con·ver·sa·tion

/ˌkänvərˈsāSH(ə)n/

noun
1. the informal exchange of ideas by spoken words.
"The two men were deep in conversation."

Synonyms: discussion, talk, chat, gossip, tête-à-tête, heart-to-heart, exchange, dialogue

The sun decides to make its dramatic entrance. It streams and bursts out light on Kelsie and her childhood bed.

Too much light. She covers her eyes.

Why, why all the light?

She walks over to the bathroom. She looks in the mirror, but quickly looks away.

Nothing to see here.

She throws cold water on her face. It feels deliciously good. The cool water absorbs into the pores of her skin.

Her skin is the color of hot coffee with a few dashes of cream. Mother always says this. Kelsie doesn’t believe this. Skin is skin, and she is just Black, and that is all.

She straightens her small room. She spends a full minute wondering why she was chasing down an ice cream truck in her dream.

Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, she thinks. She closes her blinds, shutting out the light. It was a peanut butter and jelly truck.

She can still smell it. She can still hear the clipped hum of the truck. Why did she dream that? She stopped eating those, long ago…

She still feels a tense, throbbing pain, like she had been running too hard. Her breathing, filled with morning phlegm, catches in her throat. She coughs violently. Tears are about to fill her eyes, but she shakes her head.

She picks up her Bible. 

Slowly but surely, she paces from her tiny bed to the rack that she made as her closet. And she talks to God. Then she talks to herself.

She switches back and forth, over and over, like a pendulum, until she feels like her day is a steady hum. It's consistent, predictable, and therefore peaceful.

Her stomach is no longer tense. Now, she can see clearly.

She wraps her black hair in a loose ponytail. She runs downstairs, two steps at a time.

She can already hear her little brother’s chatter, even before entering the kitchen. He is watching cartoons on his computer. But he isn’t, really.

He is talking to their mother. She is buttering toast, washing the dishes, and feeding the dog. He talks louder and louder about his plans and dreams.

Kelsie can practically see them flying above his head.

Comedian. Comedian. Comedian.

She looks up and sees the sun dancing in her brother’s eyes. But he doesn’t close his eyes from it. Strange kid.

Their mother puts his breakfast in front of him. He scoops up the toast and crunches into it. The crumbs spew from his mouth, bursting into laughter at his own jokes.

Never missing a beat. Still dreaming. Still talking. Still dreaming-talking.

Wouldn’t he ever stop?

Kelsie keeps staring at him. He glares and sticks his peanut butter-encrusted tongue out at her. Kelsie’s heart leaps in her mouth. She edges away.

Her brother shoots another joke at her.

She puts up her shield by opening her mouth.

"Just stop!" she finally yells.

That’s when Mother looks up from sweeping the floor.

Kelsie tenses. She expects a scolding, but Mother smiles at her. A real smile, not a "good morning" smile. Or an "I just got out of bed so leave me alone" kind of smile.

Mother always does those real smiles.

She asks Kelsie what she wants for breakfast.

Kelsie just shakes her head and edges towards the door. The cold, metallic knob barely grazes her fingers.

Mother smiles, a sad one now.

She says that Kelsie can at least eat a yogurt. Kelsie nods. Mother disappears and reappears with a yogurt and a package of peanut butter.

"For protein," she hears Mother say.

Kelsie smiles her "good morning" smile and breezes out the door. She still hears pieces of her brother’s dreams dancing in her head.

She throws away the peanut butter on her way out.

She rides her bike. It is such a relaxing feeling, riding that bike. She likes the steady whir of the wheels, the tires barely brushing the sidewalk and the street.

Kelsie closes her eyes longer than a blink, just so she can listen to the air whispering to her. The sun shows its usual joy for the day.

As Kelsie gets closer to where she's going, the hum grows louder. It's the hum of voices and of choices.

The college campus spreads wide and big. Her heart quickens, but she shoves that thought away. She will not live on campus. She does not want to. Ever.

She only looks quickly at the stores and restaurants and apartments that tower over her. She will not look at them for long.

She will take classes at the campus. She will listen to the sounds of the campus. But she will not live in it. No.

She quickly parks her bike, takes off her helmet, and marches up the college steps.

Kelsie loves English. But the professor always has to ruin it with his hum. He has a hum like everyone else’s, but his is dead.

Who killed it?

Kelsie twirls her hair tightly around her finger, wondering.

Was it love that killed it? Did he have a dream that no one listened to? Did he have a traumatic childhood?

Kelsie has an irresistible urge to hunt down this murderer of her professor’s voice. What did he sound like before?

