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September 10, 2122. Evington Primary Academy, Leicester, England.
Margaret Ellison was tired. A good tired, to be sure, but tired, nonetheless. The first full week of school with a new group of students was always an exhausting - but rewarding - experience. Mrs. Ellison loved meeting and learning about her new students. The enthusiastic and exuberant kids, those who were quiet and quivery, and the calm and collected ones: all were little treasures to her.
Mrs. Ellison watched as her students, her beautiful, bright seven-year-olds, filed into the classroom, finding their assigned seats with ease after almost a week and a half of classes. Most were chattering to each other, as was permitted in her classroom before instruction began, a luxury that some of the professors here at Evington Primary Academy did not permit. Some dragged themselves in, already exhibiting signs of being more acclimated to the night than the morning, even at their tender age.
One boy, smaller than most of his classmates, entered the room silently, little hands wrapped around the backpack straps over his shoulders and ice-blue eyes facing forward. He had a shock of dark, almost black hair, and pasty white skin. When she saw him on the first day of school, Mrs. Ellison had thought the child was ill.
She watched surreptitiously as he took his seat near the window, three rows back from the front. He placed his bag on the floor near his feet and drew out his school PADD. The child placed the device on the small desk in front of him, then neatly aligned it to the sides of the surface. He drew out his school-issued stylus next, sleek and white, and placed it carefully at the top of his PADD on the desk.
Set up tasks complete, the boy folded his hands in his lap and raised his eyes to stare blankly at the board at the front of the classroom.
Malcolm was an odd one, Mrs. Ellison thought. A grand name, for such a small child. In the week and a half since the fall session began, she hadn’t seen him speak to a single person, herself included. She supposed he had to interact with someone; it was highly improbable for a child of his young age to remain completely silent, but despite spending nearly eight hours a day in her classroom, she had yet to see any proof of his language skills.
It was clear enough that he was bright; he had placed into her gifted students’ class, after all. He simply seemed a bit behind his peers in social skills, a knowledge or confidence gap which could be easily remedied with a little encouragement. Perhaps he was just shy; not all kids flourished in a new living environment, especially one as potentially overwhelming as Evington Primary.
8:30am rolled around, and Mrs. Ellison stood from her reclined position behind her large writing desk at the front of the classroom. Her students, all sixteen of them, immediately quieted, bums in chairs, eyes forward, hands still. She smiled.
“Good morning, students! We’ve got a fun day planned today! Today, I will be introducing you to your learning companions. Please power on your PADDs, and we will begin.”
Mrs. Ellison walked the aisle of her classroom, giving the boys time to power on their PADDs. Returning to the front of the room, she continued, “Once you’ve got your PADD turned on, select the app that looks like this.” She gestured to the display to the left of her desk. Heads came up to examine the image, and then fell back down to their PADDs. Mrs. Ellison heard the distinctive sound of the app opening several times as students found their query; a few students rushed to turn the volume on their devices down to a more acceptable level for the classroom.
“Has everyone found the app and launched it successfully?” Varying replies of “yes ma’am” resounded through the room. Malcolm mouthed the words, as if he was saying them, but Mrs. Ellison was fairly certain no sound had escaped his thin lips.
She’d made it clear enough, she thought, over the last week and a half, that she required verbal responses to her questions. She had assumed that it would take a small adjustment period to the rule, but she hoped that she wouldn’t have to speak to any of her students about obeying it. Hopefully, the child would acclimate soon.
“Excellent. This app launches your Learning Companion. You can think of your companion as someone who will help you learn. They will grow with you throughout your education at Evington. You can have your companion read your homework questions aloud, offer step-by-step examples of problems, and give you hints. It can also help you settle into life around the school, such as giving you reminders about your schedule.”
Mrs. Ellison paused while she waited for the information to sink into her students’ brains. Sixteen heads were bowed over their desks, busy tapping away within the app, exploring the different offerings of the program.
“For the first hour of lecture today, we will be getting to know our companions. If you click on this image in the app -” she gestured again to the screen, to an image of a gear with a pencil in the middle of it “- you can change your companion to look like anything you want. You will be able to change this at any time. Are there any questions before we begin meeting our new friends?”
A chorus of “no ma’am” was heard across the room - fifteen, to be precise.
“Excellent,” Mrs. Ellison said again. “Then you may begin getting to know your companion. If you have any questions, please raise your hand, and I will come and help you. You are permitted quiet conversation while you work.” She stressed the ‘quiet’ in the sentence; although she wasn’t personally opposed to children laughing and talking loudly, it was part of her job as an instructor to teach her students the appropriate conversation levels for any situation they may encounter in life.
Some of her students exchanged smiles with each other and began talking in low voices as they worked on their companions. Others - including little Malcolm - remained solitary, preferring to focus all their energy on perfecting their new friend.
Watching the beautiful scene of happy children play out in front of her, Mrs. Ellison tapped back to her desk and took her seat.
The hour passed fairly quickly, with few interruptions in her lesson planning activities. Most of the conversations in the room had turned to things other than the learning companions as the hour wore on, a cue that most students had finished their customizations.
“Alright, students, let’s see what you’ve created! Let’s go around the room and share our new friends. Joshua, would you like to start?”
This activity would take about 30 minutes for her whole class, and was an extremely useful learning tool for her students. Although young, encouraging her students to learn to speak in front of others was a core pillar of the curriculum at Evington Primary, as was attentive listening. Sharing a creation also encouraged students to develop a closer affinity with said creation, hopefully accelerating the bonding process with the learning companion.
Unsurprisingly, more than a third of her students had chosen the sailor outfit to adorn their companions with, although the actual identity of the companion varied widely, from anthropomorphized dogs and fantastical dragons to robots with funny voices. It was common for children, especially those in younger grades like her Year 3 students, to make their companions in the image of something familiar, in this case, the sailor outfit.
This was the same result as it had been all fifteen years of Mrs. Ellison’s teaching career. Most of the students in her class had been brought up on a hearty diet of hero worship for the Royal Navy sailors of old, the explorers and the adventurers who had made the Service great. Perhaps some even met those heroes in the form of their ancestors: parents, grandparents, or even great-grandparents.
