The Unvoiced

Ive always been the quiet one in my family.

So quiet that in most of our family photos, you cant find my eyes.

Its not that the camera missed them. Its that I never dared to look at the lens.

1

My mother was the reigning queen of the citys main stage.

My fathers voice was the golden baritone of NPRs morning drive.

My brother, Owen, was born for the spotlightclass president, the one chosen to give the speech at graduation, the guy who led the team to victory.

So, when I came along as a surprise, all our relatives said the same thing:

Owens little sister? Shes bound to be a firecracker.

I was a disappointment to them all.

My voice was thin, like it had been sanded down. My face was as plain as a glass of water.

I had managed to perfectly sidestep every single one of my parents talents and gifts.

Owen was the first light of dawn.

And me, Nora, I was the last, faded gray of sunset.

Children dont know how to hide their feelings.

In the kindergarten play, I was cast as a tree.

As the teacher tied green ribbons to my arms, I whispered, Maam, I know the rabbits lines.

She patted my head. Thats nice, Nora, but trees dont have to talk.

Still, I saw ita flicker of pity in her eyes.

My parents prided themselves on being progressive, on never comparing me to my brother.

But whenever guests came over, my father would have Owen recite a poem or tell a charismatic story.

Me? My job was to bring out the cheese and crackers, then settle quietly into a corner.

Noras the introspective one, like her grandmother, my mother would explain.

But my grandmother was a woman of the silent generation, taught to be seen and not heard. I was a child of the twenty-first century.

By middle school, Owen was already a big man on campus.

His essays were printed out and passed around as examples for the entire grade.

My father held one of them, his voice thick with emotion. If Owen follows in my footsteps, Ill know Ive done something right with my life.

I was peeling an apple beside him. The knife slipped, slicing my finger.

My dad jumped, rushing to find a Band-Aid.

As he wrapped it around my finger, he murmured, Thats not what I meant, Nora.

I knew.

He hadnt meant it.

If hed meant it, he never would have said it out loud.

The themes were there from the beginning.

Owen and Nora. One who shines, one who fades.

You see, my cultured parents were masters of metaphor, even in naming their children.

2

On my parents twentieth wedding anniversary, when I was twelve, we all went to a recording studio to record a song together.

The sound engineer was an old friend of my dads. He laughed and said, Lee, you wouldnt know these two kids came from the same parents just by listening to them.

Owen stepped up to the mic and sang a line, clear as a bell. The engineer gave him a thumbs-up.

When it was my turn, Id barely opened my mouth before the engineers brow furrowed.

Relax, kid. Dont be nervous.

I clutched the hem of my shirt and tried again.

The pitch is a little shaky.

In the end, I was given two lines in the chorus, and my voice was auto-tuned into oblivion.

My parents loved the final version. They sent it to our family group text.

My aunt replied first: Owen has a voice destined for the radio!

Her next text came a moment later: Nora is just getting quieter and quieter, isnt she?

Quiet.

Such a convenient word.

Peaceful, no trouble, like a shadow.

I sat on the floor of the study, headphones on, listening to that song over and over.

My voice, sandwiched between three bright, confident ones, was like a loose thread on a bolt of smooth silk.

It didnt belong.

In eighth grade, I fell in love with writing.

Id cut up notebooks into little booklets and fill them with ink, word by word.

I wrote about the clouds, about the ants on my windowsill, about the boy from the next class who always stayed late to practice basketball.

I never dared to write about Owen. He was too bright; he would have burned the tip of my pen.

I hid the notebooks under my mattress. I thought it was the safest place in the world.

Until one day, my mom found them while cleaning.

She didnt tell me. She took them straight to my dad.

That night at dinner, my dad stirred his soup and asked, seemingly out of nowhere, Nora, have you been doing a lot of reading lately?

My stomach clenched.

Just some stuff for school.

The writing is still a bit raw, he said, setting down his spoon, but your observational skills are sharp.

My mom chimed in. Yes, that part about the boy next door was very vivid.

My face caught fire.

Blood rushed to my head, a roaring in my ears.

They had gone through my secrets, and now they were discussing them with the casual air of someone critiquing a meal.

Owen slid a piece of chicken onto my plate. Mom, Dad, ever hear of privacy?

My dad waved him off. Whats privacy to a child? Were just showing we care.

That night, I tore the notebook apart, page by page, and flushed it down the toilet.

Watching the vortex swallow the pieces, I told myself:

See, Nora? Even your secrets dont deserve to exist.

3

Owen got a full scholarship to Georgetown his senior year.

My parents threw a dinner party that filled three tables.

Relatives took turns raising their glasses, saying, The apple doesnt fall far from the tree.

I sat in the corner, quietly peeling a shrimp.

An aunt came over and patted my head. And Noras a sweet girl, so quiet. Shell have no trouble finding a husband someday.

My father, his face flushed with wine, laughed. Thats right. For our Nora, a peaceful life is all we ask for.

A peaceful life.

Such a low bar to set.

Like a weed in the gardenyou dont expect it to flower, you just hope it survives.

After the party, my dad sat Owen down in the living room for a long talk.

I walked past the study and heard the passionate blueprint of my brothers future.

