TW: mentions of shitty parents, disabled (mute) reader
You paused outside the bathroom door, watching as your brother meticulously primped and sprayed his hair into what he considered a fashionable swoop. After a few moments, his eyes caught yours in the reflection, a smile pulling on his lips.Â
âHey, Mouse,â he said, tufting his hair a final few times. Hair deemed acceptable, he turned to you. âYou ready for your first day of high school?â
You shrugged. Your hands lifted in practiced movements, signing, Depends. Does everyoneâs hair look like that?
Steve read the message, his eyes dropping to your fingers like they had since you were kids. Youâd been born mute. No matter how much money your parents threw at the âproblemâ, no answers had been given. Every doctor had a different explanation for it: an unseen side affect from something Mrs. Harrington had done during pregnancy (this answer had infuriated your mother), a psychological block, vocal cords not fully formed in utero, defiance (this answer raised your fatherâs hackles, causing him to scream at you the entire ride home), low IQ, a trick played by an unfair god (this answer hadnât been given by a âprofessionalâ-- it was something Steve had overheard when he was younger, his parents sitting in the darkened living room one evening, drinking and bemoaning the fact that theyâd never have a âperfectâ family). Getting nowhere with medical or psychological professionals, your parents had simply given up: if it couldnât be solved with money, theyâd just choose to ignore the issue. Ignore you.Â
Even at his young age, Steve had felt impossible anger at his parents for this. He took it upon himself, at a mere seven years old, to find a book on sign language in the schoolâs library. Heâd snuck it home and showed it to you, a small four-year-old. The two of you began to practice the signs together, your fluency building each and every day. Once youâd mastered all the signs in that book, Steve had walked the mile and a half to the public library and found others. By the time he was ten, Steve considered himself your personal translator, the two of you able to have silent conversations that nobody else could understand. For other people- your parents, your teachersâ you relied on written messages, filling page after page, notebook after notebook. But with Steve, it was different. It was better.Â
Steveâs eyes pulled back up from your hands, the corner of his mouth quirked up. âPlease,â he said, a chuckle in his voice. âDo you really think anyone else could pull off this look?â
You raised an eyebrow, fingers moving. You think youâre pulling it off?
Steveâs mouth dropped open. âHarsh, Mouse. Real harsh.â
The nickname was another relic from childhood, given to you around the same time that youâd started learning sign language. It came from some storybook Steve had read to you at bedtime. Neither of you could remember the title nor the plot now, but the phrase âquiet as a church mouseâ had stood out to both of you. After heâd read it, Steve had looked over at you, curled up under your quilt, eyes blinking sleepily. âThatâs kinda like you,â heâd said with a smile, and from then on, you were his Mouseâ just one more link in the chain that bonded the two of you together against your parents, against Hawkins, against the world.
Steve placed a hand on your shoulder. âCome on,â he said, leading you toward the staircase. âWeâve got just enough time for a quick breakfast before we gotta head out. And you need to eat somethingâ Iâm not going to have you passing out in third period.â
____________________________________________________________________________
You watched the students milling around the parking lot as Steve maneuvered the BMW into a parking spot. Some of them were hurrying towards the looming brick building, anxious to get in, find lockers and classrooms. Most (upperclassmen like Steve, you assumed) seemed in no rush at all, leaning languidly against their cars, bored expressions on their faces.Â
Steve turned the key, the engine silencing. âOkay,â he said, turning toward you. His eyes were uncharacteristically serious. âRemember: if anyone says anything to you, a joke, an insult, or if they look at you wrong, or anything, you tell me. Got it?â
You looked at your brother. Youâd watched him change over the years, turning from a skinny little nothing to someone high up on the social food chain (youâd begun to calculate it by the stature of his hairâ the higher it got, the higher you assumed heâd climbed). As a senior, you knew that he would have more of a run of the school than other students. All of that, paired with the fact that he was one of the better players on the basketball team, meant that if Steve Harrington decreed something, the rest of the student body would (or should) fall in line.Â
You nodded. Steve gave you a small smile, but there was still a trace of worry in his eyes. âOkay,â he said again, though this time it sounded like it was more for him than you. âLetâs go.â
The two of you stepped from the car; Steve rounded the hood, falling in beside you the way he always did. Youâd barely made it a few feet from the vehicle when a voice called out.
You both turned, finding two older teens approaching. They both looked you up and down, appraising, judging.Â
âWhoâs this?â the girl asked, a slightly snotty tone to the question.
âMy sister,â Steve said. You felt him tense beside you.
âThe golden boy of Hawkins High has a sister?â the boy asked.
The girl shoved him slightly. âYeah. Steve told us that like, last year. Or the year before, or something.â She turned her attention back to you, a sharkish grin on her face. âHi, there. You a freshman this year?â
You nodded slowly, hoping the smile on your face was friendly, not a grimace.Â
The girlâs brow quirked as she turned back to Steve. âWhatâs wrong with her? Whyâs she so quiet?â
Steve sighed slightly. âSheâs⊠mute.â
âOhh,â the girl said. A small look of sympathy passed over her features before she turned back to you. She crouched slightly, hands on her knees, putting herself at your eye level (even though you were already nearly the same height). âIâm Carol. This is Tommy. Weâre friends with your brother.â The words were overly loud and drawn out.