Progress was made slowly but surely through the companion introductions. Some students were brief and quiet. Others were ebullient and long-winded, eager to share their new friends. Only a couple of students needed to be prompted more than once.
Save for little Malcolm.
Third to last to present, the small child resolutely got to his feet, holding his PADD facing the classroom in front of him to present his companion. He opened his mouth to speak…and snapped his jaw shut with an audible click. His already pasty white face blanched further, and panic slid over his features. His grey eyes lowered to the floor, fixating on a piece of lint embedded in the carpet. Mrs. Ellison could see a faint trembling in his thin limbs.
She always felt bad, in a sense, when her lesson plans visibly pushed her students outside of their comfort zones. Of course, leaving one’s comfort zone every once in a while was healthy, and really the best way to learn, but that didn’t make it any easier to watch her students struggle.
Mrs. Ellison loudly rearranged a stack of PADDs on her desk to draw the other students’ attention away from Malcolm for a moment while he collected himself. After about twenty seconds and still hearing no speaking, she hazarded a glance up at him. The child remained standing stock still in the same position, the picture of fear.
Tittering was heard from one of the other students, a near-silent sound that echoed through the room. Another, and then another. Malcolm’s trembling visibly increased.
Mrs. Ellison felt a twinge in her heart. This could not be allowed to continue.
She stood quickly, pinning the class with her fiercest glare. The laughter ceased immediately, faces still as stone.
“Malcolm, can you describe your companion to me? What does your companion look like?” She put on her brightest understanding smile with her best understanding voice, hoping to set the boy at ease. Some students responded better to a direct question, instead of an open-ended prompt.
Malcolm, unfortunately, was not one of them. If anything, the direct question only distressed the poor child further, if the single tear sliding down his cheek was an indication. He opened and closed his mouth again, but no sound escaped his lips.
“Malcolm,” Mrs. Ellison started, desperate to rectify this situation, “would it be alright if I introduced your companion? You can bring them up here to my desk.”
Slowly, little booted feet dragged themselves to her desk, their owner keeping his head down, eyes on the floor, shoulders shaking. Mrs. Ellison accepted the offered PADD immediately and studied the screen for a few moments. She was a bit surprised by his choices, but she didn’t let it show on her face.
Then, summoning her brightest smile, she turned the PADD to the classroom. Malcolm stood silently by her side, head down, little hands worrying the cuffs of his white uniform shirt.
“Here we have Malcolm’s companion! Malcolm’s companion’s name is “Captain.” He is a right Navyman. He’s wearing a proper Navy uniform. Here’s what he sounds like.” Mrs. Ellison clicked the little sound icon next to the companion’s head on the screen. A calm, neutral male voice in a proper British accent enunciated the words into the quiet classroom,
“Hello! I’m Captain, and I’m your Learning Companion. Let’s have some fun!”
Finished with the presentation, Mrs. Ellison held the PADD back out to Malcolm.
“You may return to your seat, Malcolm. Excellent work on your companion.”
Predictably, the boy said nothing, only retracted the PADD and moved back to his seat without making eye contact with her or any of the other students. He slipped silently into his seat upon reaching it, setting the PADD noiselessly on the desk. He resumed an attentive look, hands folded neatly in his lap, but his glassy eyes betrayed the turmoil just beneath the surface.
“Alright, Ryker, you’re next. Please stand and present your companion.” Mrs. Ellison hastened to the next student. She glanced at the clock on her desk; only 9:55am. Not that she expected it to be any later; it was just a terribly long way from the end of the day, and she was already ready for it to be over.
“Malcolm, Everett, and Joshua, would you three please stay seated for a few more minutes? The rest of you are dismissed to games. Have a wonderful evening, students!” Mrs. Ellison really only needed Malcolm to stay, but after having embarrassed the poor boy so thoroughly earlier, she wasn’t about to humiliate him further.
As it was, the boy stayed rooted to his seat, rigidly still, his narrow shoulders stretched back tautly and his eyes focused on the display at the front of the classroom.
As the rest of the students filed out, Mrs. Ellison spoke to Everett and Joshua,
“Boys, please take this note to Mr. Singh. His classroom is across the hall. Tell him that it is from Mrs. Ellison. Then you’re dismissed to games.” A meaningless task, and certainly one she could have done herself, but Mrs. Ellison hadn’t wanted Malcolm to be the only one asked to stay behind after class.
“Yes, ma’am,” they chorused, and they were out of their seats and into the hall, backpacks in hand.
Once they had departed, Mrs. Ellison turned to Malcolm.
“Malcolm, would you come up here to the desk, please?” She sat down in her comfortable chair, busying herself with straightening papers while Malcolm approached the desk. After a few minutes of silence, she looked up, and was startled to discover the child standing in front of her desk. She hadn’t heard him walk up, nor had he addressed her when he arrived.
Mrs. Ellison took in the sight before her. Malcolm had drawn himself up very straight. His hands were clasped behind his back, little feet planted shoulder-width apart. She could see the shallow rise and fall of his shoulders as he took quick, nervous breaths. His chin was up, his lips pressed together tightly. His intelligent blue eyes stared past her to fix on a point on the wall.
Mrs. Ellison could see the glass of tears and the shine of panic brimming just under the surface of his little soldierly expression.
She’d severely misjudged this situation.
The child was not merely afraid of public speaking; he was terrified.
“You’re not in trouble, I just want to ask you some questions,” she hastened to reassure him. This seemed to have the opposite effect on Malcolm; a single tear balled itself up and rolled down his left cheek. His bottom lip trembled, and the next few breaths were shuddery. Mrs. Ellison watched him struggle to claw back some control, her heart breaking.
This was not normal seven-year-old behavior, at least not when the child should have known he didn’t do anything to deserve punishment. Even then, this level of quietness, his focus on suppressing his tears, showed a level of emotional maturity a seven-year-old just shouldn’t have.
“Come here, sit down, Malcolm.” Mrs. Ellison clicked a button on her desk, and a small seat slid out from the side adjacent to her own. Malcolm hesitated, then began to move stiffly towards the stool.
He perched himself silently on the edge, hands clasped tightly together in front of him. Again, his eyes focused on a point past her shoulder.