D.C. is full of opportunities

Ive already spoken to a professor there

An internship at NPR headquarters

I slipped back to my room.

A college course catalog lay on my desk.

I flipped to the last page, to a small liberal arts college in North Carolina Id never heard of. It had a Media Studies program.

Small. Far away.

The required GPA hovered right around my mock exam scores.

I folded the corner of the page.

Like hiding a dream no one else knew existed.

The day I declared my college choice was the first time I ever truly fought with my parents.

Media Studies? My moms voice shot up. What are you doing chasing after that?

Your brother has the talent for it, his path is already paved! But you? With your personality, your disposition? Youd be eaten alive in that world.

My dad was calmer, but his words were heavier.

Nora, Im not trying to crush your spirits. But the media industry it requires charisma, connections, a certain look. You dont have any of those.

Why not major in education? Or accounting? Something stable?

I looked at them.

I looked at the quiet, stable, ordinary girl they saw.

And for the first time, I didnt back down.

I want to try.

They eventually gave in.

Not because Id convinced them, but because they figured Id hit a wall and come to my senses.

Fine, my mother sighed. Go and see for yourself how hard it is. Then youll understand we only want whats best for you.

The day my acceptance letter arrived, the house was empty.

Owen was already in D.C. for a summer program, and my parents were at a colleagues wedding.

I retrieved the thin envelope from the mailbox myself.

I opened it and saw the unfamiliar school name and the words Department of Media & Journalism.

There were no cheers, no tears.

I just folded the letter carefully and tucked it into the deepest pocket of my backpack.

It felt like a secret handover had just been completed.

4

My dad drove me to the airport.

The silence in the car was heavy.

Before I went through security, he pressed a debit card into my hand.

Ill deposit money for you every month. If its not enough let me know.

I clutched the plastic and nodded.

He looked at me, his lips parting as if he wanted to say more.

In the end, he just patted my shoulder. Take care of yourself.

The plane took off, banking over the city.

I watched the landscape shrink below, feeling a strange sense of calm.

Even, a little bit, of relief.

I had finally escaped the gravitational pull of the place called home.

I could just be Nora, not just Owens sister.

College life was quieter than Id imagined.

No one here knew who Owen was. No one had pasted the quiet label on me.

I could hide in the crowd and start to grow again, on my own terms.

The coursework wasnt easy.

Especially the practical classes. While other students spoke eloquently to the camera, my hands would sweat holding the microphone.

My professors feedback was always the same: Nora, the content is solid, but your delivery is weak.

Id lower my head, accustomed to the critique.

Until one day, the professor for my elective course asked me to stay after class.

He was young, a Mr. Davies, who had apparently been a journalist for a few years.

Nora, Ive read the last few essays you submitted.

He pushed his glasses up his nose. Your perspective is sharp, and your writing has a coldness to it. Its not what Id expect from you.

My stomach tightened.

But, he continued, that coldness can be an asset for certain subjects.

He recommended a few online platforms for narrative non-fiction, and a couple of niche blogs with a unique style.

Give it a try. You dont always have to be the one standing in front of the camera.

That afternoon, I sat in the library and read every article hed recommended.

Something in my chest slowly began to wake up.

I realized there wasnt just one way to have a voice.

I realized that quietness could also be a kind of strength.

I started submitting pieces to online magazines, secretly, under a pen name.

I wrote about the driver of the late-night bus on the edge of the city, about the old man in a crumbling apartment complex raising his grandson by collecting cans, about the boy on the other side of the screen who only used text to talk because of his stutter.

The pay was next to nothingfifty dollars, a hundred here and there.

But every time I sent an email into the void, the wait for a reply felt like planting a seed in the dark.

Occasionally, one would sprout.

During my sophomore year, an article I wrote about people with selective mutism was picked up by a major online journal.

An editor reached out. She asked if I wanted to write a regular column.

For the title, she suggested The Unvoiced.

I stared at those two words for a long time before replying.

I never told my family I was writing.

Whenever we talked on the phone, the conversation was always centered on Owen.

Your brother won another scholarship.

Your brother is interning at the NPR headquarters.

Your brother has a girlfriend. Shes from D.C., too. Her family is very well-off.

I held the phone, murmuring mhm and thats great.

My eyes were fixed on my laptop screen, on the columnist contract that had just arrived in my inbox.

What about you, Nora? Are you dating anyone? my mom asked suddenly.

No.

Good. College relationships never last. When you graduate and come home, your mother will find you someone suitable.

Suitable.

Meaning, appropriate, from a good family, the kind of person a quiet girl like me was supposed to end up with.

I went home for Christmas break to a strange atmosphere.

Owen had brought his girlfriend home.

Her name was Brooke. A D.C. girl, bright and confident, like sunshine in the middle of winter.

At the dinner table, she was dazzling, making my parents laugh constantly.

You have such wonderful taste, Mrs. Clark. No wonder Owen is so handsome.

Mr. Clark, this soup is incredible. Better than any restaurant in D.C.

My mother was beaming, piling food onto her plate.

I ate my meal in silence, part of the background scenery.

Suddenly, Brooke turned to me. So youre studying down south, Nora? Are you used to it?

