No Talking

  Kyle shook his head. “I’m . . . conserving.”

  She said, “That’s nonsense. Conservation means . . .”

  Kyle finished the sentence: “. . . not wasting.”

  Mrs. Marlow glared at him. “Conservation is for energy and water and soil and forests. Words don’t need conserving.”

  “Maybe they do,” Kyle said, which was awfully brave of him.

  And all the kids in the class nodded their agreement with Kyle. Which was also very brave.

  Mrs. Marlow felt herself getting angry. However, she was an extremely logical person, and she had to admit that Kyle had a point. Anybody who had ever eaten lunch in the teachers’ room or sat through a whole faculty meeting would have to agree that a lot of words get wasted every school day. And all that endless gabbing that had made the Unshushables so famous? Ninety-nine percent waste.

  But she said, “Regardless of that, the principal said you must all participate normally in class.”

  Kyle scrunched up his face. “What’s normal?”

  Mrs. Marlow said, “In this case, it means talking the way the principal wants you to . . . the way I want you to . . . the way everyone usually talks and answers . . . normally.”

  Kyle said, “Can normal change?”

  “Well . . . ,” and Mrs. Marlow paused.

  She paused because just three days ago they had discussed climate change, and she had explained how a normal high temperature now would have been considered abnormal a hundred years ago. And she knew Kyle would remember that. The whole class probably remembered. This was a very bright group.

  She continued. “Yes, you could say that. But it’s certainly not normal to use only three words at a time. Or no words at all. Not at school.”

  Kyle shrugged. “Works for me.”

  Mrs. Marlow thought back to all the times in the past week when she’d had to yell at Kyle about his nonstop whispering, about his constant joke-telling, about his never-ending comments on anything and everything that ran through his twitchy little head. And she looked at Kyle sitting there quietly, giving her his full attention. And every other student was doing the same thing.

  And suddenly, the idea of trying to make these kids talk, actually demanding that they all go back to being noisy, self-absorbed chatterbrains—it simply wasn’t . . . logical.

  So Mrs. Marlow decided to go ahead with her lesson for the day, and she adjusted herself to the new normal. Because the new normal was at least ten times better than the old normal.

  • • •

  In social studies there were more oral reports, and Mrs. Overby called on Ed Kanner and Bill Harkness to go first.

  The boys walked to the front of the room, stood shoulder to shoulder, and both of them looked down at the index cards in Bill’s hands.

  Ed said, “Italy is old.”

  Then Bill said, “The Roman Empire . . .”

  And Ed said, “Ruled the world . . .”

  And Bill said, “For many centuries.”

  And Mrs. Overby said, “What do you two boys think you’re doing?”

  Ed said, “Giving our report.”

  And Bill said, “On Italy.”

  “No,” said the teacher, “you’re still playing that game, counting the words.”

  “But we practiced,” Ed said.

  “We’re ready,” Bill said.

  And Ed said, “Can we finish?”

  Like the other teachers up and down the fifth-grade hall, Mrs. Overby had to make a decision: Go with the flow—which promised to be very quiet and orderly—or call for the principal, raise a ruckus, and try to force these kids to be their regular old noisy selves again.

  As a student of history, Mrs. Overby knew about the power of a grassroots movement. She also knew about the power of civil disobedience.

  But mostly, she decided that this no-talking craze was actually a pretty good social experiment. Plus, she didn’t feel like the kids thought they were winning and she was losing—it wasn’t like that. They were just having a different kind of communication experience—together. That’s all.

  True, Ed and Bill’s report on Italy was choppy and awkward and a little hard to follow as they passed the narration back and forth like a Ping-Pong ball. But the boys made all their points, learning took place, and the whole class sat silently and paid close attention. And the next five reports went almost as smoothly. What more could a social studies teacher ask for?

  So, like the other teachers, Mrs. Overby chose the quiet way.

  And she decided she’d talk to the other teachers later in the morning and see how they were handling this thing. And she’d talk to Mrs. Hiatt, too.