Mrs. Ellison was quiet. She honestly wasn’t sure where to start. The boy in front of her was so obviously trying to conceal his fear; should she say something to help put him more at ease? But what? Her first attempt hadn’t been successful. And what was she even going to ask him? ‘Why don’t you speak?’ That was likely to go over well.
Her silence was, apparently, also the wrong thing to do, since another tear rolled down Malcolm’s cheek and the trembling increased. She had to say something, now.
“Would you be able to write down some answers for me, if I ask you some questions?”
A pause, then a timid nod.
Mrs. Ellison smiled what she hoped was an encouraging smile. She activated her desk and directed a writing slate to appear on the previously dark interface screen in front of Malcolm.
She reached over to the pen holder to the right of her desk and drew out a stylus, handing it to Malcolm.
And suddenly, Margaret had never been more angry in her life.
She’d extended the stylus to Malcolm, and the child had fucking flinched.
It wasn’t a dramatic movement, really a tiny twitch of his eye and a slight shrinking of his little shoulders. He’d recovered quickly, reaching for the stylus with his right hand and wiping away the errant tears with his left. He leaned down over the writing slate, tested the stylus in a corner, and then looked up at her with reddened, watery eyes, awaiting her first question.
Margaret was furious, but she was careful not to let any of her wrath show in her face. She didn’t have a lot of answers, right now, but she was certain of one thing: whoever had hurt this innocent little boy would pay dearly. Hopefully, the next few minutes would be elucidative.
“Are you settling in alright at Evington? Enjoying your classwork? You can just write ‘yes’ or ‘no’, or nod, if that’s easier.”
Malcolm diligently bent over the slate and scratched ‘yes, ma’am’ into the top left corner, in perfect penmanship for a seven-year-old. He looked up again, waiting for her next query.
“That’s good!” Margaret replied enthusiastically. Malcolm just blinked owlishly at her. Her enthusiasm deflated a bit, but she kept up a cheerful face as she continued, “You’ve been doing very good work in class. You always follow directions the first time, and your answers are always correct. That tells me you understand what we’re learning.”
She’d hoped to see some sort of positive acknowledgement of the encouragement, but this enigma of a child only pursed his little lips and let his eyes fall to his lap. Steeling herself, she plowed ahead.
“So I’m not worried about your schoolwork. I just want to make sure you’re comfortable here.” Malcolm’s eyes flicked up to hers, briefly, then back down. Then, slowly, he nodded, as if answering a question. She paused, half expecting him to explain his response, then kicking herself mentally when she realized he wasn’t likely to do that.
At least the tears had dried up.
“Has anyone here been unkind to you? Are you getting along with the other students?”
Malcolm hesitated, then wrote four words onto the slate, under the first answer.
No, ma’am.
Yes, ma’am.
“You have excellent penmanship, Malcolm.” No positive response. This situation was becoming more concerning by the minute, particularly because Margaret hadn’t quite learned Malcolm well enough yet to know if he was telling her the truth.
“I’ve noticed you prefer to work on your own,” she said carefully, watching Malcolm closely for any subtle changes in his demeanor. It was difficult, since the boy was so closed off already. “And that’s alright - lots of students do that at first. But,” she continued, heart in her throat, “I haven’t heard you speak in class yet.”
That got a response, and definitely not a good one.
Malcolm froze. The glassy tears were back, and Margaret heard the boy suck in a stuttery breath, then button his lip shut as if that alone could stave off the torrent of emotions he was trying unsuccessfully to mask.
Her heart broke. She immediately regretted broaching the topic. Having taught Year 3 students for almost fifteen years now, Margaret knew that seven-year-olds were a lot more in tune with how others perceived them than most people realized. The more emotionally mature students had often already begun intertwining how others spoke to them into their self-image.
That must be what was happening here; someone had criticized Malcolm for being quiet, and the little boy had internalized that criticism.
“You’re not in any trouble for that,” Margaret added gently. She wanted to reach out and give this poor little boy a great big hug, but based on his earlier reaction, that probably wasn’t the best idea. His flinching away from a possible contact was a whole different can of worms that she would have to examine later, when she could allow her face to display her anger.
“I just want to understand, and try to make it better, if I can.” She paused, then continued, “Is it easier for you to write things down, instead of saying them?” Another yes ma’am scratched onto the slate.
“Okay,” she replied. She took a gamble on the next statement. “Sometimes, new places can feel a bit… loud.” Another owlish look. Okay, overstimulation maybe wasn’t the trigger. Perhaps… “And it can be scary speaking in front of the whole class.” There was no change in his expression. Margaret chewed on the inside of her lip while she thought of another line to fish with.
“Perhaps especially to someone you don’t know very well.” Ah ha! Malcolm’s lips tightened minutely, and he broke eye contact to stare at his lap again. So it was related to speaking to new people. This was fairly common for young students, and it would fix itself with time, as he got to know her and his classmates better.
Margaret thought she might be beginning to understand. However, a call was probably due to his parents to inform them of the situation with his silence, and ask them for any tips that may have helped to put the child at ease in previous unfamiliar situations. She might also be able to pulse them for any signs of physical abuse, as a child flinching was definitely not a normal response.
“Thank you for answering my questions, Malcolm. You’ve done very well. Now, will you make me a promise?”
Malcolm looked up, giving her his full attention as he blinked away tears.
“Promise me that you’ll tell me if anyone here is unkind to you, or if anyone hurts you. You won’t be in trouble for telling me. Okay?” she prompted.
Malcolm hesitated, then turned to the writing surface on the desk and replied a final yes, ma’am.
That wasn’t exactly the enthusiastic promise she’d hoped for, but it would have to do for now. Margaret smiled at the little boy and leaned back - when had she leaned so far forward? - to a normal sitting position.
“Very good, Malcolm. Now, please gather your things, and go to games. Here,” she paused, scribbling out a note, “is your late arrival pass for your games leader.” She handed him the yellow slip.
Silently, Malcolm accepted the note and rose from the stool. He nodded to her, almost an adult gesture, and then turned and made his way back to his seat.
Margaret watched him, the silent way he moved almost unnerving her. Most boys his age were loud, rambunctious, and chaotic, but Malcolm was quiet and reserved. She wondered idly if that was his personality or a learned behavior.
Yes, a call to his parents was definitely in quick order.
Margaret had the distinct feeling she was not going to like what she learned.
