A Word On A Wednesday
It was March before Mara spoke at school again.
It happened on an unremarkable Wednesday. Mrs Tannen was reading the register. She got to *Mara*. Mara, who for six months had only nodded, said — small, but clearly — "Here."
Mrs Tannen, who was a wonderful teacher, did not gasp. She did not cheer. She nodded, ticked the register, and said, "Right. Lukas?"
"Here."
"Marek?"
"Here."
The class went on as if nothing had happened. Mrs Tannen had warned them, very gently, in the autumn: when Mara starts speaking at school again, do not make a big deal. Do not cheer. Do not stare. Just be glad, quietly, and let her speak when she's ready.
The class kept its promise.
That afternoon at break, Mara joined Lukas and three other kids at the bench under the old oak. She did not say much. She listened. After about ten minutes she added one sentence. The others smiled, took it on board, kept talking, did not make it a moment.
Mara walked home with Lukas at the end of the day.
"How does it feel?"
"Strange. I'm tired. But — better."
"I'm proud of you."
"Thanks. I — Lukas. I'm sorry I was hard."
"You weren't hard. You were just having a difficult time. There's a difference."
She squeezed his hand for a moment, the way she used to when they were five.
By the summer, Mara was speaking in class again, in small ways. By the autumn — Year Seven, new school, new building, new everyone —