She takes steady notes, but they never have richness and substance. The professor does not have any rich substance for her to lean on. Her notes about English are as lifeless as the professor.

She looks around her large classroom. Half of the students are asleep on their desks. Kelsie groans. She decides to sleep too.

What is the point of listening to a dead hum?

Now it is lunchtime. Kelsie’s stomach bunches in knots. She scolds it and goes into the lunch line early in order to soothe it.

Getting there early is key. Otherwise, there will be too many people, too many. So Kelsie clutches her purse and orders fast. She gets salad. And that is all.

Kelsie wishes that she got something else. But students are coming. It will be crowded.

Too many people, too many.

She sits down.

There are people everywhere in the huge college cafeteria. They're sprawled on the floor, leaning on railings, slouched on tables. They are all opening their mouths. They are all shoving food into them or shoving words out of them.

Kelsie automatically listens.

There is school humming in the air. Conversations about cool teachers. Mean teachers. Hot teachers. Giggles and loud laughs along with the hum.

Kelsie shoves food into her own mouth. Her mouth is dry. Wet enough to eat, but too dry to speak.

She studies the mouths. She tries hard to ignore when there's food hanging out of them.

There are fast, hectic, jabbering mouths. There are softer but still hummy mouths.  There are loud, obnoxious, runny mouths and giggly, whispery mouths.

All different, yet the same. They hold the same current. They cause smiles and longer eye contacts.

There are bodies touching. A high five, a brush, a hug, a jab, a kiss. Some fainter than others, but a touch all the same.

Kelsie turns around. Carefully. Slowly. No one is touching her. Her heart thumps down, down.

She stands up, slams her tray in the trash, and leaves.

Study hour. She goes to the coffee shop.

It gets colder at night. Kelsie stays in the place that swirls with the mixture of coffee beans and fragrant cream.

When Kelsie first comes inside from the cold, cinnamon rolls burst with whispers and dance close to Kelsie’s nose. Along with a coffee that matches her skin tone, she buys a whole dozen cinnamon rolls.

She bites into a different hum. It still has richness, but temporary substance.

Temporary. She tries to ignore that.

All evening, she listens.

Two students are studying for calculus and American literature.

A woman talks on the phone. She's talking about who knows what. Her rhythm is "uh huh," then a jangle from her gold jewelry. "Uh huh," jangle jangle. "Uh huh."

A young couple are talking. This is their first date. Kelsie can tell without looking. Their hums are not exactly smooth. There are many pauses and short breaths.

Hesitation.

Kelsie doesn’t feel sorry for them as she types on her laptop. Soon, all they need is a physical show of lips coming together. They will be having their hum tomorrow. She can bet on it.

She bites into another cinnamon roll. She wonders if her own hum can be a sweet as a cinnamon roll.

Kelsie comes home.

Mother hugs her and asks about school.

She says it was fine. She shuffles toward her room.

Her little brother is sprawled on his bed, asleep. He has his dreams blaring through his computer.

Comedian. Laughter. Comedian.

Kelsie knows better than to turn it down.

She hesitates. Then she leans over and whispers, "Keep dreaming, my comedian." She kisses his cheek.

She falls into bed. She hopes and prays her own dream.

All she sees is darkness.

Another day begins the same way.

Kelsie talks and words pour from her mouth as she dresses. She hears her brother’s dreams dancing. Her mother gives her some protein.

Kelsie rides her bike, even though it is raining. She goes to class and has to stay awake to her professor’s dead hum again. She will find that murderer. She will find it and wrestle that professor’s voice back to life, somehow.

Lunchtime. Kelsie’s stomach growls. She is about to scold it.

"Excuse me," a voice says.

Kelsie freezes. She feels like she is underwater.

"Excuse me," the voice says again.

She squints her eyes and looks.

Yup, there is someone right in front of her. Looking right at her.

Kelsie thought she was early. There aren't too many people when she is early. But he's still blinking at her.

Kelsie doesn’t want to drown.

He is supposed to quickly brush his eyes over her. Like the others do. Then make her a path, like the Red Sea.

Kelsie is the Moses of the school. Everyone parts away for her. She never misses her Red Seas.

So here is this guy, not making a path. Instead, he's letting her sink in the depths. She cannot swim or float. She quickly darts to the right.

"Oh, no. You’re not in my way. I— I am new here," the guy says. "Do you know where I can find Professor Carmichael?"

Kelsie surely doesn’t want to drown. She stares at the guy who owns the voice.

The guy with black, inky hair. Like a pen has exploded and landed all over his head. Except it is frothier, messier. His clothes look like he’s been through a fight, but this guy doesn’t look like a fighter.

