Monday, August 26, 2020
Leo Araya's POV
The garage was still quiet when I opened my eyes. The old pull-out couch creaked under me as I stretched, the faint chill of early morning settling on my skin. My cochlear implant sat untouched on the nightstand, encased in soft plastic. Without it, the world remained wrapped in silence, a silence I've learned to savor.
The studio smelled like sawdust and old paint, warmed by yesterday's sun. On the right side of the room, beside the couch, my easel stood in its usual spot, surrounded by jars of murky water, brushes fanned out like flowers in old mugs, and palettes layered with dried streaks of color. Across from the couch, shelves made from stacked crates held jars of brushes, half-used tubes of paint, and bundles of dried herbs that someone - probably Rose - once thought were aesthetic. Fairy lights curled along the top beams, still dim in the daylight, and a chair hung upside down from the rafters like the attic had a sense of humor. A few mismatched canvases leaned against the walls, some finished, some abandoned halfway. One was just a wash of color with no clear image. I like it that way.
Light filtered through the slats of the garage window, casting soft shadows across my sketchbooks, art supplies, and the small altar for Rose that Ray had made. A few of her bracelets are still there, and a tiny plastic bottle of her favorite lavender hand cream. I don't touch it. I never do.
Instead, I swung my legs to the side and reached for the nearest sketchpad. My pencil moved without thought, capturing the softened lines of dawn, the way it turned concrete gold, and dust danced through beams of light. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I hummed.
I never realize when I do that. The melodies are shapeless, the kind of sound you feel more than hear. When I eventually place the implant behind my ear, the hum turns jagged, off-key, and strange. But in the quiet? It makes sense.
I dressed slowly. Forest green coveralls - paint-streaked from last week - over a soft beige shirt. No shoes yet. I moved barefoot across the studio corner, brushing dust from a canvas, careful not to knock over the teacup I left on the side table the day before. One of Carlos's old comic books lay nearby. I made a mental note to return it to the house.
A worn woven rug softened the steps to the tiny bathroom tucked behind a curtain. Near the wall, Rose's keyboard sat beneath a faded poster for a jazz night long past. One of Julie's music books was stacked beneath it, untouched. I passed it, fingers brushing over the keys but not pressing them. A distant spiderweb clung to the corner of the keyboard stand, barely visible in the golden light.
Finally, I reached for the implant case.
Click. The sound world returned. Air conditioner. Distant traffic. A soft creak from the ceiling beam as the chairs settled overhead.
I slipped on thick socks, boots, and my backpack. As I opened the garage door, I paused. One hand rested briefly on the edge of the keyboard. "Morning, Tía," I whispered. Then I walked out and up to the house.
The kitchen was halfway through its usual chaos.
Carlos sat at the table, animatedly describing his baseball team's new chant to an audience that wasn't really listening. "And we've got this hand signal now that goes with it, Marco came up with it during batting practice, and we all did it at camp!" he added, grinning. "I can't wait to show the others. They're gonna freak."
Ray was at the sink, trying to butter toast with one hand while zipping his camera bag with the other. "You're cutting it close, Leo. You want a ride or are you walking with Jules?"
"Walking," I signed, then added out loud, "Thanks."
He nodded, half-smiling as he finally managed to stack the toast on a napkin. "Take it easy today."
Julie stirred oatmeal with slow, absent movements, earbuds in but not playing anything. She glanced over. Her eyes were ringed with shadows, but she nodded at me. There was something steadier about her this morning - like she was still climbing out of the fog, but one foot was firmly on the ground now. The therapy with Dr. Turner had really helped over the summer, even though it had been tough on her. - I nodded back. That was enough.
My mother breezed through the back door, a gym bag over one shoulder and sunglasses already in place. Ray looked up from his bag and said, "Morning, Victoria." Carlos added quickly, "¡Buenos días, Tía!"
