A Little Noise
1123 Words
Chapter Six: A Little Noise
The school gate looked taller than it did a month ago.
Anne stood beside the car, bag strap tight in her hand. The air was warm and smelled faintly of cement, trees, and something fried from the canteen nearby. Marcel had already skipped off toward his side of the school compound, leaving Anne and Uncle Vince alone in the parking lot.
“You don’t have to look so worried,” he said, locking the car. “It’s just school. It’s not a firing squad.”
She didn’t answer. Just looked ahead, then back at him.
Vincent tilted his head. “You want me to walk you in?”
“No.”
“Then walk in like you own it.”
She gave him a sideways glance. “You say that like you’ve ever owned a school building.”
“I have. For three minutes. Before security chased me out.”
She almost smiled. Almost.
“See?” he said. “That’s progress.”
Anne sighed and stepped forward. Her uniform looked neater this term. Her socks stayed up. Her hair was no longer hurriedly tucked in place. Someone — likely Samantha — had slid a pale blue pin into it just before they left the house.
Inside, everything smelled of floor polish and too much perfume. The hallway was a mix of voices, shoes, laughter, and bags banging against doors. Anne kept her gaze forward. Eyes noticed her, but no one said anything.
Except him.
“Anne.”
She paused. Turned slowly.
Richard.
He stood with a file in one hand, books tucked under his arm. His shirt was slightly unbuttoned at the top. His hair looked like he hadn’t tried. Or maybe he had, and that was the point.
“I didn’t expect you to be back today,” he said casually.
“Why not?”
“Because you don’t like crowds. First day after a break’s always noisy.”
Anne shrugged. “You like noise?”
“Depends on who’s making it.”
A beat passed between them. Something in the hallway buzzed — maybe a light. Maybe just her chest.
“I’ll see you around,” he said.
She nodded.
Then walked away.
But her ears stayed warm the rest of the morning.
Second period was Literature. A poem analysis. Everyone else talked in circles, but Anne’s line hit home:
“It’s not about freedom,” she said quietly.
“It’s about pretending you wanted the cage in the first place.”
The teacher looked at her like she’d unzipped the poem’s chest and pulled out its lungs. Nobody clapped. But one or two heads turned. And someone — some girl behind her — whispered, “What a freak.”
Anne didn’t react. Not then.
But she found herself in the restroom during lunch, staring at her own reflection.
She didn’t look like a freak.
She didn’t look soft either.
Later that week, a boy in her class — Daryl — decided she was interesting. For all the wrong reasons.
“Are you, like, always quiet, or is it just an aesthetic?”
Anne blinked.
“I mean,” he continued, “do you ever do… anything?”
She tilted her head. “I do enough to notice when people speak to hear their own voice.”
Someone nearby choked on their drink. Daryl turned red.
After that, the name "Silent Scissors" floated around. As if she cut people up with her quiet.
She didn’t mind.
One Thursday, she was heading to the garden behind the art block — her usual escape — when she heard it.
A scuffle.
Two boys shouting.
Books scattered on the floor.
Anne paused.
One of them was a junior — shaking, trying not to cry. The other, older, had cornered him, mocking his stammer.
Anne stepped forward, firm.
“Hey.”
The older boy turned. “What?”
“You dropped your manners,” she said coolly.
“What’s it to you?”
“Pick them up. And leave him alone.”
For a moment, he just stared. Then muttered something and walked away.
Anne crouched beside the boy and helped him gather his books.
“You okay?”
He nodded, sniffling.
And somewhere down the hallway, Richard had been watching.
He didn’t approach.
But that evening, he left a folded piece of paper inside her locker.
Bravery doesn’t always shout. Sometimes it just says “Hey.”
— R.
She folded it into her notebook.
Didn’t smile. But she read it again that night.
Weeks passed like that.
Her name became known — not liked, not hated — just present.
Her teachers respected her. Some classmates avoided her. A few admired her from a distance, whispering theories like she was an enigma.
And Richard?
They passed each other more often. Sometimes nodded. Once or twice, he waited for her after class — not to talk, just to walk beside her for a few yards before turning another way.
It wasn’t friendship.
Not yet.
But it was something. Quiet. And growing.
One afternoon, the girl who’d called her a freak — Lydia — approached her in the science lab.
“We’re in the same group for the physics project.”
Anne nodded.
Lydia hesitated. “You’re… actually kind of smart.”
Anne raised an eyebrow. “Kind of?”
Lydia rolled her eyes. “Whatever. Just don’t ghost the group.”
Anne said nothing.
But she showed up. She did her part. She even explained a circuit breakdown in a way that made everyone pause.
And at the end of it, Lydia — smug, popular, painfully polished — actually said, “Okay. You’re cool.”
Anne didn’t say thanks.
But she didn’t walk away either.
At home, things had shifted.
Rebecca was still away, exploring — sending photos of carved wooden bowls, fabric markets, and waterfalls. Marcus cooked more often. Samantha kept things moving. Uncle Vince returned quietly one weekend with a new book for Anne and a different way of smiling at Samantha.
Marcel got a school certificate for “most helpful pupil.” He taped it to the fridge himself.
Anne didn’t speak more. But she listened more. And sometimes, when the evening was slow and soft, she’d sit outside by the flowerbed, pull out a poem book, and let the breeze read over her shoulder.
The term ended the way the beginning hadn't:
With someone calling her name across the hallway.
With a thank-you card from the physics group.
With a second note in her locker.
You don’t have to speak loudly to leave echoes.
—R.
She tucked it in her diary.
Underlined it twice.
And whispered — just once — “I know.”
- Writer
