PoV: AMANDA

"We could learn sign language," Leo suggests, picking at a blade of grass. I contemplate this, laying back with my hands behind my head and staring up at the blinding blue sky. Summer set in a long time ago, but the mid-July weather is as glorious as the first time I felt it this year.

At just seven a.m, the Willow Falls park is already alive with morning joggers, mothers walking hand-in-hand with small children, and dog owners tossing balls and frisbees for their furry pals to chase.

Leo and I are lazing on the grass under our favorite tree, which always provides sufficient shade no matter the time of day. "No," I defer in reply to his idea. "That would take too long. We should probably get used to being more expressive, though; facial grammar to replace spoken grammar and all."

Leo responds with an absentminded "mm-hmm," his eyes pointed down at the grass. I can tell something's on his mind. "What's wrong?"

He rolls over onto his back, mimicking my position. "I just can't believe we're doing this. What would happen if, say…we didn't?"

My eyebrows drop in confusion. I'm getting more expressive already. "If we didn't stop talking?"

"Yeah."

I tilt my head towards him incredulously. "Angelina would give us heck, that's what. You heard her as loud and clear as I did: we're the only people who are able to help her. And if we don't start tomorrow, it'll throw everything off." As much as I want to be selfish and keep talking to Leo, I could never bring myself to do that to Angelina. I really don't want to break her trust, since it seems pretty hard to gain in the first place.

"All right, all right, fine; we start tomorrow," Leo concedes. "Expect to get an obnoxious amount of text messages from me for the next year," he warns.

I laugh. "And you from me."

"That's one thing we can do, but what about when we're in a public setting where it'd be rude to text? Like…school or church or something?"

I raise an eyebrow. "Church?"

He shrugs. "Okay, well, maybe not church, but you get the point. Texting can't be our only form of nonverbal communication. So what else can we do?"

I brainstorm some more. "Angelina said something about pen and paper—we could write to each other?"

Leo nods, and I can tell an idea is forming in his head. "Write—that's good. On what, though?"

"…paper…" I say, as if it was supposed to be obvious.

"Paper's a good idea, but how would we carry it around? Would we use pocket notebooks? Man, we'd go through a lot of those, I bet."

Then a thought strikes me. "Let's not use paper, Leo."

He frowns. "Why not?"

"Well, in addition to not being the most..." I grapple for the words. "...environmentally conscious method of communicating, it leaves a trail. Even if we throw away the notebooks when we're done with them, those things are too easy to leave lying around or get stolen or discovered by someone. Everything we've ever said to each other, they'd be able to read it. That kind of feels like…I don't know, someone reading your diary or something," I explain. I don't want every conversation I have with my best friend to be documented for anyone to help themselves to.

"What if we burned them?" Leo suggests.

I snicker. "Yeah, because my parents wouldn't get suspicious of me casually lighting tiny notebooks on fire every few weeks. They won't even let me light a candle by myself! No, paper's definitely out," I decide. "What else could we use?"

Leo is quiet in thought for a few moments. Then I see a lightbulb go on in his eyes. "What if we could erase all traces of the conversation when we were done? Like…a whiteboard?"

I pause to consider. "You know what…that's actually genius! We could wear it around our necks with a strap, and get the magnetic kind that you can attach the marker to. Perfect!" I exclaim, smiling.

Leo mirrors my enthusiasm. "Let's go find some right now!"


There ends up being a lot of problems with our whiteboard idea. The convenience store doesn't sell the magnetic kind with the strap, and the guy we talk to in the school supplies aisle says their next shipment isn't due for another month (which is way too long to wait). Searching online proves to be even less helpful.

"Okay, so, whiteboards are probably out, too…" Leo concludes disappointedly, pacing in the stationary aisle. I rack my brain for anything else we might be able to use. Then I make the mistake of glancing at my watch. We're running out of time. "Come on, let's keep walking. Maybe some inspiration will strike."

We browse a few more aisles before reaching the one for home decor. Metal-plated signs and throw pillows and canvas-printed art line the aisle, and I think of my mother—who is currently taking online classes to become an interior designer.

Then, I see them. On the top row of the right side of the aisle are an array of decently-sized personalizable chalk board house signs, with a jute-rope attached to each one for easy hang-a-bility. I recognize them as the kind Stephanie's mom has hanging in her kitchen, which has Live Laugh Love or Bless This Mess written on it in fancy chalk lettering. She changes it whenever she feels like it. These ones here even come with five small sticks of chalk included!

"That's it," I whisper, a smile spreading across my face. "Leo, look." I pull two down and hand one to him, examining the string. Then, I slip it around my neck. It sits uncomfortably high at first, but I quickly learn that there's a way to make the string longer or shorter on the back. I adjust it to the longest possible length and put it back on. It falls right at my chest, reminding me of how I wear a snare drum around my neck in the marching band. Leo's also fits him pretty well.

"So…chalkboards, huh?" He says. "Pretty old-school, don't you think?"

People are already staring at us with questioning eyes, and the realization slams into me that these things will probably warrant way more attention than I've ever gotten in my whole entire life.

"What do we say when people ask us what these are for?" I ask nervously. Leo's eyes fill with pity. He knows how much I hate being the center of attention.

"I can do the explaining, to start," he offers.

I smile. "Thanks. I'll try to get used to it. For…whatever the reason we're doing this," I end uncertainly. I really wish I knew.

We're able to pay for the chalkboards and a set of dish towels (we're going to cut the fabric up and sew it around the itchy strap) with the money in our pockets. As we walk out of the store, my mind is anything but calm. I'm trying to plan out the next year of our lives all at once and we have less than ten hours until the day is over for good.

Leo's surprisingly timid voice pulls me out of my mini freak-out. "Hey, Amanda…" he starts, seeming embarrassed.

My eyebrows knit together in concern. "Yeah?"

He shoves his hands in his pockets. "Do you think we could, like, make recordings of ourselves saying stuff and give it to each other? To listen to if we ever miss the other person's voice?"

I stop walking, and stare at him, which doesn't seem to help. A blush creeps up his neck, and he rubs it uncomfortably. "You don't have to if you don't want to, of course, it was just a thought…" he trails off. It's so incredibly like him to suggest something sentimental like that. And I find, as a slow smile breaks out on my face, that I appreciate him so much more for it.

"I think that's a great idea," I say. "Just don't make any corny jokes, promise?"

Apparently recovered, Leo grins and shrugs. "You know I can't promise that."


We make the recordings at Leo's house, using one of Mr. Fitzpatrick's old tape recording machines from his high school journalism days. Leo tells me he'll turn the recordings into CDs for our disc players.

We record a few minutes of conversation amongst ourselves, so that we'll remember what talking to each other sounded like. Then, we separate and each record about five minutes of our own dialogue for the other person. Once our words are carefully preserved on the tape recorder, we head into town as fast as our legs can carry us to the copy shop, where we drop it off to be turned into CDs in two to four business days.

Suddenly, we're at a loss for ideas. "What now?" I ask Leo. "On our last day that we get to talk, what do you want to do?"

Leo puts a hand to his chin thoughtfully, looking around us. Then, his eyes light up and he pulls a flyer down from off the outer window frame of the copy shop.

"From one to three today at the community center; open mic karaoke," he reads, his grin growing wider with each word while my smile progressively diminishes.

Oh no.