She kissed Carlos on the head, and he immediately launched into a rapid-fire explanation of how excited he was to see his classmates again, especially because he'd spent the whole summer in early morning training with his baseball team. "I even learned a new pitch! I can't wait to tell Marco and Dani," he said, practically bouncing in place.
Victoria stole a piece of toast from Ray, smiling as she listened, and offered Julie a warm smile she didn't return.
Ray handed her a thermos, and their fingers lingered for a second longer than necessary. They exchanged a glance - quiet, protective - and then both of them looked toward Julie. She hadn't said anything, but everyone was watching her without making it obvious.
Julie was still in the music program - thanks to their advocacy last spring - but she hadn't sung or stepped into the garage since April. Just being up and dressed today felt like a win.
I watched as Mom read the room. Her gaze landed on Julie a moment longer before she turned to me. "Got everything you need, mijo?"
I lifted my backpack in answer.
"Make good art," she said, then winked. "And maybe check in on Zay if you see him, first day of school in a brand new place and all."
I smiled, then signed, "Have a good day, mom. I'll watch after Zay."
She vanished back out the door.
The quiet that followed wasn't awkward. It just was. Everyone knew how mornings went now. Julie left first, tugging her headphones on with a nod in my direction. I gave her a warm, quiet look, the kind that said /you got this/ without needing words. She didn't smile, but she didn't look away either. That was enough.
Carlos followed. And I pulled the door shut behind us all.
The walk to school was warm and bright. I let Julie take the lead without speaking. She didn't want a conversation. That was okay. Her eyes kept flicking to the school building as it came into view, like she was checking if it still felt the same. I couldn't tell if she was nervous or just thinking. Probably both.
As we passed the mailbox at the end of the block, I pulled out my phone and typed a quick message:
Me: on our way. She's quiet but not shut down. think it's a good day.
I didn't wait for a reply, Flynn always answered fast, or not at all, depending on how many thoughts she was juggling. Still, just writing it felt like something.
The campus buzzed with life. Banners flapped in the morning breeze "Welcome Back Bobcats! Class of 2020" printed in bold school colors across the main building. Groups of friends reunited in bursts of laughter and half-hugs, while new students stood with crumpled schedules and wide, searching eyes. Someone was handing out maps near the front office. The marching band had set up near the flagpole and was warming up with half-hearted scales. Everything felt loud and alive.
Julie paused just for a second, like she wasn't sure whether to go in or turn around. Then she stepped forward. I followed.
Flynn waved us down at the gate, her energy already ten times the campus average. She was practically vibrating with first-day enthusiasm, dressed like she'd stepped out of a music video and carrying a tote bag full of color-coded folders and way too many bracelets. "We made it, queens! New year, clean slate, let's gooo!"
She pulled Julie into a hug so tight I could see Julie physically relax. Not much, but enough. Her hand lingered on Flynn's elbow. Then Flynn turned to me and bumped fists like it was second nature.
"Art first?" she asked.
I nodded.
"Then go slay, whisper wizard," Flynn said, already scanning the crowd, halfway into a gossip tornado.
We hadn't always been close, Flynn and I. More of a /oh yeah, I know that person/ kind of thing. Before. But after Rose died, Julie closed off like someone had pulled the curtain on the whole world. I didn't know what to do with that silence. But Flynn did. She just... stayed. Loud and stubborn and so incredibly present. And somewhere in all that, she let me stay too.
Not always together, but on the same team. That meant something.
I smiled and made my way inside.
Advanced Studio Art smelled like linseed oil, clay, and the leftover heat of a summer spent in sunlight. The walls were lined with student canvases and bulletin boards held sign-ups for gallery nights and fundraisers. Someone had already restocked the supply closet, I noticed a new box of charcoal pencils tucked beside a heap of scratch paper. Someone had written "dream loud" in looping gold marker on the side of the bin.