“Mr. Reed, Mrs. Reed, thank you both for meeting with me on such short notice. Your time is greatly appreciated.” Margaret was settled into the comfortable chair in her husband’s study. It wasn’t often she asked to borrow his space, preferring usually to spread her grading activities out across the many surfaces in the kitchen and dining area, but something told her that formality was a must for this call.
“Of course. When you called saying you were Malcolm’s new teacher, of course we made time to speak with you.” Mary Reed was modestly dressed in a somewhat puffy house dress, her dark hair pulled back into a sensible bun. A bouncing baby girl with a bright smile babbled incoherently on her knee. Mary’s eyes held concern, but also a bone-deep exhaustion.
“What’s the boy done already?” Margaret blinked at the question from Stuart Reed, who, up until this point, had been silent, apparently invested in some content in a PADD. She turned her attention to the imposing, smartly-dressed patriarch of the household.
It was clear now the kind of straight-laced, military environment little Malcolm had been raised in up to this point based on his parents.
“Um, nothing, Mr. Reed, Malcolm is an excellent student.” She fumbled for words.
“It’s Captain Reed,” was the grunted reply. “Then why are you calling? And so early into the school year.” For a moment, Captain Reed’s raised eyebrow made Margaret feel as though she had regressed to her childhood days, facing her own father after misbehaving. If the expression could make a grown woman of thirty-five quiver in her boots - or fuzzy socks hidden under the desk, as the case was - then how much more would it impact a child of seven?
Mustering her courage, Margaret continued on her quest.
“As Malcolm’s Year 3 teacher, I’ve noticed some…uncommon behavior from your son since school began. He doesn’t seem -”
“Yes, we know he’s a disrespectful child; that’s why I enrolled him at Evington. I was under the impression that it was still a policy of the curriculum there to instill respect in their students.” The last sentence was said with a pointed look over the top of the PADD at Margaret. She could feel herself bristling, but with great effort retained her calm facade, taking a silent deep breath and pasting a smile on her face.
“Yes, respect is a core pillar of our lesson planning at Evington, you are correct, Captain Reed,” she began. “However, respectfully, I haven’t seen any disrespectful behavior from Malcolm. Actually, quite the opposite. He’s really a very quiet child; in fact, I haven’t heard him speak at all. Is that common behavior at home?” The words tumbled out, one after another. There was a pregnant silence on the other end of the line.
Margaret held her breath as she laid her cards on the table. This situation shouldn’t be this tense; it was just another call with a student’s parents. She’d done this hundreds of times over her tenure. Why was this particular call so stressful?
Mary opened her mouth, then darted her eyes to Stuart and shut her mouth again, waiting for her husband to speak. Stuart himself fixed Margaret with a stern look through the video call, then huffed out a sharp, exasperated breath.
“As I said, he’s a disrespectful child. He often refuses to speak to people in authority, including myself. He doesn’t like to acknowledge that he’s not in charge. I was hoping that Evington would be able to teach him some manners.” Again with the pointed comment.
“Okay, so this is a known problem with Malcolm? I was thinking it might be related to his new living situation at Evington being overwhelming for him, but if it was known before he began attending…” she trailed off, waiting for one of the child’s parents to take up the story and explain just what was going on here. She was thinking this was a new thing, but it seemed that this issue was something that had been plaguing the child for much longer.
“Ah, Malcolm has always been a…quiet child,” Mary explained tentatively. “He’ll whisper or sometimes speak to me or to my sister, but he doesn’t really engage anyone else in conversation.” She threw a hesitant look at Stuart, who remained steadfastly fixed on his PADD. “It started three years ago when…”
“He’s always been disrespectful, Mary. At his age he should be able to respond when spoken to. He’s just a defiant child; this behavior needs to be corrected, which I believe is part of your job description.” Ah, Margaret just loved parents who shoved the entire responsibility for raising their child on said child’s teacher. She also noticed with some frustration how Stuart interrupted Mary when she was about to share a seemingly key detail of the story behind Malcolm’s silence.
“He knows how to speak. He simply chooses not to,” Stuart continued assertively.
Margaret was beginning to see the whole picture here, and it wasn’t one she liked. The mismatch between what she observed earlier in the day - the terrified expression on the child’s face flashed through her mind, followed immediately by the horrible flinch - and what Stuart was saying now seemed like too big a chasm to cross. Stuart’s interpretation of Malcolm’s silence seemed borne out of…anger? Insecurity? Instead of actual concern for his child.
If there was one thing Margaret could be sure of, that terror on Malcolm’s little pinched face didn’t indicate he was choosing not to speak. She wasn’t sure exactly what was going on, but her bets certainly weren’t on Malcolm choosing to be silent.
“I understand that perhaps it seems that way, Captain, but I’m not quite sure that’s the case.” Suddenly, that ice-blue stare - like father, like son - was unwaveringly fixed on her. Margaret suppressed the juvenile urge to squirm in the seat and continued, “I observed some extremely concerning behavior today that leads me to believe Malcolm may have a neurological issue related to speaking.”
Well. That was the wrong thing to say.
The silence on the other end of the line was deafening. When Stuart did speak again, his voice was pitched dangerously low.
“The boy does not have a neurological issue. He is perfectly healthy. He simply refuses to respond when spoken to, and otherwise has a quiet disposition. Is that clear?”
“Of course. I assume that when I questioned him this afternoon about his silence, I misinterpreted the clear look of terror on his face? Or, when I asked him to write down his answers and handed him a stylus, I didn’t actually see him flinch at the possible contact?”
Immediately, Margaret wished she could take the words back. No sense in adding petrol to an already burning fire.
“Are you insinuating something, Mrs. Ellison?”
She remained silent, hoping her glare could communicate the strength she couldn’t be sure her voice would display.
“Let me be perfectly clear: I don’t tolerate disrespect at home.”
Ah, there it was: the crux of the situation, laid out in a short, perfectly logical sentence. Not the ramblings or excuses of an abuser given to random violence, but the colder, more calculating line of someone who believed every act of discipline was justified.
“If he’s to be in the Navy like myself and his grandfather and great-grandfather before him, he’ll have to learn to respond when he’s spoken to.”
Of course. Heritage and ancestral pressure layered on top.
