"Look, you little toad, I know you saw that business with my damn cousin's guinea pig. No one is going to believe you if you tattle, but if you do, so help me I'll do worse to you."

I remember having vertigo, and apparently fell into a catatonic state. I don't recall anything more, besides Daddy's concerned expression that was I was suddenly mute. He took me to the university hospital, pulling every string he had to get me into the hands of the best experts. Each was more baffled than the next. There was nothing wrong with me physically. Doctors said they had seen it in soldiers coming back from the war, but not in a little girl. I tried to draw pictures to explain, but my stick figures in skirts led everyone to believe I just missed my mother.

Later, my father met a psychologist who diagnosed me with "SM", or Select Mutism. It's an anxiety order that afflicts those who have been severly traumatized, usually children. But even though the psychologist was right about that, he too chalked up my trauma to my coping with grief, not the evil girl living next door. So when he went to the office, Papa still had me looked after by the Carters, and there was nothing I could say about it.

I tried to veer as far from Nancy as I could. Her attitude often pointed her out from her sister, but when the two girls were quietly reading, or listening to the radio, even I couldn't tell who was who. For the most part, I chose the right sister to be in a room with, but on some occasions, Nancy would pull her nasty tricks.

She smiled at me one day, that beautiful smile. Assuming it was Betty, I smiled back, and allowed her to walk up to me. She looked down, still smiling, and stroked my hair. Looking up at the teenaged girl, I too smiled, until she grabbed a lock of my hair and pulled it so hard, a handful came out.