Silence by Miles
by Miles Hopgood, The Lexington School, Lexington

Miles is the Kentucky winner of the 2003 APAA/APA National Essay Contest, “When Not to Keep a Secret.”

Once you say its name, it's gone. Silence. The most innocent, naïve sound, yet one of the most deadly killers. More powerful than a gun, more lethal than poison, and cruelest of all fates; to have no one petition for you, none being your advocate. Silence.

It was a day like any other. The school play was closing that night, the football team was training for their game against their long time rivals; everything was normal, as far as anyone knew. If you asked someone to describe Jeanne it would probably sound something like this: she was not the most popular girl in school but was well liked by all. Katie was her best friend and truest confidante; to give her credit, there wasn't anyone who could honestly hate her. She was pretty, but quiet, kind, but shy. She walked slowly, as if savoring each step. Stepping gingerly, as if not wanting to tread on the flowers, she would go from class to class with a friend or two. She enjoyed art; it seemed to be her best subject, although she did compose a good deal of poetry, mostly free form. She played few sports, mostly, she said, because she wasn't very coordinated. She never went home on the bus, she preferred walking. No one thought much of it. This is how most would have thought of Jeanne. No more, no less. How wrong they were; only one person really knows. And she won't be telling.

Jeanne's mother passed away three years before. Her father had died in a car crash only three months after she was born. Her mother passed away from a brain tumor two years after remarrying. So Jeanne lived with her stepfather, Sean, in a small house in an old neighborhood about three miles from the school. He worked a job at the local steel mill, and between the bar and the frequent poker games with his friends, they would see each other rarely. Luckily.

If you were to ask Katie about Jeanne, her version would sound the same. Looking back now, it is slightly different; she was not the most popular girl in school, but she was well liked by all, because no one knew, except for me. I was her best friend, but there wasn't anyone who could honestly hate her. She was pretty, but quiet, kind, but shy, only because she hid it. She walked slowly, as if savoring each step, but would've been faster if not for the bruises. Stepping gingerly, as if not wanting to remember the pain, she would go from class to class, with a friend or two. No one ever asked; she was glad no one seemed to notice. She enjoyed art; it was a way for her to express herself, to tell without anyone hearing. She did compose a good deal of poetry for the same reason. No one heard. She played few sports, mostly she said, because she wasn't very coordinated, but really so none would see her bruised and mangled limbs. She never went home on the bus; she preferred walking, so she could hide from him. No one thought much of it, except for me. But Jeanne and I had been friends longer than either of us can remember. She never told my secrets; I would have never knew.

Jeanne still resides in the same small town. She's moved away from her stepfather. She still has a lot of friends; they visit her often. Anyone can; she's the third grave in the last row of the First Presbyterian Church's cemetery. But not even her tombstone tells the story; it says nothing of the cause of death. The only thing that will tell her story is the same thing that she thought was shielding her and that took her last breath. Silence.

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