  • • •

  Language arts was the easiest class for the kids. Mr. Burton didn’t even try to make them stop their “activity.” If they wanted to be quiet and talk only in three-word bursts, he was all for it, no matter what the mighty Mrs. Hiatt had said. After all, this was his classroom, wasn’t it? And if he believed this way of using words could provide a good language arts learning experience, then couldn’t he proceed with it? Yes. Absolutely.

  But he wasn’t foolish. He walked to the back of the room, stuck his head out into the hallway, looked both ways, and then closed his door.

  Back at the front of his room, Mr. Burton said, “Eric and Rachel, please come up and sit in these chairs.”

  When they were seated, he said, “You two are going to have a short debate. A debate is an orderly argument, and each of you will take opposite sides on the same issue. And the question is, ‘Should there be soft-drink machines in school cafeterias?’ Rachel, you will argue for this question, and Eric, you will argue against it. You will take turns speaking . . . and you may use no more than three words for each statement. Ready?”

  Eric and Rachel shook their heads no.

  Mr. Burton said, “Don’t worry. You’ll both do fine. Eric, you first. And, you may begin.”

  Eric said, “Soft drinks . . . bad.”

  Rachel shook her head and said, “Not bad. Delicious.”

  Eric frowned. “Too much sugar.”

  Rachel said, “I like sugar.”

  Eric shook his head. “Sugar rots teeth.”

  Rachel smiled a big smile. “Not mine.”

  Eric said, “Milk is better.”

  Rachel shrugged. “Try sugar-free.”

  Eric said, “Still, bad . . . nutrition.”

  Rachel held up her arm and made a muscle. “I eat vegetables.”

  Eric said, “Not everyone does.”

  Rachel said, “I like choosing.”

  Eric said, “Soda is . . . expensive.”

  Rachel pulled a dollar from her pocket. “I have enough.”

  Eric said, “Spend it smarter.”

  Rachel said, “What about freedom?”

  Eric shook his head. “Not at school.”

  Rachel smirked. “Very bad news!”

  And they went on like that for about five minutes with no letup.

  All the kids were fascinated, and, of course, so was Mr. Burton.

  He took furious notes, writing down each response, trying to record the kind of gestures the kids made, their facial expressions, their tones of voice.

  Very few words were being exchanged, but whole worlds of ideas were floating around as the kids tried to build their arguments. They got emotional, and the three-word limit was clearly a problem. Still, they packed a lot into so few words. It was like debating with condensed haiku.

  It was also sort of like listening to cave people talk, or maybe Tarzan—“Hungry, eat now.” And Mr. Burton wrote some three-word chunks of his own, which he intended to use in his Human Development paper:

  —Every word counts.

  —Choose power words.

  —Hemingway would approve.

  —Focus and narrow.

  —Ideas are collapsible.

  —Remember Miles Davis.

  And as he looked at what he wrote, he thought, Maybe I should write my whole paper using t
hree-word sentences. That would certainly get the attention of my professor!

  • • •

  In music class, the kids entered the room and sat silently, just like yesterday afternoon. Mrs. Akers was sure the students were going to disobey Mrs. Hiatt’s orders, and she was ready to take some drastic steps to stop this nonsense.

  But when she played an introduction and launched into “Over the River and Through the Woods,” everyone sang right out.

  The teacher was amazed. Mrs. Akers felt like there had been a glorious victory for the forces of law and authority, and she intended to write the principal a special note to say thanks for her strong leadership.

  In fact, though, the principal’s talk was not the direct cause of the singing.

  Taron had written a simple note, and she’d shown it to all the boys and girls as they came into the music room:

  Singing is not talking. Deal?

  And by nodding, all the boys and all the girls had silently agreed that bending the contest rules a little was a good idea. Besides, no one wanted the Thanksgiving music program to sound lousy, and their contest would be over by then, anyway.

  The boys and girls in that first-period music class might not have noticed it, but the important thing was not that they had agreed to sing. The important thing was that they had agreed. About anything. Fifth-grade boys and fifth-grade girls at Laketon Elementary School were actually cooperating and helping each other.

