Speak

  Shards of glass slip down the wall and into the sink. IT pulls away from me, puzzled. I reach in and wrap my fingers around a triangle of glass. I hold it to Andy Evans’s neck. He freezes. I push just hard enough to raise one drop of blood. He raises his arms over his head. My hand quivers. I want to insert the glass all the way through his throat, I want to hear him scream. I look up. I see the stubble on his chin, a fleck of white in the corner of his mouth. His lips are paralyzed. He cannot speak. That’s good enough.

  Me: “I said no.”

  He nods. Someone is pounding on the door. I unlock it, and the door swings open. Nicole is there, along with the lacrosse team—sweaty, angry, their sticks held high. Someone peels off and runs for help.

  FINAL CUT

  Mr. Freeman is refusing to hand his grades in on time. They should have been in four days before the end of school, but he didn’t see the sense in that. So I’m staying after school on the very, very last day for one last try at getting my tree right.

  Mr. Freeman is covering the grade wall with a mural. He hasn’t touched the line with my name, but he eliminated everything else with a roller brush and fast-drying white paint. He hums as he mixes colors on his palette. He wants to paint a sunrise.

  Summer-vacation voices bubble through the open window. School is nearly over. The hall echoes with slamming lockers and shrieks of “I’m gonna miss you—got my number?” I turn up the radio.

  My tree is definitely breathing; little shallow breaths like it just shot up through the ground this morning. This one is not perfectly symmetrical. The bark is rough. I try to make it look as if initials had been carved in it a long time ago. One of the lower branches is sick. If this tree really lives someplace, that branch better drop soon, so it doesn’t kill the whole thing. Roots knob out of the ground and the crown reaches for the sun, tall and healthy. The new growth is the best part.

  Lilac flows through the open windows with a few lazy bees. I carve and Mr. Freeman mixes orange and red to get the right shade of sunrise. Tires squeal out of the parking lot, another sober student farewell. I’m staring summer school in the face, so there’s no real hurry. But I want to finish this tree.

  A couple of seniors stroll in. Mr. Freeman hugs them carefully, either because of the paint on him or because teachers hugging students can make for big trouble. I shake my bangs down in front of my face and watch through my hair. They chat about New York City, where the girls are going to college. Mr. Freeman writes down some phone numbers and names of restaurants. He says he has plenty of friends in Manhattan and that they should meet for brunch some Sunday. The girls—the women—hop up and down and squeal, “I can’t believe it’s really happening!” One of them is Amber Cheerleader. Go figure.

  The seniors look my way before they leave. One girl, not the cheerleader, nods her head, and says, “Way to go. I hope you’re OK.” With hours left in the school year, I have suddenly become popular. Thanks to the big mouths on the lacrosse team, everybody knew what happened before sundown. Mom took me to the hospital to stitch up the cut on my hand. When we got home, there was a message on the machine from Rachel. She wants me to call her.

  My tree needs something. I walk over to the desk and take a piece of brown paper and a finger of chalk. Mr. Freeman talks about art galleries and I practice birds—little dashes of color on paper. It’s awkward with the bandage on my hand, but I keep trying. I draw them without thinking—flight, flight, feather, wing. Water drips on the paper and the birds bloom in the light, their feathers expanding promise.

  IT happened. There is no avoiding it, no forgetting. No running away, or flying, or burying, or hiding. Andy Evans raped me in August when I was drunk and too young to know what was happening. It wasn’t my fault. He hurt me. It wasn’t my fault. And I’m not going to let it kill me. I can grow.

  I look at my homely sketch. It doesn’t need anything. Even through the river in my eyes I can see that. It isn’t perfect and that makes it just right.

  The last bell rings. Mr. Freeman comes to my table.

  Mr. Freeman: “Time’s up, Melinda. Are you ready?”

  I hand over the picture. He takes it in his hands and studies it. I sniff again and wipe my eyes on my arm. The bruises are vivid, but they will fade.

  Mr. Freeman: “No crying in my studio. It ruins the supplies. Salt, you know, saline. Etches like acid.” He sits on the stool next to me and hands back my tree. “You get an A+. You worked hard at this.” He hands me the box of tissues. “You’ve been through a lot, haven’t you?”

  The tears dissolve the last block of ice in my throat. I feel the frozen stillness melt down through the inside of me, dripping shards of ice that vanish in a puddle of sunlight on the stained floor. Words float up.

  Me: “Let me tell you about it.”

  LISTEN

  You write to us

  from Houston, Brooklyn, Peoria, Rye, NY,

  LA, DC, Everyanywhere USA to my mailbox, My

  Space Face

  Book

  A livejournal of bffs whispering

  Onehundredthousand whispers to Melinda and

  Me.

  You:

  I was raped, too

  sexually assaulted in seventh grade,

  tenth grade, the summer after graduation,

  at a party

  i was 16

  i was 14

  i was 5 and he did it for three years

  i loved him i didn’t even know him.