“The boy needs to learn respect and discipline, both of which he greatly lacks now. He needs to learn to behave.”
And finally, the piece of the puzzle that Margaret needed to make the whole picture.
She sat back in her chair, stunned.
She’d been so far from the actual truth in her estimation of the situation earlier. This wasn’t a confidence issue, or a knowledge gap.
This was systemic, in the most important of systems: the family structure.
Poor, poor little Malcolm.
Margaret felt the rage bubbling up inside her, deeper and more furious than she had ever felt before. How dare they treat such a sweet, innocent child like that? Even though she’d only known Malcolm for a week and a half, she knew that he was nothing like they - like Captain Reed - portrayed him as.
He was sweet, smart, and so eager to please, almost to a fault. Aside from remaining silent, he’d gone above and beyond at every opportunity to fulfill Margaret’s expectations of him. She had never seen him do one thing that could be misconstrued as disrespectful or lacking in discipline, which was extraordinary for a seven-year-old.
She hated herself for thinking this, as she believed that it was almost always better for a child to be raised by their parents, but…perhaps it was better they had sent Malcolm away.
Margaret vowed, in that moment, that she would do everything in her power to help Malcolm.
After far too long sitting in the silence, Margaret found her words again.
“I believe I understand. You’re saying that he needs to learn respect and discipline. Both of those concepts are core pillars of education at Evington. However, I believe this issue stems beyond temperament or intelligence,” she said carefully, holding her anger at bay by her fingernails. “What I’d like to do is give him some tools to use for when he…is having difficulty speaking.”
“The boy’s education is not my concern; once again, that’s why he is enrolled at Evington. What he learns is your responsibility as his educator. Now, if you please, Mrs. Ellison, I’d rather not be bothered with lesson plans any further. If you have further concerns, I suggest you address them to the boy. I bid you goodnight.”
The screen flickered to darkness. Margaret saw her own reflection in the black screen, a furious, tight expression. She sat very still in the sudden silence of the study, hands clenched tightly in her lap, thoughts churning.
Well, she’d gotten the insight she had been looking for, alright.
It was just much, much deeper than she had ever suspected.
She now understood the soldierly way little Malcolm had held himself, eyes forward, stoic expression.
She understood the flinch, and the terror at being called to her desk for questioning his silence.
And most of all, she understood why he didn’t speak.
Something had happened, three years ago, Mary had said before Stuart cut her off. Something that had pressed the mute button on Malcolm’s voice.
It didn’t seem likely she’d ever find out what; the only people who knew would probably be Stuart, Mary, and Malcolm himself, and none of them were likely to tell her.
Margaret’s heart broke for the little child. Her feelings must have shown on her face, for from the doorway of the study came her husband’s voice,
“Mags? You okay?”
Was she? She felt…overwhelmingly upset. And confused, too. How could any parent treat their child like the Reeds’ treated Malcolm?
Her silence must have been telling enough, for Jared crossed the room to the big desk and stood beside her, enveloping her in a big hug.
“A problem with one of my students’ family,” Margaret eventually said quietly, hugging Jared back.
“Ah.” That one word conveyed so much understanding. Jared knew how deeply she loved her students. When life had denied them children of their own, Margaret had quietly poured that love into every child who entered her classroom.
“You gonna come up to the kitchen soon, baby? The sausage rolls are almost done.”
Margaret laughed, the teasing tone in Jared’s voice breaking through the haze of her pain.
“Isn’t it a little late for cooking?”
Jared released her and moved towards the door of the study, making finger guns as he exited, calling over his shoulder,
“Never too late for sausage rolls!” Margaret chuckled again, then allowed her thoughts to sober as she turned back to the issue at hand.
If no one else was going to help Malcolm, she would. She would build the poor child a toolbox full of tools to help him feel comfortable expressing his thoughts and using his voice again.
It would require more time than she had with him, but she could at least get him started.
Sausage rolls forgotten, Margaret reactivated the sleeping computer and began to research her newest challenge.
The weeks that followed were quiet. Not quiet in that nothing was happening, but the quiet that speaks of steady, slow, dedicated progress.
Margaret had done her research. She had three strategies to teach little Malcolm to help him work with his selective mutism.
She started teaching him the simplest tool first.
Just one word.
If the whole sentence felt stuck behind the anxiety that rushed its way to the front of his brain when he tried to speak, saying just one word would help break past the haze.
Sometimes only one word was needed; Yes, No, Here, Ready. Other times, one word could be the gateway to a few more whispered words, completing the whole sentence.
Progress was slow. In the beginning, Malcolm couldn’t manage a single word most days. His clear little blue eyes would gloss over with thinly veiled tears, and his lower lip would tremble as he opened and closed his mouth, trying to will the words to the surface.
Margaret often resorted to requesting he write his response on his slate and turn it so the class could see, but she made sure he had an honest opportunity to speak before doing so.
The days that he did manage a whispered “yes, ma’am” or “no, ma’am” lived in Margaret’s head rent-free for weeks, shining, brilliant examples of hard-won progress.
Her second tool was much more successful. Malcolm’s little brain thrived on structure; he found great success using scripted lines for responses.
Good morning.
I understand.
I don’t know.
May I be excused?
Could you repeat that, please?
His learning companion, the uniformed Captain, was an eager participant in Malcolm’s practice of his scripted phrases. With the help of the school’s IT department, Margaret was able to have Malcolm’s companion programmed with the ability to converse with him using a scripted conversation. While extremely repetitive, it enabled Malcolm to practice his responses in a safe environment, before venturing into the more scary world of one-on-one practice with a tutor or Margaret.
The final boss of his scripted responses lesson came in the form of Assistant Principal Burnley. Every once in a while, the school administrators would make themselves available to students during lunch periods. On one such occasion, Mr. Burnley passed by Malcolm’s table, a few feet away from where Margaret and a couple of other Year 3 teachers were chatting.
Margaret didn’t notice she was crying until one of the other teachers asked her with a very concerned look if everything was alright. She couldn’t help it; Malcolm’s spoken ‘good morning, sir’, in response to the assistant principal’s direct greeting was the most beautiful thing she’d heard all week.
After that, she heard more examples of Malcolm’s little verbal bridges. Not too terribly often, but perhaps four or five times a week, she’d receive a verbal response to a question, spoken out loud in his precious, proper, British accent.