  And that’s what was happening in the other fifth-grade classrooms too. The boys and girls had joined forces without even realizing it. Together, they had resisted the pressure from the principal and from their teachers. They had used their wits and teamed up to prove that not talking was a simple, harmless activity. It wasn’t like the boys and girls were getting all buddy-buddy or anything, and it wasn’t like the teasing and taunting had completely stopped. Because old habits are hard to break.

  But still, cooties were dying all over the place.

  That was one result.

  Another result of the morning classes was that the kids had won a new kind of respect from their teachers. Teachers have great respect for order and self-discipline. Teachers love to make careful plans and then put them into action—it’s what they do. And teachers hate noise and disorder and bouncing kids, because these things keep them from accomplishing their careful plans.

  • • •

  However, there was one gigantic problem with all this harmony and order and balance and peace that was blooming in the fifth-grade hall: Mrs. Hiatt wasn’t in the loop. She was clueless about these new developments.

  In fact, the principal wasn’t even in the building during the morning. She was across town at the district offices working on next year’s budget. She had left her trusty teachers to carry out her strict orders.

  But Mrs. Hiatt had organized her meetings to be sure that she would be back at her school in time for fifth-grade lunch. Because the principal felt sure she would be needed at lunch. With her bullhorn. To keep law and order, just like always.

  Because Mrs. Hiatt had complete confidence in her teachers.

  She was sure that by lunchtime everything would be back to . . . normal.

  CHAPTER 18

  ADVENTURES IN THE RED ZONE

  Mrs. Hiatt got back to her school at 11:59. There were several messages on her desk, and Mrs. Overby had taped a note on her chair that read, “Please come see me in the teachers’ room.”

  But the principal was in a hurry. She needed to be on time for fifth-grade lunch.

  Five minutes later, for the second day in a row, Mrs. Hiatt found herself standing in the middle of a silent cafeteria holding a big red plastic bullhorn.

  But today, it was different.

  She looked around the quiet room, and the sight of all these fifth graders deliberately disobeying her—well, it nudged her over the edge. It pushed her right into the red zone.

  She gritted her teeth, and an angry haze filled her mind, and she knew she was angry, and she knew it wasn’t good to be angry. But she was.

  And she knew it wasn’t good to be angry and try to talk to children at the same time.

  But she couldn’t help herself. She had to talk to these kids. Right now.

  She could have whispered, and every fifth grader would have heard her. But she didn’t whisper.

  She pulled the trigger on the bullhorn.“HAVE YOU FORGOTTEN OUR ASSEMBLY THIS MORNING?”

  The principal’s voice echoed off the walls.

  The kids stared at her.

  She aimed the bullhorn at Dave and yelled, “DAVID PACKER, ANSWER ME: DO YOU REMEMBER WHAT I TOLD ALL OF YOU THIS MORNING?”

  When Dave nodded his head, she yelled, “ANSWER ME. WITH YOUR VOICE. OUT LOUD.”

  So Dave swallowed his first bite of macaroni and cheese and said, “I remember.” His voice sounded very small. Dave felt like he was the Scarecrow talking to the Great and Powerful Oz.

  Mrs. Hiatt took five steps closer to Dave and shouted, “THEN WHY AREN’T YOU TALKING WITH YOUR FRIENDS?”

  Dave had never seen Mrs. Hiatt this mad before. And no one had ever yelled at him with a bullhorn. It seemed unfair. To be yelled at with that giant voice. So he decided he wasn’t going to be afraid. Or angry. No matter what.

  Dave shrugged and said, “Nothing to say.” Which was perfectly true. Before Mrs. Hiatt had started yelling, he had been very happy to just sit and eat and think.

  “STAND UP!”

  Dave stood up. Every kid in the room was watching him. And so was Mrs. Marlow. And the custodian. And the cafeteria workers.

