The awkwardness in the air declines as soon as one of them, Massa, smiles and says hi. The other two follow her lead: smile, nod, hi. They linger in the silence a little longer, and then launch into different topics about who is wearing what from where. I sigh with relief and start eating my turkey sandwich, thinking that this may not be as bad as I imagined after all.

Scarlet starts talking about all the cute children she gets to meet at the play center. Laura complains that kids are too loud and annoying, and frankly, it sounds as if she's describing herself. Massa says she wants to get a job too, but her mother wouldn't let her. Jenna whines about her nails not being long or pretty enough.

As the minutes tick by, I don't feel relieved anymore. I start feeling dumb and useless. I'm only sitting there, a big lump of flesh and bones smack in the middle of a group of normal teenagers. Just an obstacle. A white elephant. That unnecessarily long label sticking out of your shirt. I am sitting in the middle of a conversation I'm not part of, and I have no idea how to join.

Then Jenna says, "Heather, I don't see you out here much, where do usually you go during break?"

The chewed bread I just swallowed forms a knot in my stomach. I open my mouth, close it, and open it again. I want to talk. I want to provide her with a normal answer, using normal words. I want to be able to speak like them, to speak without wondering what to do with my hands, where to go with my eyes. To speak without fearing that my words may sound stupid.

To just bloody speak.

"I–"

"I've seen her once in the library," Laura yells. I've never heard her speak without yelling, which is partly why the librarian despises her. And now I do, too. "Isn't that right Heather? You go to the library a lot don't you?"

She's staring at me expectantly with wide goofy eyes. I fight the urge to slap her across the face with my turkey.

"What do you do there? Isn't it boring? So quiet and all," Jenna says, then faces Massa, who is moistening her lips. "Where'd you get that chap stick?"

And they delve into a conversation about all the different types of sticks. Never mind. I don't need friends. I don't need them. I have Mark. But why can't I speak to them? Why couldn't I have just answered her question? Why can't I just say things without planning my words, scanning my sentences and practicing them? Can't I just always talk the way I talked to Scarlet when I was being kidnapped?

When will I have to stop checking what every part of my body is doing when people look at me? When will I ever feel comfortable around a crowd of humans? When will a normal gaze stop making me fidgety? When, when, when? Most importantly, why?

How come they were born able to communicate as if it were the easiest thing to do? Am I missing something? Was there some skill I was meant to learn as a child my parents forgot to teach me? Or was I just born without it, the way someone may be born without sight or hearing? Why, why, why?

I realize Jenna is looking at me. She has just asked another question, but I didn't hear it. Now they're all watching me expectantly, waiting for an answer – an answer to a question I don't know. I feel a shadow looming over my shoulder, dragging me down. It shouldn't be so hard, right? All I have to do is say "excuse me" or "sorry, I didn't get that" and she'd have to repeat the question. Problem solved. Simple as that.

Everything is going to be fine.

Just say it Heather.

"I... um, excusor... er, I have to, uh, go – bathroom."

I scramble up and half walk half tumble my way out of the playground. I feel my cheeks burning with resentment. I watch my feet intently, focusing on my strides, – right, left, right, left – and let my instincts lead me to the library.

I storm inside, vaguely aware of the librarian observing me from behind her spectacles. I don't greet her. I don't even ask her about my book. I throw myself onto the beanbags in the children's section and clench my teeth. The scene replays in front of my eyes – me, blurting out a mutilated version of the English language, and then fleeing from my own peers.

I'm not even sure where my sandwich is anymore. I may have dropped it, or maybe I ate the whole thing and forgot – either way, it doesn't matter. What really matters is what I am. I'm a human lacking the essentials of humanity.

I'm incapable of what humans are meant to excel at: communication.

Mark crouches in front of me and asks, "What's wrong?"

I rub a hand over my face; as if that might rearrange my features, readjust me as a person. I answer, "Me."