Part 2 - Vow Of Silence

My second installment where Janet visits Michael's house for the first time.

          I walked home with him after school that day. We still hadn't spoken to each other. I had no idea what his voice sounded like. I amused myself with pretending that he sounded like Sinatra or Fred Astaire. When I smiled at him he smiled back. The smell of mint never smelled so good.
         When we reached his house I was surprised. For such an eccentric person he lived in a very average house. White with a porch swing. A dog house on the left side of the yard where a handsome black lab was chained up.
         He led me up the front steps to the door and pulled out a key. As he slid it into the lock he turned to me and held a finger to his lips. I nodded to show that I understood. When he turned the key in the lock it barely made a sound. I assumed that he kept all the locks well oiled.
         When we entered the house I was overpowered by the smell of alcohol. I wrinkled my nose but said nothing. I followed Michael as he headed for the kitchen and opened another door. He motioned for me to follow him down into the basement. I briefly recalled that the misunderstood boy Harry Potter lived in a broom closet. At least the basement would be roomy.
         Michael flipped on the light and we walked down the stairs. I blinked in surprise. He obviously used this area as his own personal art studio. It reminded me of the Disney movie 'The Hunchback of Notre Dame' where Quasimodo has the different colored wind-chimes hanging from the ceiling that casted small rainbows over the walls that bobbed with the breeze.
         Writing was scattered all over a desk in a corner of the room and beside it a box was overflowing with crumpled and ripped paper. I found myself foolishly looking for the carved dolls that Quasi has of all the people who lived below the bell tower. I mentally kicked myself for having the little girl-like fantasy.
         Michael had sat down on the couch that was positioned in an empty corner of the room. I watched as he fished out a pad of paper and a pen from between the cushions. He started scribbling on the paper as I wandered around the poorly lit basement. The desk consisted of sixty or more papers. I didn't read anything but I did sift through them to feel the weight of their words. On the wall was a poster of Edward Scissorhands. Another poster hung above the desk caught my attention. I set the papers down as I leaned in to get a better look. It was a poster from the Broadway musical RENT.
         A CD player sat on the floor so I knelt down and pressed play. 'Madam Butterfly' filled the room and I smiled to myself as I stood up. I was about to turn back to Michael when the drawings tacked up to the wall caught my eye. There were drawings of sunrises and footprints in sand or snow. There were even a few of people from school. A teacher we called the Grammar Nazi was saluting Hitler. President Bush was smoking a crack pipe with his daughters. Our principal was in a lip-lock with Clinton. One of the football players was flexing for his friends. A cheerleader was checking out her a*s in a full length mirror.
         I was about to touch the bonsai tree on a stool to the left of the CD player when I heard Michael tapping the pen smartly against the pad of paper in his hand. I turned to look at him and he waved me over. His face was expressionless but at least his eyes were dry.
         The paper was half-filled with his handwriting: 'My name's Michael Paquette. I never really thanked you properly for returning my notebook -- I was just so surprised that you hadn't shredded it first. Thank you so much for what you did today at school as well. But pardon me for asking -- and my language -- but what the f**k are you up to?'
         I smiled and held out my hand to him for the pen he'd been using. He handed it to me without question and I wrote: 'My name's Janet Reilly. You're welcome on both counts. I'm not up to anything. I just am tired of people treating you the way that they do when they've never even spoke to you. I only want to help. By the way, why aren't we talking? I've never heard your voice.'
         I watched his eyes take in the words I'd written. He frowned and I saw him stop and read it again. He then turned to me and smiled as he plucked the pen from between my lax fingers.
         'I swore a vow of silence six months ago until one of my dreams comes true. I know it may sound stupid to you, but to me it means everything.'
         I wasn't aware that my hands were shaking until Michael placed his hand over mine. His fingers were long and pale. Like the ivory keys on a piano. I stared at his hand for what seemed like a long time but was actually only seconds. I decided to not ask anything more about the vow of silence and instead wrote a question about why it smelled like alcohol upstairs.
         'My mother. She's an alcoholic b***h. She's more wrapped up in vodka bottles than with my grades in school. She's lucky I'm not the same kind of man my father is because she needs some sense knocked into her, but I don't have the heart to do it.'
         My eyes narrowed as I read what he'd written. I felt more than a little ashamed of myself because both of my parents had been good to me all my life and yet I still resented them for some of the things they did.
         'Want to get away from here for the weekend, Michael?'
         'Yes.'

Author's Note

I need reviews, please, this is harder than I thought it would be to write because of the way I'm trying to write.

Reviews

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Again, just describe more. Pull me into the places you are going. So he lives in an average house. One story? Ranch style? Two story? How many windows? It might not seem like much, but it could easily lend to what you want the reader to feel about the house. Is the paint well-kept? Chipped and fading? You have a lot of room to expand. Same thing with the basement. There could be more description about how it looks and feels. I like the quasimodo reference. A little humor there. You could even spend more time with them conversing with the paper.