Gabby

Did you ever feel stifled? Here’s the way one high school freshman reacted.

Gabby

Saturday morning at breakfast, I asked Dad what he thought President Johnson should do about Vietnam. I was fourteen, old enough to know the question mattered and young enough to think he’d actually answer.

He didn’t even lower the sports section. Just a sharp snap of the page and, “Gabby, you shouldn’t worry about things you can’t control.”

The nickname landed harder than the words. Mom froze at the stove — the frying pan clanging against the burner — and shot him a look. She hated it when he called me that.

I hated it too, but only when he used it like this: not teasing, not playful, just a firm way of saying stop talking.

Heat crept up my neck. Maybe I did talk too much. Maybe everyone thought so and Dad was just the only one blunt enough to say it.

That was when the idea came to me — sudden, sharp, and a little humiliating.

I’d stop talking. Completely. How long until someone asked me what was on my mind?



After an hour of chores, still keeping my vow of silence, I headed to the double lot to meet the two Tommys. Phase 1 of my psychological experiment—Chester Almon’s Grand Silence—had begun.

The two Tommys were already there. Tommy One was Scooter — short, smart, athletic, quick on his feet. Tommy Two was Haskell — tall, clunky, and full of Eddie‑Haskell flattery that made parents wince.

Scooter tossed me the football. “One more and we can have a game.”

I almost blurted out “The wobble in your spiral will get you intercepted.”

The old me would’ve said it. The new me didn’t. I just nodded.

He blinked — a tiny pause — then turned back to Haskell.

How soon before someone would notice that I no longer chattered about thoughts that occurred to me? How long until I was asked what was on my mind?

The Tommys went to the neighborhood high school, many of our neighborhood friends went there.

But not me. I took the city bus to the all-city magnet school—all guys, just guys. Took an important interest out of school—girls. Best thing was the ride to and from school. Girls from two other schools were on our route and rode part of the way.

Sometimes Betsy Kaiser was at the corner when I caught the morning bus. She had green eyes that missed nothing, a quick wit that made you want to keep up, and a way of carrying herself that the older guys noticed right away. I noticed too—not in any complicated way, just the way a fourteen‑year‑old notices someone who seems ahead of the curve.

The Tommys launched into stories about the metal shop teacher’s thermos filled with vodka and which girls looked good this week. Every few minutes one of them threw out a question that wasn’t really a question—just a comment meant to keep the conversation rolling.

Most of the time, the Tommys’ stories didn’t need me. But on the bus, things were different.

I gave them nothing. Only nods that I heard them.

They didn’t notice my silence.

Mandy, who lived two houses down, walked by on her way to the grocery store. She said hi to all three of us, but when she looked at me, she waited a beat longer, like she expected something more.

I nodded again.

For a second, I thought she might actually ask me something. But she didn’t. She frowned slightly and kept walking.

By Sunday afternoon, no one had asked me anything that required more than action—never a single thought. The pattern was clear: silence didn’t create curiosity. It created anonymity.

My hypothesis hardened. No one was ever going to ask me what I thought. Not ever.



I left the house early for school on Monday. I decided if my algebra teacher called on me, that didn’t count. The experiment wasn’t about schoolwork — it was about whether anyone cared what I thought.

I cut through the grocery store parking lot on my way to the bus stop. When I reached the street, I saw Betsy—alone at the stop, hands tucked into her sleeves… It was rare to catch her by herself.

My heart kicked. I walked faster toward the bus stop. I almost called out something ordinary… but the vow snapped me back. The experiment demanded silence

I nodded hello instead.

She smiled, but then her eyes narrowed just a little, like she was checking a detail she hadn’t expected. “What’s up, Chet?”

It wasn’t a big question. But it was the first one anyone had asked me—really asked me—in three days.

The pressure inside me broke—like a held breath finally let go—and all the words I’d been storing up came out at once.

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Cover image of Gabby Hayes in 1953. Public domain via WikiMedia Commons