I’ve Lived My Whole Life Without Ever Hearing Music

He glances at our house and I realize he’s waiting for me to notice. He throws the ball over the fence into our yard and then makes a big show of looking around like he’s trying to figure out where it went.

I watch him walk along his side of the fence until he’s at the back corner where the wood panels don’t quite meet the ground. He bends down like he’s looking for the ball and his hand disappears under the fence for just a second.

Then he stands up, waves at his mom who’s on their porch, and goes inside. I wait ten minutes to make sure no one in my house is paying attention.

Mom is in the kitchen and Dad is in his office and my brothers are doing school work at the dining table. I slip downstairs as quietly as possible and go out the back door.

The tennis ball is sitting in the grass near the fence and I pick it up and carry it to the corner. There’s a folded piece of paper wedged under the fence board and I grab it fast and shove it in my pocket.

I toss the ball back over and go inside before anyone notices I left. In my room with the door closed I unfold the paper and my hands shake as I read.

Andre’s phone number is at the top. Below it he’s written that his mom called a family services hotline to ask what they should do about a neighbor kid who seems to be in trouble.

The person on the phone told them to document everything they see and hear and to call if there’s ever immediate danger. The note says they’re keeping a log of all the times my mom yells at their house and the times they see me at the window looking scared.

He writes that I should try to get outside if possible so they can witness my parents’ behavior directly. The last line says to destroy the note after reading it.

I read it three more times and then tear it into tiny pieces and flush them down the toilet. Knowing someone is actually paying attention and trying to help makes me feel less alone.

But I also feel more scared because now things might actually change and I don’t know if that’s better or worse. The next morning at breakfast I do something I never do.

I ask Mom if I can help with yard work because the grass is getting long and the garden needs attention. She stops with her coffee cup halfway to her mouth and stares at me.

Dad looks up from his silent newspaper and studies my face like he’s trying to figure out what I’m really asking. Mom asks why I suddenly care about the yard.

“I’ve been inside so much lately that some fresh air would be nice,” I say. It’s not a lie exactly.

Dad says he’ll supervise and Mom agrees after a long pause. We go outside an hour later and Dad hands me the weeding tools and points at the garden bed that runs along the side of the house near the fence.

I kneel down and start pulling weeds while Dad stands ten feet away with his arms crossed watching me. I work slowly and make my way closer to the fence.

I can hear Andre’s voice in his yard talking to his mom and I know they’re both out there. I’m maybe three feet from the fence when I reach for a weed near the property line.

Dad’s hand clamps down on my shoulder hard and he yanks me backward. I stumble and almost fall and he grabs my arm and shoves me toward the house.

His grip is tight enough to hurt and I look back and see Andre and Sylvia standing on their porch watching everything. Sylvia has her phone in her hand, and the way she’s holding it, I realize she’s recording.

Dad sees it too and his face goes red. He yells at them that they’re invading our privacy and they have no right to film us on our own property.

Sylvia doesn’t look scared at all. She says in this calm voice that she already called the police and they’re on their way to do a welfare check.

Dad’s hand drops from my arm and he tells me to get inside now. I walk to the back door and glance over my shoulder, and Sylvia gives me this tiny nod like she’s saying it’s going to be okay.

Inside Dad paces in the kitchen and Mom comes down asking what’s wrong. He tells her the neighbors called the cops and they need to be ready to handle this properly.

Mom’s face goes through about five different emotions in two seconds and then settles on this fake calm. She tells me to go upstairs and stay in my room until they call for me.

I sit on my bed and hear a car pull up outside twenty minutes later. There are voices at the front door: Mom’s laugh that sounds totally fake and Dad using his reasonable voice.

They call me down and I come downstairs to find two police officers in our living room. Mom and Dad are all smiles now and they’re explaining how I’m a troubled teen who’s been acting out lately.

They say they’re so sorry if I worried the neighbors. One officer is a woman with dark hair pulled back, and she asks if she can talk to me.

Dad says of course and gestures for me to sit in the armchair. The officer stays standing and my parents stay standing, and I’m the only one sitting, which makes me feel small and trapped.