I slid into the back and unpacked my sketchbook. Around me, other seniors trickled in, some offering sleepy nods. A few showed off their sunburns, still fading from July, road trips or beach weekends. One kid rolled out a massive canvas that smelled like it hadn't dried fully. The chatter was low and relaxed, the kind of first-day quiet that didn't need to be filled. I wasn't close friends with most of them, but we all have a passion for the visual arts. People who stayed up too late to get the lines right. People who think in shape and color. I liked being here.
Ms. Navarro, our teacher, clapped once. "Welcome back, artists. It's your final year. Make it count. Let's start by sharing what you worked on this summer. One at a time, please."
People went up one by one. Kelsey brought in a mosaic made from broken CDs, shards catching the light in jagged, shifting patterns. Ms. Navarro nodded thoughtfully and said, "That's what resilience looks like, fragments, but still shining."
Marcus had a series of self-portraits in layered pastels, each one a little blurrier than the last. "You're exploring identity through decay," Ms. Navarro commented. "There's vulnerability in the smudges. That's brave."
Raquel had stitched poetry into canvas using embroidery thread, delicate lines curving between phrases in Spanish and English. "Language as texture," Ms. Navarro said, tracing the air above the canvas. "That's a powerful way to reclaim voice."
Her piece reminded me of Willow. Willow is nonverbal and one of the most expressive artists I know. We met through the community center. She paints with color like its breath, like every stroke is a sentence only her hands can say. Her art doesn't shout, but it lingers, like something important said in stillness. This piece felt like that.
I leaned over after Raquel sat down and asked if I could take a photo. She smiled and nodded. I snapped a picture and, later, sent it to Willow with a short message:
Me: Thought you might like this piece. It's made by one of my classmates.
She hearted the photo almost immediately. A minute later, a reply came in:
Willow: beautiful. thank you.
I waited until the second wave. I walked up with a muted canvas under my arm. Soft tones. Shadows blending into each other like memory. The painting showed the entrance of a cave, almost dreamlike in its shadows and blurred texture, like the edge of a thought you're not sure you're supposed to follow. It was quiet and still and a little eerie.
"It's called 'Echoes,'" I said quietly, signing the title as well. "It's about silence that isn't empty."
Ms. Navarro smiled with her whole face. "Thank you, Leo."
After the last student had presented, she moved to the front of the room again and leaned casually against her desk. "This year is going to stretch you," she said. "We'll explore different mediums, collaborate when it makes sense, and make space for your voice to evolve."
She pointed to the corkboard in the back corner of the classroom, where flyers and sign-ups were already starting to appear. "Any upcoming exhibits, gallery calls, or community art events will be posted back there. If you want to show your work beyond this classroom, that's where to start."
A few students turned to look. I made a mental note to check it out after class.
Lunch came fast.
I sat outside with Zayden, the new freshman I'd met over the summer at the Deaf and Hard of Hearing community center. It was his first official day at Los Feliz High, first day in a new city, new school, new everything. He was excited and nervous in a way that made him fidget with everything in reach. He'd gotten a cello tuning app, but couldn't get through more than ten seconds without triggering some cartoon sound effect.
"Sorry," Zay grinned, tapping at his screen. "Still figuring this out."
"You're doing fine," I said, signing the words at the same time, voice soft. "You're still on the list for the music program next semester, right?"
"Yup. Cello crew rise," he replied with a smirk, signing a little too fast.
We talked about everything and nothing; mural projects at the beach, the snacks at lunch (still gross), and how many trophies the school claimed to have won. I reminded him that the community center was hosting a music evening at the end of September—an open event where members were encouraged to perform or dance if they wanted. It was being organized by Eileen's brother-in-law, Dean, which meant it would be casual and welcoming.
Zay's eyes lit up. "Wait, Dean as in Dean Dean? The one who brought, like, three kinds of pie and half a football team's worth of food to movie night?"
I nodded. "That's the one."
He grinned. "Okay, then it's definitely going to be good. Does Eileen still come on Thursdays?"
"Yeah. And she's helping set up, so if you want to volunteer, I'm sure she'd let you."
