Yours for the Whispers by AMANDA GUINZBURG

he gray,dark sky enclosed the world.I had watched as it turned from blue to purple to a peaceful black the night before. It had seemed magical. For a long time, I missed the magic around me, and now it rang through me as though a window had opened to my brain. My eyes saw, my ears hurt, and my heart beat louder with determination and excitement. I had learned to accept the gray months before: the hospital, the fear, the Center, the pain, and the work had taught me finally to accept the gray in whatever form it came—death, hate, or even just the weather. The deep breath I took brought me back to life. I closed the door to the sickly white room and picked up my old suitcase. I was closing the door on a nightmare, and as the cool air hit my face outside, I awoke. Mother and Dad were waiting by the car, nervous smiles on their faces. Dad took my suitcase and they hugged me, fussing over my hair, my clothes, asking

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ridiculous questions,as though it had been much more than two weeks since they last saw me.They chatted endlessly. It was scary, how afraid of me they seemed. I climbed into the back seat and looked out the window, ignoring their mindless jabber, letting it all come back once more, promising myself that would be it, the last time.

New York City was, at first impression, one big insane asylum. I said this to Mother and Dad after the first day there, and I got the “you should be grateful to have a chance to live in such an exciting and cultural city” lecture. I found it disgusting. I just didn’t understand how anyone could ever get used to living with the dinning,continuous noise,filthy streets,thickly polluted air, and the people, most of all. Ninety percent of them were rushed, angry, or talking to themselves, yellow cigarette butts hanging out of their mouths. Oh, our apartment was incredibly chic, horribly chic, on phony Park Avenue,where the insanity wasn’t permitted and neither was the noise, or even buses.That to me was the stupidest of all,because it was a lie,and I hated lies. But I had no choice. I never did. Oregon was now just a memory. I walked by my new school eleven times before it opened for the year. It looked cold and strict. It didn’t matter.I was smarter than any of my old teachers.Even though they hated me for it, they had to give me A’s. The other kids were so dumb.They hated me, too. Their thoughts were consumed with the most petty and insignificant nonsense—boys and parties and clothes and makeup.

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I read all day, the day before the first day of school. I finished Jane Eyre and Wuthering Heights. I didn’t go to sleep that night. I listened to Mother and Dad talking about me instead.Mother was insisting that boarding school would be better for me,and Dad was yelling at her to get off his back, that I was just going through a phase, just adolescence. They were so pathetic, so pseudo-concerned. Mother had given me two teen romance books the other day.I threw them out,disgusted. I looked at the skirt and blouse she had laid out for me,both new.I laughed aloud and pulled out my faded army pants and ripped“Who Cares”T-shirt and my black leather gloves. I brushed my dark bangs over my eyebrows and left the house,my parents gaping as I whisked by them. The school was just what I had expected.Noisy,obnoxious girls,“drop-dead” dumb boys, and old, crotchety, dull, stupid teachers. I saw one black girl and three Orientals out of six hundred carbon copies. It was a joke. They all looked like clones of one another, giggling,gossiping,and whispering;nauseating.My eightyyear-old teachers gave me odd looks.The kids were less subtle: they just stared. One blonde, green-eyed, horribly cute girl kept smiling at me at lunch,looking knowingly at her friends. I moved. I locked myself in my room that night, finishing my homework quickly but not really caring. I read a lot, but I had taken to poetry. I see the sky I see the world And no one else Sees what I

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See. Because I see the weak And I see the blind And I see the ones Who don’t see at all. And my eyes, they see everything. They see the dying They see the lying They see the stares and whispers. They hear And everyone else—they see nothing. Mother and Dad fought louder that night and every night after that, and I hated them, because they hated me.The girl,her name was Caitlin,called me one night. Mother told me she was on the phone as though she was a boy proposing marriage. I told her to take a message, and her smile dropped to her knees. The next day she came up to me at lunch and asked if I’d gotten her message. I stared at her adorable face and shook my head slightly. “Well,ya know,I was wondering if maybe you want to come over, and, um, work on the English project with me,”she said, and I heard some snorting from her table. “No,” I said, picking up my tray. “Well, I could really use your help. You must understand the book really well. I couldn’t help noticing all the A’s you get. I would really appre—” “No,” I said flatly, cutting her off and walking away. Her friends were the ones who hated me the most, because they were so dumb.The boys sneered and the girls whispered, and what did she want from me? After

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Caitlin had called the third night in a row, Mother refused to make any more excuses for me. “Look,” Caitlin said,“I know my friends can be really obnoxious sometimes, but they just don’t know you.You’re so smart, and if you could just talk to me about the book a little, I’d be eternally grateful.” “What makes you think you know me so well?” I asked,furious,and hung up.I hated her more than anyone. She asked me to her house four more times,her unrelenting,squeaky,sickening voice cornering me at every turn.One day after school,I followed her home,a block behind her. She entered her immense brownstone, too stupid to notice me walking by. You bleed the sun You beauty beast You don’t know why it rises east. Your pack of wolves Their teeth gnashing Yet you stay away Breaking the shield. It’s wearing thin. Your axe is working. Be careful, the axe will kill. I didn’t sleep that night.The next day, I waited for Caitlin at her door.She looked shocked to see me there but pulled me inside, bubbling about how happy she was I’d come. Her house was ridiculously beautiful; I knew it would be. I said not a word until she turned on her radio. “I thought you needed help,” I said dryly.