And suddenly, it was Christmas break. Margaret’s anxiety ramped up as the term end loomed terrifyingly closer. Not only was she worried that sending him back to his parents would undo the strong progress she’d made with Malcolm over the term, but she was also concerned about his wellbeing in that house.
As was her duty as a mandatory reporter, she’d filled out the school’s Student of Concern report the same night as her call with Captain and Mrs. Reed. As she had expected, there was nothing the school could do for the child, other than watching for any signs of escalation.
Though she suspected much, Margaret could prove nothing; emotional and verbal abuse left no tangible evidence, unless overheard, and Stuart hadn’t made any direct threats on Malcolm’s welfare. His declaration of “not tolerating disrespect at home” was extremely concerning, but she still could not prove that his methods of discouraging disrespect went beyond normal discipline of children.
She shed a hidden tear when Mary arrived with baby Madeline to pick Malcolm up for the break. Madeline had apparently learned to speak in the few months that Malcolm had been away at school, and when she saw him, her little eyes, ice blue like her brothers’, lit up brightly, and she began to chatter to him excitedly.
Malcolm leaned down to her eye level and whispered a greeting to her. She stumbled on her stubby little toddler legs, and he put his hands out to catch her. They held a babbled and whispered conversation as Mary and Margaret watched, enthralled with the beautiful dialogue.
“I haven’t heard him speak to anyone other than Sherry and I in years,” Mary breathed, careful not to disturb the scene in front of them. “Does he speak to you?” Although intensely sad - Margaret wished this conversation had never been necessitated in the first place - she couldn’t help but feel a tiny flicker of pride at the progress her quietest student had made.
“Yes, occasionally. He can usually respond to yes or no questions, and he’s very good at greeting people. He also has several scripted responses that he feels comfortable using in most situations. I’ve been working with him on his speech since the beginning of this semester.” She shot a pointed look at Mary, who flushed slightly and averted her eyes.
“I know…I know Stuart was a bit short with you when we spoke all those months ago…You must understand, he isn’t a bad father, really. He just wants Malcolm to grow up to be a successful Navyman.” Her excuses fell on Margaret’s deaf ears.
“That is the only way to be successful, of course, to be in the Navy,” she replied, a bit more than a hint of sarcasm in her voice. Mary flushed a deeper red and sighed, not an exasperated sigh, but one of long-suffering.
“It’s in Malcolm’s blood to be a Navyman. Three generations of Reed men have been in the Navy. It’s Malcolm’s duty to be the fourth.”
Hearing the finality in the woman’s tone and seeing little reason to argue - one should not argue with a brick wall, after all - Margaret merely hummed her response, and turned her attention back to Malcolm.
“Have you got all of your things, Malcolm?” Hearing the address, the child straightened up from where his sister had plopped herself on the floor and was intently examining the carpet with a desire to eat whatever floor snacks may be found.
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied softly, indicating the little luggage and backpack standing to the right of his desk. “I’m ready.” A small smile pulled at the corners of his thin little lips.
“Come along then, Malcolm,” Mary interjected. She tapped over to her two children and picked up Madeline. “I need to put dinner on before your father gets home.” At the mention of Stuart, Malcolm’s face paled slightly, and the smile he’d favored Margaret with disappeared instantly.
Ever the obedient child Margaret had come to know over the past few months, Malcolm grabbed his luggage and slung the backpack over his shoulder. He turned to Margaret and said,
“Goodbye, Mrs. Ellison. See you in a few weeks.” Tears pricked at the corner of Margaret’s eyes. She shoved them back with no small effort.
“Goodbye, Malcolm. Remember to practice your responses and conversations every day with Captain.” Hopefully, with steady practice, he would not regress so much over the break.
The dark-haired boy nodded, a shy smile gracing his little face again. Then, he turned, and followed his mother out the door of the classroom.
However upstanding a lady Margaret considered herself, she was not above contriving a reason for little Malcolm to pay the nurse a welfare visit the moment term resumed in January.
As it turned out, she did not need to invent one.
It only took one look at the child’s face when he settled himself into his seat on the first day back to know that his break had not been a pleasant one. He had indeed regressed, no longer even speaking his scripted phrases to Margaret.
When asked to stand up and share about his break with the class, as most of his classmates had before him, he once again locked up, his little eyes glazing over with panic and his hands clenched tightly to his sides to keep them from trembling.
Margaret bundled him off to the nurse’s office, citing his panic attack as the reason for the visit. She knew Matron DeAngelo would do her due diligence on the welfare check; any signs of physical abuse present on the child would be carefully noted and tracked.
He must have passed the exam, because he returned to class a couple hours later still a little pale and shaky, but much calmer. Margaret offered him a small smile, which was not returned.
And she went back to the beginning with the toolbox.
The child picked up the strategies much more quickly this time around, and it was only about a month before Malcolm was speaking his scripted responses to Margaret again.
It was time to add the third and final tool to his toolbox: physical grounding.
When the panic became too much, words retreated behind the cloud of anxiety, and the world started spinning, Margaret taught Malcolm to use the surrounding physical environment to anchor himself. He could place his hand on the desk in front of him, or plant his feet firmly into the ground to give his brain a root.
The first time she caught him using the technique in the wild was during free activity time in late March. Another student, the ‘introvert-adopter’ of the classroom, invited Malcolm to play with her and her ever-expanding friend group. Margaret watched surreptitiously as he pressed his little fingers into the top of his desk, hesitating a moment before whispering,
“Thank you,” and standing up from his desk to join the little group gathered by the life-size checkers board.
Margaret could have cried.
The remaining weeks of the spring and summer terms flew by in a blur. Somehow, suddenly, the last day of the summer term was upon them.
As she had every ‘last day of the school year’ for the previous fifteen years, Margaret did her best to make the day special. She arrived early to decorate her classroom. She had fun, jazzy, Caribbean-themed music playing in the background. She took care in setting out a generous spread of finger foods and sweet treats for her students and their parents to nibble on during pick up.
Parents came and went in a cheerful tide of voices, collecting trunks, bags, and children in varying states of excitement.
Margaret stood in front of her desk, chatting with parents and hugging her students she’d had the privilege of getting to know and helping to guide over the past year.