  Mrs. Hiatt said, “TALK. I WANT YOU TO TALK RIGHT NOW. I WANT TO HEAR YOU TELL TODD EVERYTHING YOU LEARNED IN ALL YOUR CLASSES THIS MORNING. START TALKING TO TODD. NOW.”

  Dave wasn’t an angry sort of kid. Not usually.

  In fact, there was only one thing that nudged him over the edge: being bullied. The only time he’d ever gotten into a fight at school was back in second grade when a fifth grader had started picking on him. That’s when Dave had learned that you can’t just go along with a bully. Because then you get bullied more and more.

  And that’s how Dave felt. Right now. He was getting mad. It felt like Mrs. Hiatt was being a bully—a bully with a bullhorn.

  Again the principal yelled, “TALK!”

  And that did it. It was Dave’s turn for a trip to the red zone.

  He glared at Mrs. Hiatt, and he shouted, “I do not have to talk now if I don’t want to. This is our lunch time. None of us have to talk!”

  And a sentence flashed into Dave’s mind, something he had heard dozens of times on TV shows. This sentence was usually being said to criminals wearing handcuffs, but that didn’t seem to matter at the moment.

  Dave looked around the cafeteria at his classmates, and he shouted, “You have the right to remain silent!”

  And with that, Dave pressed his lips together, folded his arms across his chest, and sat down.

  Lynsey was the first to pick up on Dave’s body language. She looked at Mrs. Hiatt and slowly folded her arms. All the girls at her lunch table did the same.

  And the gesture spread through the room like ripples on a pond. Every kid stared at the principal, arms folded and stone silent.

  Mrs. Hiatt looked around slowly, drew herself up to her full height, and then walked briskly out of the room. She walked down the hall to the school office. She nodded at Mrs. Chaplin, the school secretary, and said, “Hold my calls.” Then she went into her own office and closed the door.

  Back in the cafeteria, it was dead calm. Every kid sat motionless, arms still folded, not sure what to do next.

  Todd started it.

  He unfolded his arms and nodded at Dave, and then he clapped his hands. In three seconds every fifth-grade boy was clapping like mad.

  Dave looked around at his friends and smiled and nodded.

  And a second later, guess who joined in? That’s right: all the girls.

  And five seconds later, the hoo
ting and the whooping began.

  It was loud in that cafeteria. It was incredibly loud. The clapping and cheering was so loud that the sound went right through the cafeteria doors and walls and thundered down the hall—all the way to the school office, and right through the closed door of Mrs. Abigail Hiatt, principal.

  The phone on Mrs. Chaplin’s desk buzzed—an intercom call.

  “Yes?” she answered. The secretary listened, nodded, and said, “Right away.”

  She got up and walked out of the office and down the hall and into the cafeteria, where it had gotten quiet again.

  Mrs. Marlow was standing near the doorway, and Mrs. Chaplin whispered something to her.

  Mrs. Marlow nodded and quickly walked halfway across the room.

  She bent down close to Dave Packer’s ear and said, “To the office.”

  Dave swallowed his third bite of macaroni and cheese and looked up into the science teacher’s face. “I have to?”

  She nodded, “Principal’s orders.”

  Dave looked around the table at his friends. No one needed to speak a word—their faces said it all. And the message?

  Three simple words, and Dave believed them: “You are dead!”

  CHAPTER 19

  APOLOGIES

  There were two hundred and twenty-seven green tile squares on the hallway floor between the cafeteria and the school office. Dave counted each one to keep from thinking about what was going to happen next. But he thought about it anyway.

  Mrs. Chaplin pointed at the principal’s door. “Go right in.”

  Dave knocked. He knew he didn’t have to, but it bought him another two seconds of delay.

  Mrs. Hiatt said, “Come in,” and Dave thought, At least she’s not using her bullhorn.

  He opened the door, and she was standing with her back to him, looking out the windows into the school courtyard.

  Dave blurted out, “I’m sorry,” and he said that because he knew he shouldn’t have yelled at the principal, even if he had been right. Which he still believed he was. He also apologized because he hoped it might help save his life.