  He was my best friend’s brother,

  my grandfather, father, mommy’s boyfriend,

  my date

  my cousin

  my coach

  i met him for the first time that night and—

  four guys took turns, and—

  i’m a boy and this happened to me, and—

  … I got pregnant I gave up my daughter for adoption …

  did it happen to you, too?

  U 2?

  You:

  i wasn’t raped, but

  my dad drinks, but

  i hate talking, but

  Dear Friends,

  Twelve years? Speak was published twelve years ago?

  Not possible.

  Sure, I’ve raised four kids since the book came out. And moved three times. And written six novels. And there are more lines in my face and miles on my bones. But twelve years? No way.

  It doesn’t seem possible because deep in my heart I am still fourteen. I remember feeling like Melinda so clearly that it shocks me when I look at the year on my driver’s license. I remember the excitement, the anxiety, and the confusion. I remember what it feels like to be silenced.

  So do many of you.

  In the past decade I’ve spoken to more than half a million high school students about Speak. I’ve lost track of the number of letters and e-mails I’ve read, and the tears shed on my shoulder by readers who identify with Melinda’s struggle. You are hungry to speak up. You just need more adults who will listen.

  I’d like to think that, in a small way, Speak is helping you find your voices. But Speak is just a tool. The real heroes are those of you who have reached down deep—past fear and shame and depression and rage—and found the courage to tell your stories. I have the deepest respect for them.

  In her book The Heart of a Woman, Maya Angelou wrote, “If one is lucky, a solitary fantasy can totally transform one million realities.”

  I am beyond lucky. This book has helped a generation of readers take a few steps on their long path to adulthood. You, in turn, have helped me on my own path. I am blessed.

  May you always have the courage to speak up.

  Praise for SPEAK

  “In a stunning first novel, Anderson uses keen observations and vivid imagery to pull readers into the head of an isolated teenager … . Yet Anderson infuses the narrative with a wit that sustains the heroine through her pain and holds readers’ empathy … . But the book’s overall gritty realism and Melinda’s hard-won metamorphosis will leave readers touched and in
spired.”

  —Publishers Weekly, Starred Review

  “An uncannily funny book even as it plumbs the darkness, Speak will hold readers from first word to last.”

  —The Horn Book, Starred Review

  “Melinda’s voice is distinct, unusual, and very real as she recounts her past and present experiences in bitterly ironic, occasionally even amusing vignettes … . Melinda’s sarcastic wit, honesty, and courage make her a memorable character whose ultimate triumph will inspire and empower readers.”

  —Booklist, Starred Review

  “A frightening and sobering look at the cruelty and viciousness that pervade much of contemporary high school life, as real as today’s headlines … . The plot is gripping and the characters are powerfully drawn … a novel that will be hard for readers to forget.”

  —Kirkus Reviews, Pointer Review

  “Melinda’s pain is palpable, and readers will totally empathize with her. This is a compelling book, with sharp, crisp writing that draws readers in, engulfing them in the story.”

  —School Library Journal

  “A story told with acute insight, acid wit, and affecting prose.”

  —Library Journal

  “Extremely well-written … with a fresh and authentic eye … This powerful story has an important lesson: never be afraid to speak up for yourself.”

  —VOYA

  A National Book Award Finalist

  A Michael L. Printz Honor Book

  An Edgar Allan Poe Award Finalist

  A Los Angeles Times Book Prize Finalist

  Winner of the SCBWI Golden Kite Award

  An ALA Top Ten Best Book for Young Adults

  An ALA Quick Pick

  A Publishers Weekly Best Book of the Year

  A Booklist Top Ten First Novel of the Year

  A BCCB Blue Ribbon Book

  A School Library Journal Best Book of the Year

  A Horn Book Fanfare Title

  Winner of eight state book awards, Finalist for eleven

  HERE’S THE THING …

  In late 1996, I woke up from a nightmare, thinking about the character who would become Melinda Sordino in Speak. I never thought the book would be published, but it was. More than a million people have read it. Go figure.

  A couple of times a week for the last twelve years, readers have asked me when I’ll be writing a sequel to Speak.

  No. That’s not entirely correct.

  A couple of times a day, nearly every day for the last twelve years, readers have asked me when I’ll be writing a sequel to Speak. Many of them have given helpful plot ideas. I could write about the trial, when Andy Evans is convicted of Melinda’s rape and sent to jail. I could write about Melinda’s therapy sessions, in which she confronts her parents for their emotional neglect. Or I could have her face a new trauma: she could start smoking meth, or develop amnesia after a car accident, or be kidnapped by a cult of perverts, or, or, or …

  My favorite suggestion came from a ninth-grade boy in Southern California who told me I should write about how she got through the rest of high school without killing anyone. And I should call the sequel Spoke.

  Actually, that’s not such a bad idea.

  Here’s the Thing: most sequels suck. Take a look (if you dare) at Jurassic Park 2, Jaws: The Revenge, or Rambo 15. Sequels are too often crass attempts to make money off something that worked the first time, but without the care and attention that made the first movie or book so special.