Little Malcolm was the last to leave. Mary came to pick him up again, Madeline on her hip. The woman did not engage with Margaret beyond the perfunctory greetings. While Margaret bristled a bit, the bone-tired exhaustion in Mary’s eyes did lend her a little sympathy.
Mary nodded to Margaret as she applied her thumbprint to the scanner to take back guardianship of Malcolm, then turned to the child, urging him to gather his things.
Margaret turned her gaze to her most cherished student. The dark-haired boy stood near his old seat, shoulders straight for reasons other than fear. He met her eyes miles more confidently than he had on the first day of school, so many months ago now.
Margaret smiled at him, watching as he approached her.
“Mrs. Ellison?”
“Yes, Malcolm?” She hoped the higher pitch of her suddenly tight throat wasn’t noticeable to anyone else.
“Thank you for…for helping me.” The voice was quiet, but clear, and definitely more than a whisper.
There were few experiences in Margaret’s thirty-seven years of life in which she could recall being happier than in that moment. Not trusting her voice, she simply nodded her acceptance of the gratitude, and was rewarded with a real smile from the little angular face.
The moment was broken by a chattering two-year-old. Malcolm turned away and gathered his things from his desk. Then, for the last time, he exited Margaret’s classroom. He glanced back over his shoulder with a little wave, a smile dancing in his eyes.
The little boy still had a long way to go. He was still far from comfortable speaking in groups. Speaking to most authority figures and in any sort of setting in front of others was still almost impossible for him.
But now, with the tools Margaret had placed into his toolbox, he was well on the way to letting his beautiful voice be heard.
September 2, 2151. Enterprise (NX-01).
“Is that the best we can do, Lieutenant?!”
Captain Archer’s voice had suddenly taken on a new tenseness, and Malcolm Reed had a pretty good inkling why. The power readouts scrolling across his screen at the tactical station on the raised platform in the Armoury were disappointing at best, abysmal at worst.
At the captain’s incredulous - and somewhat accusatory - question, Malcolm felt the familiar tightening in his throat. He felt the decades-old panic rising in his gut, a rolling boil threatening to bubble over.
Shit! This was absolutely a rubbish time for this! He hasn’t had an episode in a few years, at least. It must have been the sleep deprivation from pulling double shifts, getting the cannon upgrades online, that made the old ghost louder.
The constant threat of attack from this silent enemy certainly didn’t help, either.
Almost instinctively, his left hand sought the corner of the tactical console as he raised his right to begin attempting to reconfigure the cannons to eek an ounce more power out of them. Fighting tooth and nail past the panic, focusing on the grounding point of his hand on the console, Malcolm bit out one word, the rest tumbling out after each other in a rush.
“Even if these cannons had been installed at Jupiter Station, they wouldn't be any more effective than they are now.” Shit. Wrong answer! That was not the right tone to speak to the captain in, man! Malcolm felt his jaw begin to lock up as the panic bubbled higher, cackling gleefully.
“What about yesterday? I saw you blow something up the size of Mount McKinley.”
He knew the answer to this. He did, he and Trip had poured so many hours into this project over the last few days. Why, why are the words getting stuck now, of all times? Answer the captain! His heart picked up speed, and he noticed distantly that his hands were shaking.
Malcolm shook his head to dislodge anxiety’s voice and shifted on his feet, regrounding himself to the deck plating.
“Yes sir -” he started with one of his scripted phrases, and the rest continued as naturally as if nothing at all was amiss “- but that was due to an overload.” There was silence on the line for half a second, and Malcolm could hear the chanting Wrong answer, Wrong answer, Wrong answer over and over in his head. Then,
“Can you overload them again?”
The half-second of respite gave Malcolm time to wedge a foot in the rusted door of his words, and he prided himself on how instantaneous his response sounded.
“Sir, after the damage from the first time, the plasma recoil would probably knock out two decks.”
Archer repeated his question like a broken record, a little more insistent this time. Malcolm took a deep, grounding breath and glanced at Trip, who met his eyes confidently, a silent message of support behind them. On the exhale, he replied,
“I believe so.”
“I’d rather knock out two decks than surrender this ship,” Archer spat contemptuously to no one in particular.
But…there was still so much unknown about inducing another overload. Oh, Malcolm could do it, alright, but if they didn’t disable the enemy vessel on this hit, it was likely they wouldn’t survive the rest of the combat due to the damage caused by the overload.
It wasn’t as simple as “I’d rather knock out two decks than surrender Enterprise”; if they did this and it didn’t work, they might have no choice but to surrender. Captain Archer needed to know this. He needed his Chief Tactical Officer to spit out the truth of the situation. He mentally scrolled through his list of starter phrases, the most applicable automatically rolling off his tongue.
“But sir -”
Then, the amazing Trip Tucker, Enterprise’s amazing and genius Chief Engineer, came to his rescue.
“Hold on a minute! I think there’s a way to handle the recoil.”
Trip dashed off to the Armoury’s auxiliary systems console on the far wall, leaving Malcolm at the tactical console with a bewildered look on his face.
“How?” Malcolm covered the shameful relief that colored his tone at being spared delivering the captain bad news with his customary skepticism.
“All that excess energy’s gotta go somewhere. Why not put it ta use?” Trip replied, gesturing grandly around at the department as he threw a look over his shoulder at Malcolm. He spoke as if this were the most natural statement in the world, despite the pair’s inability thus far to devise a solution to the overloading.
Malcolm felt a bit of the panic recede as Trip took over the figurative spotlight, an action which seemed to come so naturally to the gregarious engineer. He turned back to the tactical console, gripping the bars on it with both hands, turning his knuckles white.
He took a deep breath, and he felt the ‘stuckness’ beginning to leave his body. He could do this.
Over the intercom, Travis vocalized,
“Three thousand metres!”
Trip’s self-confident voice took up the cue for action with,
“If we repolarise the gravity plating to absorb the recoil, then we can shunt the energy to structural integrity.” His hands were flying over the controls at the auxiliary station, eyes darting between readouts as he rerouted systems.
“Sounds good to me,” Archer acquiesced from the Bridge. Malcolm held back an extremely unprofessional snort - but, really, Archer might be the captain, but his engineering knowledge was rather limited. He chimed in to Trip’s frenetic movements with his ship-famous pessimism.