He hesitated, then signed while saying, "I... might like that."
Zay knew who Eileen was; I'd already introduced them during welcome week. She's one of my closest friends at the center, even though she's a lot older than either of us. She doesn't talk down to anyone. She just sees you exactly as you are. I think that's why Zay clicked with her right away.
He brightened even more at the idea of the event and asked if he'd be allowed to participate even though he was new.
"Absolutely," I told him. "The center loves new voices. Anyone willing to try is already welcome."
I encouraged him to keep practicing his ASL as we chatted, helping slow his hands down when he got too excited, and his signs blurred together. He had this way of moving; enthusiastic, expressive, and still a little uncoordinated. It made every sentence feel like he was dancing through a thunderstorm of thoughts.
In the distance, I saw Julie walking across the quad alone. Earbuds in. Head down. Her backpack hung low on one shoulder. I watched her for a moment, just long enough to see that her pace was steady, not dragging, then looked away.
Final period meant open study time, which I always looked forward to. I settled in with a fresh sketchbook, letting the familiar comfort of the space wrap around me. If this was how my schedule looked for senior year, I wasn't going to complain. Giving us this block of time to focus independently felt intentional, like the school trusted us to use it well. And honestly? I needed that.
Earlier that day, during our first-period welcome, Ms. Navarro had introduced something new, our final art project. It would be the foundation of our year-end grade: a curated portfolio we would present at the end of the first semester. The portfolio could include older works as well as anything we created throughout the year. She told us it wasn't about perfection or technique, but about growth, intention, and how we told our stories through the pieces we chose.
"Think of it as a conversation," she said. "Between your past, your present, and where you want to go next."
She also told us that from the next month, on the last day of every month, she'd check in with us one by one and offer feedback, just to make sure we weren't getting lost or stuck. That part made it feel real. Like someone would be watching but also helping.
That stuck with me more than I expected.
So, I wrote the project title—Quiet Things That Echo—on the inside cover as a kind of promise to myself and began the first page.
After class, Julie and I walked home together. The sun had dipped just enough to stretch our shadows long on the sidewalk, and the air was still warm from the day. Neither of us said much at first. We didn't need to. It felt like the quiet hum of something restarting—not awkward, just... slow and steady.
After a few blocks, Julie finally broke the silence. "Flynn brought four highlighters to first period. Four. And not because she needed them."
I glanced at her. "Color-coded world domination?"
Julie snorted softly. "Exactly. She made schedules for both of us. Mine has stickers. And apparently, we're now in the Film Club, Culture Council, and maybe Anime Appreciation, depending on whether they meet on Thursdays or Fridays."
I smiled, imagining Flynn's full-force energy bulldozing through the day. "That sounds like her."
Julie nodded, a little more at ease now. "She was in full Flynn-mode. But also... she said she missed us. Like, actually said it. Even though we saw her, like, every week this summer."
"Maybe she missed us in context," I said. "Schoolyear us."
Julie tilted her head, thinking. "Yeah. That makes sense."
We walked in silence for another moment, passing by someone's overgrown garden where the flowers had spilled onto the sidewalk. Julie nudged a dandelion with her foot.
"She's a lot," she said, "but I'm glad she's still here. I didn't realize how weird school would feel until we were actually back."
I just nodded. I knew exactly what she meant. Sometimes being missed wasn't really about someone being gone, it was about presence. About wanting someone by your side not just when things fall apart, but when things are uncertain, when they're beginning again. Flynn had a way of pulling us forward, even if it was with highlighters and chaos. And maybe we needed that. Not to fix anything, but just to be reminded that we were still part of something, that we were still here.
When we got back, my phone buzzed again.
Zay: I think I accidentally signed up for Lunch Choir?? help 😳🎶
I snorted softly and typed back:
Me: Welcome to Los Feliz. We're loud, weird, and always singing.
He replied with a single gif of someone dramatically sobbing into a cello.