006

ISABELLE

The next morning I went to school. Even though I didn't want to be there.

Hood up, earphones in with nothing playing, eyes on the floor. I survived four classes without incident if I don't count the two separate moments someone laughed at something on their phone and went quiet when I walked past.

By lunch I had one goal. Find the corner table, sit down, and get through the next forty minutes without becoming anyone's entertainment.

I took my tray to the back wall. The table near the flickering light that nobody wanted. I sat on the stable side of the bench, arranged my food, and opened my notebook to a blank page.

I had gotten through half my food when it started.

"Somebody turn it up, she's literally right there."

I kept my eyes down.

The audio came anyway. Tinny through a phone speaker but loud enough to carry. My own silence on video, and then the laughter that followed it.

"She was staring at him like that for the whole practice."

"And he didn't even look at her once. Not even once."

More laughter. A second voice joining the first.

"Imagine being that obvious and not even being able to say anything about it afterwards,Ms mute."

I set my fork down. I picked it back up.

The bench across from me scraped the floor.

Someone sat down.

I looked up already reaching for my notepad, already preparing.

It was the boy from the corridor yesterday. The one I bumped into. He looked completely unbothered by the fact that he had just sat across from a girl the entire cafeteria was currently laughing at.

"You're the one from the hallway," he said. "I still owe you for the books."

I stared at him.

"The light up there does that a lot?" He glanced at the flickering bulb above us, then back at his food. "I've been eating near the equipment room. It smells like skates and regret so this is already an upgrade."

I looked at him for a moment longer, then slowly shook my head at his first question.

He nodded like that, settled it and pulled his tray closer. "Tyler Brooks. We got cut off yesterday."

I reached for my notepad and wrote.

*I know. I'm Isabelle.*

"Isabelle," he repeated, like he was filing it away. "You go by anything shorter?"

*No.*

"Isabelle it is."

He ate without performing comfort at me, which was the thing I noticed first. No eyes checking my expression every few seconds to make sure he wasn't doing it wrong. He just ate.

Then the table nearby got louder.

"Wait, pause it, pause it—look at her face right there."

Laughter burst out, sharp and bright.

Tyler looked up from his tray. His eyes moved across the room once, reading it without any urgency.

"What's their problem?" he asked.

I pulled the notepad over.

*There's a video going around.*

"What kind of video?"

*Someone filmed me watching hockey practice. Zoomed in on my face and posted it. The whole school has seen it.*

He read it. Then he looked at the table across the room where someone was still replaying it, then back at me.

"That's it?" he said.

I looked at him.

"That's what everyone's been going on about?" He glanced once more in their direction, unimpressed.

"You watched a practice. Someone filmed you watching." He turned back to his food. "People really have nothing going on."

He just kept eating.

*You're not going to ask why it's a big deal?* I wrote.

He looked at the notepad. "Is it?"

*To them, yes.*

"Why?"

I hesitated, then wrote.

*The person I was watching. It's complicated.*

"Complicated how?"

I tapped the pen against the page twice, then wrote slowly.

*Complicated to the extent that makes four hundred people hit like on a video of someone's face.*

He read that and was quiet for a second.

"Four hundred's not that many," he said finally.

I almost laughed. Not quite, but almost.

*It is when it's your face,* I wrote.

"Fair enough." He nodded once, conceding the point. Then, "Is that why you're sitting back here under the broken light?"

*I always sit here.*

"Before the video too?"

*Yes.*

"Okay," he said simply. He reached for his drink and took a long sip.

“The food here isn't as bad as I expected, for the record."

I wrote without thinking.

*Give it a week.*

He laughed. Short and real, like it surprised him slightly. "Noted."

We sat without filling every second of it and that was fine. He was quiet for a moment, then he looked at me properly.

"Can I ask you something?"

I nodded.

"The notepad thing," he said. "Is that how you always communicate or just a preference?"

I appreciated that he asked it like a normal question.

*Always,* I wrote. *Selective mutism...I can't speak...Or I don't. It's complicated.*

"Okay," he said.

That was it. Just okay. No tilt of the head, no softened expression, there wasn't even a pause that meant he was recalibrating how to treat me.

Just okay. I felt relieved by his reaction.

*You're not going to ask why?* I wrote.

"Should I?"

*Most people do.*

"Do you want to explain it?"

I thought about it honestly, then shook my head.

"Then I'm not going to ask," he said, and picked up his fork again.

I sat with that for a second.

Then I wrote. *You're strange.*

He smiled at that, not offended at all. "I've heard worse." He leaned back slightly. "I'm playing my first home game by five. You should come."

I raised an eyebrow.

"Genuinely," he said. "I don't know many people here yet and it's weird playing to a crowd that's only cheering for everyone else. Also—" he pointed lightly at my notepad, "—you clearly don't mind watching hockey."

*That video is going to follow me forever,* I wrote.

"Only if you let it bother you." He shrugged. "Come to the game. Cheer loudly, give them something new to talk about.”

*I can't cheer loudly.*

He opened his mouth, then closed it. Then smiled properly for the first time, wide and genuine. "Okay that was bad, I'm sorry."

I shook my head and wrote.

*It was a little bad.* But it made me smile a little.

"Come anyway," he said. "Just sit there. That counts for something."

I looked at him for a moment, weighing it.

*Maybe,* I wrote.

"I'll take maybe." He stood to grab a napkin from the dispenser nearby, unbothered. I reached for my water bottle.

Then I looked up without meaning to.

Lucas stood at the cafeteria entrance, tray in hand, scanning the room the way he always did.

His eyes moved across the tables. Past the group near the windows. Past the flickering corner.

And stopped.

He looked at Tyler first. Then at me. Then at the notepad sitting open between us.

Then he rolled his eyes, like we were the least interesting thing in the room.

He turned and walked straight to his teammates' table without a second glance.

I looked back down at my tray.

Tyler dropped back into his seat with the napkin. "So Friday," he said. "Yes or maybe?"

*Yes, I will come.* I wrote again.