Kelsie quickly gives him directions to Professor Carmichael’s classroom. Then she grabs her lunch and darts to the lunch table. Her heart is fizzing and buzzing.

And she listens to the conversations. She's not really listening this time, though. They crash and crackle in her head, making her ears pop.

She sees people touch.

She longs for a cinnamon roll.

She feels cold and shivery.

Why her? Why him... directing his words? At her?

She only gathers, not gives. She only accepts, not offers.

She doesn’t feel. Only when she must. And right now she feels stiff, and really cold.

She feels a hand on her shoulder.

She jumps up, her food exploding in all directions. She yelps. Her voice echoes through the whole cafeteria.

She stares at the inky boy’s eyes. They're staring back at her in horror. His hand hurries away from her shoulder.

"I just— I am sorry— But you left your purse in the line," he says.

Kelsie grabs her purse from him and runs out of the cafeteria. She tries to escape the freezing cold, away, away.

She doesn’t go to the coffee shop. She doesn’t go home, either. She surprises herself. She rides right into the playground.

It is across the street, not far at all, but she never stops here.

The sky is still laced with fog. The ground shimmers with what's left of the rain. But that doesn’t stop the children from running around, playing.

They have different hums. Almost like her little brother’s. Dreams, dreams spilling everywhere.

She parks her bike. She sits on a bench and closes her eyes.

A kid is babbling about a kitten he saw. A kid is trying her best to get her mom to buy her a dollhouse. Other kids are shouting that they are the Kings of the World.

Kids are squealing, screaming, pushing.

They’ll resolve it, Kelsie thinks, without looking. They always do.

Why can’t she learn?

"Hi," a voice says.

Kelsie jumps again. Her hand hits the splinters of the bench. That hurt.

This inky-haired boy is trying to hurt her. She could be bleeding, bleeding all over...

Her heart almost gets stuck in her throat. She can hardly look at him.

"I’m not a stalker. I— I promise," he says. "I just take my little sister here every afternoon, even before I started going to this school. Rain or shine."

He laughs, a kind of pleasant hum. "She loves to be outdoors," he says.

Pause.

Hesitant. Short breaths. Kelsie clenches her trembling hands into fists.

"Do you have a little brother? Sister?" he asks.

Pause.

"Oh, you are just here... just to be here. Do you like children? Do you want to be a teacher?" he asks.

Pause.

He sits down next to her. He holds out his hand.

"I am Cameron, by the way," he says. "What’s your name?"

Pause.

Pause.

"We— we don’t have to talk," he says.

So he doesn’t. He just sits next to her, watching the kids.

Kelsie’s eyes are still closed, but she can’t hear the children anymore. At least, not in the present.

"Kelsie, we don’t wanna play with you."

"Why?"

"Cause you smell like old fish, and you poor."

"No, I’m not!"

"Uh huh! My mommy says so."

"She lyin'!"

"I’m not gonna talk to you no more."

"Me neither."

"Me neither."

"Me too."

They’re children. They’ll resolve it. They always do.

Pause.

Pause.

Pause.

Conversation. It's like Double Dutch.

You want to jump in. You really do. You clench your hands and lean forward, ready to jump.

But someone already jumped in. With their own rhythm, one-two, one-two. They finally jump out.

You brace yourself yet again, ready to jump in. Except you don’t know when. The ropes are swinging too fast. Too fast. Blinding.

Now. Now? Now... Do I jump?

Scared. Shaking. The ropes won’t slow down. Go faster.

You finally leave, because there is no point in jumping now.

Kelsie gets up. She leaves Cameron in the rain that starts again in the fogged-up air.

The next day, Kelsie skips lunch.

She skips the coffee shop, too. She heads right to the playground. There aren't as many kids as before. It's not two o'clock yet. School is not over for them.

She hears someone sit right next to her. She hears crinkling.

"I— I brought you a peanut butter and jelly sandwich," Cameron says. "They are my favorite."

No. No. She will not take it. She will not.

She crosses her arms tight and will not move.

She doesn’t eat peanut butter and jelly.

Her stomach growls. It roars.

She sighs and blinks hard.

She waits a long, long minute.

She takes the sandwich.

She bites into it.

"Here you go, sweetie. This will make you feel better."

"They are mean to me."

"Don’t worry about them, honey. Just eat your sandwich."

"I don’t have friends no more."

Pause.

Her eyes are closed. She's still chewing.

What is Cameron doing?

He is still next to her, bodies not touching, saying nothing.

She doesn't care. She sits and listens to hums for hours.