Muffled

I cover my ears and count the ways I am different this year:

1. I am ten now and can walk to school by myself.
2. Mom and Dad gave me a new CharlieCard and permission to ride the T alone to the Boston Public Library.
3. My noise-canceling headphones are not on my head.

Once the door closes, I lower my hands. Outside, I see Deb catch up to Jax, who lives across the street. They head off together, without me. I tell myself that’s fine. I am only a neighborhood pal to Jax and, ever since third grade, backup friend to Deb-minus Kiki.
I take a step toward the door, and then hesitate. I feel light-headed, missing the weight of my head phones. Only my hair covers my ears.
Mom hugs me good-bye. “Fifth grade will be great.” Dad touches my arm. “One more thing,” he says, and hands me a box.
“What’s this?” Mom asks, as surprised as I am. I open it. Inside are purple earmuffs with a white band. I slip them on. The muffs-soft and furry cover my ears completely. I love them instantly. Earmuffs are like having permission to place your hands over your ears all the time.
I hug Dad hard. He laughs.
Mom’s smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Where did you get those?” she asks Dad.
“Target,” he says.
I think she is really asking why, but I don’t care. Now I am ready. I open the lobby door and walk by myself to school. Every few feet, I can’t help touching the fluff over my ears. How wonderfully soft! My steps grow bold. I’m sure everyone is admiring my beautiful, regular-looking earmuffs.
At the end of the first block, the traffic light turns green and all the cars accelerate at once. I jump it’s louder than I expect. I walk eight more side walk lines, noticing city sounds more than before: the beeping of a backing-up truck, the one-sided cell phone conversations, the rattling of tires over potholes. The volume I hear is about five bars out of ten. Noise-canceling headphones are more like one bar. Earmuffs are better than nothing, though.
Under my earmuffs, at least, everything is muffled, every sound is bearable. Almost.