You flinched slightly at the volume.
âJesus, Carol,â Steve muttered. âSheâs mute, not deaf.â
Carol stood with a shrug, popping her gum. âSame thing.â
Steve scrubbed a hand over his face. âCome on,â he said to you, a hand on your shoulder, turning you back towards the school. âLetâs go before weâre late.â As the two of you crossed the parking lot, Steve dropped his voice. âSorry about her. SheâsâŠâ
Your friend, you signed, an eyebrow raised.
âYeah,â Steve sighed. âFor some reason.â He pulled open the glass door and led you to the table sitting in front of the office. The guidance counselor was seated there, a stack of papers before her. She already looked slightly worn down.
âName?â she asked, her voice dry.Â
âHarrington. Steve and Y/N.â
The woman shuffled through the papers, pulling two out and handing them to you. âBellâs going to ring in three minutes.â
You looked at the paper in your hand, eyes trailing over class names and room numbers. There was something unusual about all of your classes. Not the subjects. Those were all standard: English, history, biology, algebra. But before each of them⊠something different. All of them, with the exception of gym and art, had an R before them. You tapped Steve on the shoulder, holding your schedule out to him before signing, What does the R stand for?
He took your schedule, looking down at the printed class list. âHuh,â he said. âNever seen that before.â He stepped back towards the table. âMs. Cline? All my sisterâs classes have the letter ârâ before them. Whatâsââ
âRemedial,â the woman interrupted, not looking at him.Â
âRemedial?â Steve repeated. âNo, thatâs not⊠that canât be right. My sisterâŠâ His sentence dropped off, the guidance counselor having already turned her attention to another student.Â
You reached out and snatched your schedule from Steveâs hand before turning and heading down the hall towards your first class. A spark of fury had started to warm your chest, your face. It might not make sense to Steve, but it unfortunately made sense to you.
In elementary and middle school, youâd been provided a personal aide. It had embarrassed you at first, having an adult trail behind you through the halls, sit beside you in all your classes. But the older you got, the more used to it you became. Sometimes, you felt bad for them: they didnât have much to do. You were perfectly capable of doing the work, understanding the material. The most they had to do in class was answer verbally for you. The teacher would ask a question, youâd scribble an answer, the aide would read it. More often than not, it was correct, earning praise from the teacher.
The middle school principal, Mrs. Boral, had told you at the end of last year that the high school unfortunately didnât have the staff or the budget to provide an aide for you. But sheâd assured you that it wouldnât hinder youâ your grades proved that you could hold your own. There would be a note, Mrs. Boral explained, in your file that told your teachers that they should expect written communication instead of verbal, although you could speak in sign if needed. âIt wonât be an issue,â sheâd promised.Â
âMouse!â Steveâs voice sounded behind you. You heard the quick patter of his footsteps as he jogged to keep up with you. âHey, wait up.â He pulled up beside you, a hand on your arm. âY/N, stop.â
You stopped, turning to face him. His eyes scanned your face, seeing the burning hurt in your eyes, the clench in your jaw. âI know,â he said quietly. âThis⊠it has to be a mistake. You shouldnât be in those classes. Youâre one of the smartest people I know.â
Mom and Dad, you signed. You didnât know how, but you were certain, deep in your core, they were behind it. They did this.
Steveâs eyes dropped to your fingers, his own expression blank. He nodded once, the gesture small, almost missable. âYeah,â he said, running a hand through his perfectly styled hair. âYouâre probably right.â He looked up, his eyes meeting yours. âWe donât have time to fix it right now. But after school, weâll go to the office, see if we can figure something out, okay?â
You nodded. It wasnât a great solution, but it was the only one that seemed feasible. Okay, you signed dismissively, unsure what else to say.
âOkay,â Steve repeated. The first bell rang, shrill and obnoxious. Your brother glanced around, watching the river of students flow past, moving around the two of you. âGet to class,â he said gently, turning his attention back to you. âIâll see you at lunch, okay?â
He gave your shoulder a quick squeeze before blending into the crowd.Â
You watched him until he turned the corner and disappeared from your line of sight. Then you glanced once more at your schedule, finding your first class: R. Algebra Rm 106. You turned your attention to the open doors, the teachers standing outside of them, and made your way down the hall.Â
At the end of the hall stood room 106. A woman with a pleasant smile, wearing a pastel pink dress, stood in front of the open door. Her smile grew as you approached, your steps slowing in front of her.