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“Yeah, I do, but—I just really want to get to know you first.” I looked at her, her smile so genuine, so honest. She started asking me questions and I mumbled one- word responses; all the while she bubbled enthusiastically, so oblivious to my disdain, my—hate? One of my poems lay open in my notebook. I closed it quickly, but she had already read it. I pulled it away angrily. “That’s beautiful. God, how do you write like that? It’s so, so—deep.” “What do you know?” I snapped angrily, but then I looked at her face, so sincere. “Thanks,” I said, as I picked up my books and left. I saw her in the window watching me leave. I looked back and she waved, not at all unhinged by my leaving so abruptly.Why was she so nice? I hated it, her, I didn’t know which then, and that was what I hated most of all. The days that followed were shaky ones. I remember feeling at times as though I was going to drown, being pulled deeper into the dark depths of a sea filled with kindness.A sea filled with an honest sympathy— no,not sympathy—I hated sympathy.I didn’t need sympathy; an honest interest, maybe. Caitlin sat with me, walked next to me, and yet I could hear, always near, the snickers, the whispers, following us. I didn’t say much; she did the talking, always enthusiastic, always encouraging. She was stupid, as dumb as anyone, but she wanted to learn. She was breaking me down, and though I smiled once or twice around her, I did my best to hate her. I went to her house when I felt like it, and always she was shocked to see me, but always glad, and I

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didn’t know why. Mother and Dad were happily curious as to how I spent my afternoons. I told them in the library, but the few minutes I spent on the phone with Caitlin satisfied them. She wrote me notes in English. I kept them but never answered. I was sleeping better at night, though dreamless. I read her one of my poems.If I meant to shock her,I did;but,only slightly ruffled, she told me it was interesting and very emotional. I laughed. She laughed, too, but it was a short laugh.She still spent time with her old friends,and they still hated me just as I hated them.They still whispered and pointed, but I knew they were dripping with jealousy, and I ignored it. Caitlin was my friend. I hated it, but her ocean of friendliness had finally drowned me. Mother and Dad kept me up one night,yelling loudly, louder than usual. Something crashed toward the end, and then it was silent. I was just their excuse to fight. They threw me like a ball, back and forth, getting back at each other, hurting. The next day it snowed. I wore the army pants and a black turtleneck inside out.I remember clearly brushing my bangs that day,because they were almost down to the end of my nose. I had lost the black gloves and my hands were red and numb all day. Caitlin seemed less interested in me that day, but gave me a hug every time we met in the hall. I had given up pulling away. It didn’t faze her in the least. I would always hate her calm. I saw her talking to her blonde friends, but she stopped as I walked by. We had barbecued chicken for lunch that day.Caitlin sat with me; she was really something else; she never failed.I remember deciding to go over there after school. I didn’t want to be home for anything. I was on my

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way to the bathroom when I heard my name from inside. It was Meredith Something’s voice. “She’s hopeless, Caitlin. He won’t flunk you. You worked really hard. All the notes and everything. She was the perfect subject, but God, what a freak.” I felt the current then and there, stronger than ever, and it was like being buried alive. “It’s just that I tried so hard. I mean, I never really got to her. Sure, she’s better than in the beginning, but I just feel really guilty.So sorry for her,I mean . . .”Caitlin’s voice dragged me under, and then it was just one wave after another. “You tried, Cate. I mean, she’s nuts, really weird. But you did something.I actually saw her smile around you.” I was choking now, gasping, but all inside. “But she’s so pathetic. It took everything I had to talk to her while she just sat there. The poems were the worst, though—morbid, really sick. I just feel so sorry for her.” They were walking out and she saw me. I stood there, and then I ran. She came calling after me that it was all a mistake, she had really grown to love me, but it was just the water, now crashing against my skull. She was half a block behind me as I ran through the slushy streets. I made it home, gulping for air. My room was dark. I sat there gasping. I hated her. My body was filled with an intense, burning hate I had never felt before and would never feel again. My pen and paper were lying there. You cut me now. You let the salt sting And the wound is deep.

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Your axe—it worked. I was open and cold And then you bit, you stung, Your slap hit the hardest. But I warned you, beauty beast— Now the petals are falling, The waves are crashing And the bud and the sand Are what’s left. Circles and water now Clear and warm now I will never drown now. I will never be cold now, I will Never be yours For the whispers again. The tears were there on the page, blurring the blue lines. The bottle of pills lay on the table. There were more than five but less than eight.The water was cold and hurt my throat.And soon it was dark.

The sky was a deepening gray now. The car was silent except for the hum of the motor. Mother was breathing softly and Dad was tapping his foot lightly. I watched the snowy trees whiz by. Had it been a year? The hospital, the Center, finished, done. Was I sorry? The hate was gone. More than anything, I had hated the hate,and now it was gone.My head was light,lifted of a weight I would never know again.The magic would come back slowly.As long as I accepted the gray.