But, of course, she immediately corrected herself.
Because that kind of thought can get a principal in trouble. On a school faculty, it's never supposed to be girls against boys. In fact, that's called discrimination, which is against the law.

So Mrs. Hiatt looked around the table, smiled, and said, “All I can promise is that I'll do my best to resolve this situation in the most orderly way possible. And I know that each of you will do the same. See you all first thing in the morning.”

As the teachers left the conference room, there wasn't much talking.

In fact, there was none.

I
t was a bright November Wednesday, and the morning playground at Laketon Elementary School rang with the usual shouts and laughter of children.

But there was another layer of schoolyard activity going on—if a person knew what to look for. Because all around the swing sets and the jungle gym and the baseball diamonds, small groups formed up as fifth-grade friends passed notes and gestured and play-acted, trying to tell each other what had been happening since Tuesday after school; trying to tell each other all the clever ways they'd gotten along without talking. The fifth graders were so
glad
to see each other. They felt like they had spent Tuesday night in lonely prison cells, practically in solitary confinement.

There was also some contest business being
conducted. It was time for the first test of the overnight honor system. As agreed upon beforehand, boys who had spoken illegal words reported to Lynsey, and the girls reported to Dave.

As Dave received the morning confessions from a short line of sheepish girls, he felt pretty good. He added fifteen more points to the score against the girls.

Lynsey felt good too. By holding up fingers, four boys admitted that they'd spoken a total of twelve forbidden words—which seemed suspiciously low to her. But the rules were the rules, and she had to trust that the boys weren't lying—just like Dave had to trust the girls. And Lynsey admitted to herself that there might be a few cheaters on both sides. So it probably evened out. Anyway, she wasn't worried, because she was pretty sure that the girls were still winning.

When the first bell rang, everyone went inside.

Dave was in Mr. Burton's homeroom. When the second bell rang and all the kids sat silently at their desks, the teacher said, “Please line up at the door. We're going to a special fifth-grade assembly this morning. If anyone would like to guess what it's about, just speak up.”

No one did, but Mr. Burton could tell from the
looks on their faces that most of them had a pretty good idea. He smiled and said, “But don't worry. Who could be upset with such beautifully behaved children? Not me, that's for sure.”

After his group had filed into the auditorium and taken their seats, Dave turned and looked for Lynsey. She was sitting next to Kelly, and they were passing a note back and forth. She didn't look concerned at all.

Dave turned away quickly, so she wouldn't notice him looking at her. If Lynsey wasn't worried, he wasn't going to worry either—even though this assembly had to be about their contest. It
had
to be, didn't it? There had never been a special assembly at Laketon Elementary School before, at least not that he could remember.

And there had
certainly
never been an assembly that had begun in complete silence like this.

Lost in his thoughts, Dave didn't notice Mrs. Hiatt walking onto the stage. And she said something too, but he missed it.

Scott Vickers elbowed him in the ribs, and Dave snapped back to the present—just in time to see the principal looking right at him.

“Dave, I said I want you up here too.”

In a daze, he looked around quickly and saw that Lynsey was already walking down the far aisle. So

Dave lurched to his feet, scooched past his classmates, and hurried down the aisle and up the four steps onto the stage.

Mrs. Hiatt stood between them, and she said, “Now, as you know, students, we always begin an assembly with the Pledge of Allegiance. So, Lynsey, Dave, you will lead us in the Pledge this morning. Everyone, please stand up.”

The whole fifth grade rose to their feet. In silence.

Dave glanced across at Lynsey, and she glanced at him. And the look they exchanged was clear:
What should we do?

Lynsey gave a tiny shrug, and then they gave each other an even tinier nod. All of this happened in less than a second, and that's all it took for each to know that this was the right time for a temporary truce.

Dave and Lynsey looked out across the faces of their friends, nodded, put their right hands over their hearts, and turned to face the flag: signal sent, signal received.

These kids hadn't talked for more than eighteen hours. Every fifth grader took a deep breath, and if the pictures of Washington and Lincoln on either side of the stage had been painted with hands, they would have used those hands to cover their ears.

“I PLEDGE ALLEGIANCE TO THE FLAG
OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA,
AND TO THE REPUBLIC
FOR WHICH IT STANDS,
ONE NATION, UNDER GOD, INDIVISIBLE,
WITH LIBERTY AND JUSTICE FOR ALL.”

The kids spoke with one voice, almost shouting, incredibly loud, amazingly powerful—probably the most rousing Pledge of Allegiance ever heard in a public school during the entire history of the nation. The auditorium echoed, and it seemed to take a moment for the room to stop shaking.