I nodded. I am.

Whats your major again?

Media and Journalism.

Her eyes lit up. Oh, so youre in the same field as Owen! Hell have to show you the ropes.

Owen wrapped his arm around her shoulder, smiling. Not everyone is a powerhouse like you, babe. Our Nora just likes to keep things simple.

I lowered my head, pushing the rice around in my bowl.

Keep things simple.

See, even my own brother defined me that way.

5

After dinner, my mom and Brooke were in the living room, looking through old family albums.

I got up to get a glass of water from the kitchen.

I heard Brookes hushed voice: Nora and Owen are so different their personalities are worlds apart.

My mother laughed softly. I know. Nora takes after her grandmother. Shes an introvert.

Brooke replied, Its nice, though. So quiet and calm. Not like me, I never shut up.

I stood in the kitchen doorway, the glass in my hand feeling cold.

So, even to the brilliant, sun-like people in my brothers world, I was just the quiet and calm wallpaper.

That night, I logged into the backend of my column.

There was a new comment from a reader.

Your writing reminds me of the cold silence and deep compassion in Willa Cathers work. Please, keep writing.

Outside my window, the city lights flickered.

I typed back: Thank you. I will.

Brooke and I stayed in touch, a friendly but distant connection.

Shed send me links to cultural events in D.C., and sometimes shed complain that Owen was a typical guy, completely clueless about romance.

Nora, when you start dating, make sure you find someone who pays attention.

Id reply with a smiley face emoji.

A boyfriend.

Of the four girls in my dorm suite, I was the only single one.

Leah, the girl in the bunk below me, asked me about it one night.

Nora, youre pretty and smart. How come you dont date?

I was quiet for a moment. I never know what to say.

She laughed. Dating isnt a speech, you dont need a script. You just need to feel a connection.

A connection.

I looked at my plain face in the mirror.

I remembered the vague crush Id had on the basketball captain in high school.

That crush died the day he came up to me to ask for Owens number.

Hey, can you send me your brothers contact? I want to ask him about the athletic scholarships at Georgetown.

See? Even my insignificant little crushes were just a reflection of Owens light.

Junior year, Brooke came to my city for a business trip.

She took me out for dinner.

She looked thinner, but her energy was still high. In between conversation, she mentioned an argument with Owen.

He wants to stay in D.C., and so do I. But the pressure is insane.

Your parents want him to move back home, they say they have everything lined up for him there.

She stirred her coffee, a bitter smile on her face. Nora, sometimes I really envy you.

I was stunned.

Envy me?

Yeah, she said, looking up at me, her eyes complicated. Youre just quiet. You dont have all these expectations weighing you down. You can make your own choices.

I opened my mouth, but no words came out.

My own choices?

In my parents eyes, my choices were just me being stubborn, a phase of rebellion.

But in that moment, I didnt want to correct her.

Maybe Brooke was right.

In the unvoiced places, there was a different kind of freedom.

After I saw Brooke off, I got a call from my dad.

His tone was serious. Nora, are your brother and Brooke having problems?

I dont know.

You should talk some sense into him. Brookes family is impressive, but the gap between our families is too big. Itll cause problems down the road. It would be better if he came home. We could find him a nice local girl, someone we know.

Listening to him, a cold dread washed over me.

Look. Even my brothers sun-drenched life had to be forced onto the track of what was suitable.

So what did that make my little patch of shadow?

6

My column slowly gained a small following.

A book editor contacted me, asking if Id be interested in publishing a collection of my essays.

I hesitated.

Publishing a book meant stepping into the light.

It meant the name Nora Clark would be connected to those wordscold, compassionate.

It meant my parents would find out.

I could already hear their reactions.

What is this nonsense? Its not a real job. How much can you possibly earn from that?

Mr. Davies encouraged me. This is a good thing. Your writing has value. More people should see it.

Leah was even more excited than I was. A book! Nora! Youre going to be an author!

I looked at her shining eyes, and the hesitation in my heart was slowly replaced by a strange, unfamiliar courage.

Maybe I could.

The day I signed the contract, I sat in a coffee shop for a long time.

I watched the people walk by outside the window.

Every one of them, carrying their own story, moving in silence.

And I was going to be the one to tell those silent stories.

During fall break of my senior year, Owen and Brooke came home together.

The atmosphere was better than I expected.

Brooke didnt mention their previous arguments. She went shopping with my mom and charmed her completely.

My dad and Owen spent an afternoon in the study and came out looking much more relaxed.

It seemed some kind of compromise had been reached.

At dinner, the conversation somehow turned to me.

Noras a senior now. Have you thought about grad school or work? Brooke asked.

Before I could speak, my mom jumped in.

Oh, were not putting any pressure on her. A nice, easy job. Something stable is all that matters.

My dad nodded. A girl doesnt need to be too ambitious.

Owen put a piece of fish on my plate. Listen to Mom and Dad, Nora. They know best.

I stared at the piece of white fish in my bowl.

Suddenly, I put down my fork.

I signed a publishing contract.

First, search for and download the MotoNovel app from Google. Then, open the app and use the code "282768" to read the entire book.