She has never once spoke a word to me. I don't even know what her voice sounds like. She doesn't yelp when you scare her. She doesn't scream when she's scared. I'm pretty positive it's just amazing vocal control. Then my wonders into the darker stuff. Maybe she doesn't talk because of something going on at home. Do her parents hit her? But that can't be the case. I've never seen any bruises, or any signs of physical abuse. But that doesn't mean it's not mental, or verbal, or spiritual.

I sit next to her at our usual breakfast table. It over looks the lake at the bottom of the hill that our school sits on. She's got her back to it, just picking at the three cinnamon buns she got off the lunch line. I stare at her curiously.

"Can you talk?" I question.

She looks up from her food, confused by my question, but nods.

"So why don't you then?" I sigh popping open my milk carton.

She seems to contemplate talking for once. She bites her lip in that cute fashion all girls do.

"I've been your friend for three years now Kacy, why don't you talk?" It is our freshman year of high school. I transferred from a private catholic school after my parent's divorce.

She sighs and seems a bit frustrated. I hope I haven't angered her. She pulls out a piece of paper and holds out her hand as if asking for a pencil. She never carried one with her, because she always lost it. It got to the point where I would ask her for her pencil after school so she wouldn't lose it at home.

Kacy rushes to write down something on the note and handed it to me. I hope I can read it. She doesn't have the best handwriting in the world. Inside, on the center of the paper, is written:

Tell you behind the band room after gym.

I look at her and smile. I was finally going to learn why my best friend didn't speak.

Knowing that I was supposed to meet Kacy after gym, classes drug on. We had P.E together

in the last hour—thankfully. During the day our schedules clashed. We didn't even have the same lunch. It didn't bug me too much, we saw each other in passing often enough.

During P.E, I lost track of the time. It passed faster than any of the other classes; probably because I had something to distract me. We were playing baseball this week, while the girls played softball. I've always loved playing baseball for fun—but the sport ddin't suit me well. I wasn't big on the tormenting coming from the opposing teams dug out.

Once we came in, I rushed straight into the boys changing room and changed out of my P.E uniform. The school itself didn't have a uniform regulation, but the P.E classes did. This was because sometimes we had to leave campus to go to a field down the road or something to practice. The coaches didn't want to take any chance of someone they didn't know sneaking onto the campus.

Rushing through signing out—so the teachers know no one is left in the boys room—I ran to the back of the band room. It was the spot to go for privacy. Mostly because everyone hated standing around listening to the freshman band. They weren't very good, and could hardly be called a band. Kacy was already there leaning against the wall fidgeting with one of her longer curls.

Kacy was really beautiful when she wanted to be. Last summer she cut off her waist length hair into a short curly inverted bob—kind of like the one Cathrine-Zeta Jones had in the Chicago movie, only curly. I suited her face really well, and framed her eyes perfectly. If she would dress a little more feminine than just jeans and a t-shirt everyday, she could easily be the talk of the school.

"Hey! Am I late?" I hope I hadn't made her wait too long. She looked up smiling, and shook her head.

"So...why don't you talk?" I shove my hands in my pockets trying not to make it awkward.

She chewed on her lip, and opened her mouth.