“The grav-plating wasn’t designed to withstand that much force.”
“We all understand the risks. Get started.”
Captain Archer’s order was incontestable. Malcolm shook his head to himself, but replied a tense “Aye, sir.” He wasn’t wholeheartedly sure about this course of action, but who was he to question the captain’s orders?
He and Trip worked feverishly for the next few minutes, reconfiguring the phase cannons and the gravity plating, respectively. The threat of the looming enemy ship felt like a physical presence in the department.
Again, Travis’ voice over the intercom cut through the intense atmosphere.
“One thousand metres!”
Captain Archer’s warning, “Malcolm?” threw fuel on the fire under his rolling panic, causing it to flare up again momentarily, and his brain shorted for an instant. Malcolm bought himself time with a low “Stand by” slipping out on autopilot. His tongue darted out to moisten his suddenly parched lips.
Malcolm considered the readouts in front of him for a moment longer, then turned to Trip at the auxiliary systems console. The southerner nodded in response to his request for readiness, and, turning back to the tactical console, Malcolm took a deep breath and said,
“We’re ready, sir.”
The response was immediate.
“Then fire!”
Malcolm depressed the activation command to the phase cannons. He watched with bated breath - and then satisfaction - as the power readouts indicated not only that the overload had produced the desperately needed output to cripple the other ship, but also that Trip had been successful at redirecting the excess energy safely. Mostly, at least.
Malcolm gripped the handlebars on the console in front of him as the ship rocked violently, secondary explosions from the overabundance of energy causing minimal damage across the ship.
When the ship had stabilized, he called up the reports from the cannon fire, a smug little smirk sliding across his face as he noted the extensive damage to the enemy ship. He exchanged a look with Trip, who favored him with that thousand-watt smile before turning back to the console to bury himself in damage reports.
The throat-tightening panic Malcolm experienced at the beginning of the altercation with the silent enemy had ebbed into a simmer at the bottom of his stomach; still present, but much less overwhelming now.
With a great effort, he shoved the remaining anxiety to the bottom of his soles and out into the deck plating beneath him.
And not a moment too soon, for Archer’s demanding “Torpedoes!” through the intercom redirected all of Malcolm’s energy back into the task at hand.
With a practiced singlemindedness, Malcolm queued up two of his precious torpedoes. He heard the pods glide smoothly into the chambers as his hands flicked with practiced efficiency over the console, targeting the weakest point on the enemy’s ship: the starboard warp plasma conduit.
The sound of the torpedoes as they flew unerringly from the launch tubes towards their quarry reverberated beautifully inside Malcolm’s head.
The reports from their successful collision with the target were only even more beautiful. Malcolm’s smirk grew wider as he studied the readout, which in big white letters spelled out ‘Target Disabled’.
Mercifully, Enterprise did not receive any shots in return. Since it was never safe to assume an enemy was completely incapacitated until unequivocally proven so, Malcolm remained on alert until the all-clear was given from the bridge.
“Bridge to the Armoury,” came the much calmer hail from the Captain. Malcolm let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding, feeling the tension release from his shoulders. Their assailant must have indeed been incapacitated or at least moved off. “Everything okay down there?”
“We blew out the plasma relays on B deck, but it's nothing we can't take care of. What about our friends?” Trip replied, bustling back over to the tactical console next to Malcolm. He’d been tied up with the damage reports from Enterprise and had yet to see the good news.
“I have a feeling their repairs are going to be a little more extensive,” Captain Archer intoned. His wry expression could be heard across the comm. Malcolm threw a glance at Trip; the man looked just as tired as he felt. “How’d the cannons hold up?”
“Fairly well,” Malcolm began, studying the status reports on the screen in front of him. Thankfully, they held up much better than he had expected them to. “I’ll have them back online within the hour. The aft cannon should be working by the end of day tomorrow.” And then, his and Trip’s teams would receive some well-deserved off time.
“Good work.”
It was simple praise, but the words struck a chord within Malcolm. He felt the light heat from Archer’s words rise from the bottom of his feet up to the top of his head. Praise from authority figures always hit him harder than it had any right to, burying itself somewhere embarrassingly deep inside his chest.
It was one of the few things leftover from his childhood that he hadn’t been able to completely kick to the curb - as was the selective mutism, it appeared. As he bent over the armoury console, calling up damage reports on his beloved cannons, his mind wandered unwittingly back to the childish anxiety that ambushed him in the middle of the altercation with the silent enemy.
The white-hot moment of panic that had wrapped its grimy fingers around him at Archer’s question came out of nowhere. The old paralysis had hit him so suddenly: throat locking, thoughts scattering, words trapped behind that damned rusted door.
It hadn’t happened in over a decade, surely. Why then, of all times? Perhaps the lack of sleep from working double shifts to get the phase cannons upgraded and the relentless pressure of the last few days as Enterprise had been plagued by that alien ship had something to do with it.
Hopefully this incident wasn’t a herald of things to come. How could he explain to Captain Archer that his big bad Chief of Security sometimes just couldn’t find the words to speak?
How silly.
How childish.
How -
Now that’s quite enough of that attitude, young man. Mrs. Ellison’s voice - Margaret, he had later learned her name was - cut through his spiraling negative thoughts.
With effort, Malcolm banished the unproductive thoughts, shaking his head to clear them. He allowed more of her kind phrases to drift into his head.
Just one word, Malcolm. The rest will follow.
Pick from one of your starter phrases. Don’t worry about saying anything else for now.
Good job, Malcolm. You should be proud of yourself.
She had been the first person to look at him and see more than defiant silence.
Malcolm smiled faintly at the memory of catching Mrs. Ellison dabbing at her eyes during free play. He hadn’t understood it then.
Later, he realized it had been the same day he’d first managed a scripted phrase.
She’d given him the first tools in his toolbox so long ago in that small classroom at Evington Primary. Now, nearly three decades later, here he was, Chief of Security and Tactical aboard Earth’s first warp 5 ship, under fire from enemies and meeting new species on a weekly basis.
Not for the first time, Malcolm found himself grateful beyond words for Mrs. Ellison’s kindness, her never-ending patience, and, most of all, her unwavering belief in him.