  Book sequels seem to work best when the author had planned a follow-up from the beginning and left a few story lines dangling that could be picked up and woven into a new plot. Yes, I know I didn’t wrap up everything at the end of Speak. I rarely do in my books. I like my last pages to be somewhat open-ended because that’s the way things are in real life.

  But despite all of that, here’s another thing: I’m seriously thinking about writing a sequel. I’ve been thinking about it for a very long time. I loved writing about Melinda and it would be wonderful to hang out with her again. We caught a glimpse of her in Catalyst, but we saw her through the eyes of another character, Kate Malone. She couldn’t tell us what was going on inside Melinda’s heart.

  I sometimes feel like Melinda is hiding in another closet, this time in my mind. She’s waiting for me to find the right path to her door. The questions swirl. How serious is her relationship with David Petrakis? Will she ever have a girl friend she can trust? Is art her only salvation, or will she join the basketball team? Are her parents going to split up? Would she be happier if they did, or would that shatter her? What does she want to do after high school?

  So here’s the last thing: I can’t write the sequel until I stumble on the right story and Melinda wakes me up again in the middle of the night. So it might never happen. Or it could happen next year. Or more likely, somewhere in between those two possibilities.

  I’ll speak up when Melinda is ready.

  LAURIE HALSE ANDERSON SPEAKS ABOUT SPEAK . .

  How did the character of Melinda come to you?

  In a nightmare! I woke up one night—panicked—because I could hear a girl sobbing. I checked on my daughters, but they were sound asleep. The crying girl was in my head, a bad dream. I sat down at the computer and wrote out what I was hearing. The next morning I listened to that voice again and the character of Melinda Sordino unfolded. When I first started writing, I had no idea what had happened to her. It wasn’t until she was comfortable with me that she let her secret out.

  What was the writing and revision process like?

  The voice of Melinda was very strong throughout. At first, I toyed with the idea of making her totally mute, but in this day and age that would have led to medical and psychological interventions. I decided it was better to have her just withdraw and speak as little as possible. There are lots of kids out there in Melinda’s position—struggling with depression and teetering on the edge of disaster—but people don’t pay attention unless they do something drastic. This makes me so angry I could scream … or better yet, write a book.

  The revision process focused on structure, on making Melinda’s struggle and growth unfold at the right pace as the school year moved on. The holiday scenes are some of my favorites. The ending required a lot of time. I had three other endings that were all pathetic and lame. I had to really push myself and Melinda to find the right way to end the book. I’m very happy with it now.

  The character of Heather from Ohio was originally two characters. As I revised, I realized that the girls each played the same role, so I combined them into one. Mr. Freeman’s character felt flat in the early drafts, so I gave him his own piece of art to struggle with in the hope that it would deepen his character.

  Your dialogue is dead-on—how do you capture the internal and external voices of high school students so well?

  These days it is very easy because my house has been overrun by teenagers. When I wrote Speak, however, my kids were in elementary school. To get a sense of the rhythm of high school speech, I spent a lot of time at Taco Bell and the food court at the mall. We won’t talk about what those field trips did to my waistline … .

  I also found a piece of Melinda’s voice in my own high school experience. Emotions don’t change much from generation to generation. You just have to get the details right.

  So how much of Melinda is based on you?

  My freshman year in high school kind of resembled Melinda’s. My family had moved the summer before, and I started ninth grade without knowing anyone. Things were complicated by the fact that my family was going through a small nuclear meltdown. My father had quit his job for some very good reasons, but he was wretchedly unhappy. Money was tight, we were in a new place, and the world felt foreign and scary to me. On the positive side, feeling isolated gave me (and Melinda) a useful perspective on the absurdities of high school culture.

  A couple of the incidents from Speak were taken right out of my real life. I was the obnoxious kid in English class who grilled my tea
cher about symbolism and refused to accept her answer. My father buried several toxic stew experiments in the backyard (honest). And the real-life mascot of my high school was (and is) a hornet. And yes, we used to sing the Horny Hornet chant, though the cheerleaders did not have a special dance, nor were we ever videotaped by a television station.

  What has been the biggest surprise since the book was published?

  That so many people like it.

  What have you learned from your readers’ reactions to this book?

  I’ve learned that Speak is not just a book about rape. Speak is a book about depression. That is why it has resonated so deeply for so many readers. Today’s teens have to cope with massive amounts of stress and conflict. Way too many of them understand the pain of not feeling like they can speak up. This book reflects their experience and offers them hope.

  What did you think of the movie? What can you tell us about it?

  The movie is very faithful to the book, but obviously, some things had to be cut. If they had filmed the whole book, it would have been a twelve-hour movie. I was offered a chance to work on the screenplay, which I turned down because of other writing obligations. The screenplay was co-written by director Jessica Sharzer and Annie Young, the woman who spent several years fighting to get the book made into a movie.