âGood morning!â she said, her voice light, chipper. âAnd who might you be?â
You hesitated before simply holding your schedule out. The teacher took the paper, glancing at your name on the top.Â
âNice to meet you, Y/N,â she said, handing your schedule back to you. âMy name is Ms. Miller. Go ahead and find a seat.â
The first thing you noticed when you stepped into the classroom was the overabundance of color. Every wall was covered in large posters that said things like âMath is cool!â and âMistakes are proof of tryingâ. The second thing you noticed was how few desks were in the room: less than a dozen. About half of them were filled with a varied selection of the student body. Some of them looked like they were your age; some looked older.
You slid into a desk across the room, avoiding eye contact with the other students, just like they were doing with you. The bell rang, and in stepped Ms. Miller.
âWelcome, everyone!â Her voice was still cheeryâ fine, but you really hoped it didnât become grating. âThis is remedial algebra. Now, I know âremedialâ can sound scary or bad, but itâs not! Everybody learns differently, at different rates. Sometimes, we just need to take a different approach or a second attempt at something, and thatâs okay! Weâre all going to learn in here, at our own speeds, however works best for us.â
You rubbed a hand against your forehead. You could appreciate the sentiment, but this was a level in your personal hell.Â
Ms. Miller began to pass out a worksheet. âToday, weâre just going to see where everybody is starting. Do your best! Thereâs no harm in trying or guessing. This isnât for a grade; itâs just so I can get a better picture of where we all are, so we can make the most of this year!â
You looked down at the sheet before you. It was all standard stuff; dare you say, easy. With a small sigh, you reached into your backpack, pulled out a pencil, and began to fill out the answers. The room was filled with the scratch of graphite, the crinkling of paper as someone erased, the tick of the clock.Â
Ms. Miller floated around the room, murmuring encouragement to each student. She paused by your shoulder, looking over your sheet. âVery good work, Y/N!â she whispered. âBut donât feel like you have to rushâ youâve got the whole period!â
You paused, looking up at her. You werenât rushing. If anything, you felt like you were holding yourself back, trying to go at a leisurely pace. Your teacher gave you a small smile before moving towards the student next to you. Your eyes fell on the boyâs paperâ he was only on question two. Turning back to your own sheet, you saw that youâd already made it to question five. There were only eight questions total.Â
You glanced up at the clock. There were still thirty minutes in the period.
____________________________________________________________________________
BRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIING
Your head snapped up. Your eyes had been glazing over for the past twenty-two minutes, your mind turning to static. You blinked a few times, your hand gathering your materials before you headed for the door. Ms. Miller waved as you left, the cheery smile still in place.
You pulled the schedule from your pocket once more, finding your next class: R. English Rm 204. Upstairs. You looked around, finding a staircase to your left. You took the steps two at a time, a habit youâd picked up from Steve.
Room 204 stood open and waiting at the top of the stairs. Another woman stood outside the door, this one a touch older, a little more refined, wearing a white top with a navy skirt. But she still gave you a smile as you neared. âGood morning. Remedial English?â
You winced slightly, hoping her voice didnât carry through too much of the hallway. You showed her your schedule.Â
âAh,â she said, her eyes finding your name at the top of the paper. âY/N Harrington. You typically speak in sign, correct?â
You nodded, surprised. Ms. Miller hadnât said anything about that to you, and youâd begun to wonder if what Mrs. Boral had told you about your file was true.Â
The English teacher smiled. âWell, I know a littleâ took an elective class in college. But Iâm pretty rusty.â She cocked her head to the side. âWritten communication still okay?â
You nodded again, feeling some of the tension from the morning start to ease. The teacher motioned towards the room, and you stepped in. While this room was similar to your math class in the small number of desks and the varying age of the students, it was much more palatable as far as decor. A large bookcase stood in the corner, shoved full of paperbacks. Posters of William Shakespeare and Edgar Allan Poe were tacked to the wall.Â
This class was fuller than your last one; there was only one remaining desk open. The boy in the next desk watched as you sank into it and began to pull out your notebook.Â
âHey,â he whispered, leaning forward. âDid I hear Peters say youâre a Harrington?â
You looked over at the boy. He was one of the older students in the class. He had a sharp jaw and long, curly dark hair. The rings on his fingers caught the light as he silently tapped his index finger on the desk. You nodded once, wondering if this boy was a friend of your brotherâsâ he didnât look like he floated in the same circle as Steve.
âAnd you use sign language?â he asked, having apparently heard everything Mrs. Peters had said to you in the hall. His question wasnât snotty or probing. It just sounded like he was⊠gathering information.
You flipped your notebook open and scribbled on the first page: Iâm mute.
The boy leaned forward, reading the short sentence. âHuh,â he said, mostly to himself. His eyes lifted to yours. âThatâs⊠gotta suck.â
You shrugged. Youâd learned to adapt, obviously, but⊠yeah, it wasnât a picnic.Â
The boy leaned back in his desk. âWell, canât say as I know much sign language. Except for, you know, the old one-finger salute.â
A surprised snort escaped your nose; your hand lifted to your mouth, trying to hide your smile. But the boy caught it, his own grin spreading as the bell rang. He leaned forward once more as Mrs. Peters came in and began class. âBut if you ever wanna teach me some other signs⊠Iâd be willing to learn.â
