Okay, readers, I need a character for Tamiya to fall in love with. Pick someone near her age, please, from the show. (This takes place about a year after the gang leaves Kadic, so Tamiya should now be in seventh grade. Maybe Nicholas grew up some?


I remember falling quite vividly. Last year, in seventh grade, Jim taught us how to climb a mountain with bylines and belays and a steady three-point contact and all of those other hiking terms that I'll never need. I happened to be one of the ones that climbed to the top.

Unfortunately, I never did again.

Falling is an awful feeling. It might seem fun to fly like a bird, carefree, with nobody to stop you and tell you to slow down. That feeling is fun. But when you stop soaring and gravity starts to reclaim you, the feeling of flying becomes a sinking pit that grips your heart and pulls it into your stomach. Up becomes down, the wind blows from below, and it feels like you will be nothing but a puddle of blood and bones on the tiny world below.

But if you've been safe, the lines catch you, and you get that jerk that lets you know that your death is not imminent. A bruise is fine, but at least my body isn't down there, leaking precious life...

"In space, nobody can hear you scream," says a voice. I look up to see Mr. Klotz, the school psychologist, looking expectantly at me. I reach for my bag to pull out my familiar dry-erase board when he halts my movements. "No, I don't want you to say anything just yet. Just hear me out for a bit."

I make it a point to stare; something about this man bothers me. Of all of the staff at Kadic, he is probably the one member I avoid. He tugs at his collar and continues.

"See, Tamiya, the staff here is a bit concerned about you, understandably. We think that your inability to speak might lead you to try to use other outlets for your pain. Maybe you'll finally start writing for the school paper, I don't know. But don't do anything rash, okay?"
I nod. What does he want from me? First space, and now the school paper?

My puzzlement must be smeared on my face, because he continues, "Not that we think you'll do anything rash, of course. We just want to ensure your safety and that of others." He frowns. "That's not what I wanted to say. We just want what's best for you, really. No, what we feel is best."

I pull out my board anyway and scribble, 'For a psychologist, you're awfully bad at communicating your feelings.'

Mr. Klotz's expression changes, and I suddenly feel very cold. "I am," he says. "Sadly, I am. Do you want to know why?"

I'm not sure. Something about his demeanor tells me that if I stay, I'll only end up getting hurt. I nod anyway and try to shake oFf the frost in the air.

"You witness a 13-car pileup from the relative safety of an office window. You can't even shout. You could do nothing. Those people all just died. If you shouted, they wouldn't have heard you. What good is a voice if it isn't going to save anyone? Why think about heroics and bravery and valor when you are a little boy, visiting your mother at work, and nothing you do matters?

"But your friend saw, and she picked up a phone and dialed the operator. What did you do, voiceless little boy? What could you do? No, she is the hero. She had the courage, the sheer strength to make a phone call and get the proper authorities on the scene. She had the knowledge, the will, the urge to do something.

"And you stared. And cried silent tears. And didn't say a word. You were unable to say anything, both literally, and figuratively. Who are you to wish for a girlfriend, to wish for someone to hold, when you are incapable of saving anyone? Who are you to think about life and how grand it can be, even when you can't talk about it, when the families of thirteen people, maybe even twice that number, are forever changed?"
I stare at the psychologist, who simply shrugs. "Are you crying yet?" I shake my head, another silent gesture. "Good. Let me relate more of my childhood.

"Once upon a time, in Reims, my mother decided to take the family on a boating trip. You know where this is going, right? Wrong? Okay. Well, we were all packed in the car like little sardines, when a low noise filtered through the air. Grating. Monotone. Almost like masticating on gravel while someone crams sand in your ears. You know what that was? It was in air-raid siren. Now, you, growing up in these times, have probably never heard one. I pray, honestly, that you never will. But that sound haunts you forever, and even when you recall it, it chills you to the bone. Do you see the depths I sink to for my students, recalling these fated sounds?"

Again, a silent shake of the head. Then a nod, a confirmation.

"Okay. Good. Now, this noise, this siren, means a variety of things. A natural disaster, or a tragedy. But on most days, it means one cruel event. A bombing. See, we were at war with some silly country over some silly issue that didn't really invol.;pve us silly citizens. But the brass in their high-backed leather chairs thought it did, so we were the ones to die alongside the soldiers, you see. Die we would, they thought, and continued pouring their wine.

"Sorry, I'm getting ahead of myself. So, the sirens went off, and I almost wet my pants. Not another bombing. Please be a tornado, we thought. Please, something we can live through. But no, as the sound of the siren was gently overshadowed by an even lower buzz, we recoiled in terror, abandoned our vehicle, and bolted for the nearest shelter.

"Coming in from the east was a whole slew of planes. I don't know what you would call a subsection of the army of that size, but it was enough. The sky was a pretty pink, almost ethereally so, but soon the sky turned black with rounds of ammunition falling like flower petals and shells of deadly candy dropping like flies.

"So you see where I'm going with this?" I shake my head. What was this man up to? I should just stand up and leave right now. "I'm telling you how I got over my phobia of speaking." Oh. You have a pretty interesting way of going about that.

"As the bombs fell, I ran with my parents, my sister, and my nephew, to a wine cellar down the road. But whether it was chance, fate, or something worse, I'm not sure. My nephew fell. The poor boy was only seven, and was unused to the rigor of war. I freaked, and ran back to save him. As he cried from the minor scrape on his knee, I gathered him onto my back, strength flowing through me from the adrenaline, and kept heading to the cellar.

"And then, in front of my eyes, the cellar doors closed. I was literally speechless. I kept running, dropped my nephew alongside me on the too-bright green grass, and pounded with all of my might on the doors.

"There was no answer. I wanted to shout, to call for help, but inside my heart, I knew they couldn't hear me over that menacing drone of bombers. I turned back to look at the sky, surprised by the sudden descent of the sun, and realized that the sun hadn't set - the bombs had. Across the horizon, dirt and smoke and water and who knows what flashed forth from the Earth. Whistles and booms clashed in an unearthly symphony of chaos, and I was powerless to drown out the noise. I watched, alongside my suddenly quieted nephew, as the wall of explosions moved ever closer. I wanted to scream, I really did, and ask anyone who was to blame for this madness. Who could I turn to? My family had abandoned us to the outside. Who could I pray to? Surely God had ignored us. Where could I make my voice known?

"And then, the cold horror chilled me in the growing heat. My voice. It was gone. I tried to squeak out something, anything, to comfort my nephew. But what could I say? How could I comfort anyone with my heart raging in its own fear? I felt like nothing, just a cherry waiting to be blown into oblivion, my red blood blossoming out over the plains.

"My nephew crawled to me, looking for support. I grabbed him and held hum close, wishing for the words to tell him, with the world mocking my lies, that it'd be okay, that we'd survive this. You cannot imagine how it felt to wish that things would turn up, that my moving lips would say something over the noise of the advancing fires.

"But there was nothing. And as the bombs started to trickle, and the rounds missed us and gradually let up, I felt a crown of relief placed upon my head.

"We would make it. I didn't have to say anything. Out family would open the cellar doors in a few minutes, with the raid over, and search for us, and comfort us, and tell us how they would have expected us to do the same for them, to lock them out, to expect their survival, to keep each other safe with words of love and adoration and hope and courage and all the pretty little things that would let us all sleep another night.
"But no. The world gained a bit of its sanity back, and I sighed. True, we weren't going to die, but something much worse would happen. You see, Tamiya, natural gas is a precious resource, right?"

It took me a moment to realize he had asked a non-hypothetical question, and I nod. "But too much of anything is a bad thing. My family, the callous, cold-hearted mortals, had locked themselves in the cellar. They were that afraid of the warfare staring them in the face. But they hadn't known that old man Rouge hadn't fixed that gas leak. They all died. Suffocation. So now, it was just myself and my nephew, all alone in this harsh world. We had to pick up the pieces and start anew. But you know what's horrible? I still couldn't speak at that point."I thought that the shock of my entire family dying would bring my voice back, as the look of death had taken it away. How naive I was! No, it only reinforced my belief that I was a mute, and that I was weak. So weak. If only I had knocked harder, I thought. If only they had opened those accursed doors!

"How truly idiotic to believe in such things as compassion, of happiness. This war gave us two options - die, or not die. That was it. My family chose not to die, at the cost of their young, and ironically, they ended up dying. We resigned ourselves to dying, for a brief moment, and we lived. How cruel the sisters of fate are. And aside from all that, I also-

"Hey.

"Quit crying, kiddo.

"No, I didn't mean to make you cry that much- Oh, come on. Lighten up. It's just a story, okay? It's over with."

It is definitely not okay. My psychologist isn't even done relating the story of his childhood, and I am already overflowing with tears. War? Friendship? Family? Love? I am a maelstrom of uncertainty, and I had no idea where to go next.

"Tamiya, listen to me. I only told you that story to get you to cry, yes. But I also told it with the hopes of making you sob. Do you know what a sob is?"

Wait. What? It all falls into place, all at once, and I finally see why I don't like this man. I glare at him, my eyes itchy and hot. Furiously, I scribble, 'Of course, Hans, it's what I'm doing AT THIS VERY MOMENT!"

He sighed. "No, you are crying. A sob is a result of your crying, hiccups, and your vocal cords. If you were sobbing, I'd hear a pitch. I don't hear a pitch yet, you see. I need you to really cry, to really sob, so that I can make sure your voice is all the- wait, what are you writing...?"

Again, what? As a faculty member, he of all should know about me. I am suddenly overflowing with hurt and fury, and despite my size, I am going to chew this man out.

'Mr. Klotz,' I calmly and slowly write in my purest cursive. 'The doctor already confirmed that my lack of a voice is medical, not psychological. He has also shown me, through a scientific process, that I am unable to regain my speaking ability.'

I erase.

'For you to know that, and then single-handedly attempt to get me to EVEN SOB shows a DIRECT lack of professionalism on your part, and annoys me to my very core and makes me question you humility.

I erase again.

'I honestly thought that you were telling me a story for some twisted entertainment value, but I see now that you are so arrogant that YOUR methods must be the right ones, no matter the cost of your subject.'

Erasing once more.

'Forget this ever happened. This conversation is over. The next time you need a fountain to prove your point, turn on someone else. I am not your plaything simply because I cannot speak.

Erasing one last time...

'Your story is false, anyway. France was never at war with Poland. Screw you, and have a nice day.' I turn the board back to me, feeling a sense of inner justice to accompany my inner pain. Mr. Klotz stares at me, his jaw slightly open, his eyes wide. I can't tell if he's playing or not, but I honestly don't care enough to find out. I gather my things into my bag, and head towards the library doors.

What am I going to do with myself?