Laura Anderson - Song of Summer

“Your family sounds awesome. Your life sounds interesting and exotic.

“PS—I learned how to spell my name. Wanna see?”

I look at her. She’s waiting, right hand ready. As soon as she sees me looking, her hand forms a tentative “R,” then “O” “B” “I” “N.” I laugh and shake my hands in applause. She tilts her head. “Deaf applause,” I write.

She imitates my motion, smiling. The sun bounces off her shining dark hair. Her blue eyes are sparkling.

I want to kiss her more than I want to breathe.

But I don’t.

Robin

Over the next hour, I replace the study of fingerpicking patterns with the study of Carter Paulson. He is, in fact, perfect. I ask him to list his flaws for me and he writes, I quote, “I have none.” Of course, then he laughs, scratches it out, and writes, “Just kidding. I am stubborn and opinionated. I don’t like parties. I am a terrible liar. I can be antisocial.”

“I don’t believe it,” I write.

“You are the first friend I’ve made here,” he writes, “and I’ve been coming here my whole life. That is, if we are friends…”

“Of course we’re friends. What about strawberry blond guy?” I write.

“Barry. Childhood friend. He… hasn’t aged well,” he writes. “They pay me to hang out with him. Not joking.”

“Ah yes,” I write. “Well, we’ll have to fix the friend situation.”

He gives me a look. “We will?”

I nod. “There’s a craft fair at the end of next week…”

He shrugs. “If you take me.”

“Of course I’ll take you! Like I would let anybody else take you.”

He smiles at me, then takes the pen and writes slowly, “Why didn’t you text me? When you had my number last night?”

I facepalm and give him a pained look. “I was busy.”

“With…” he starts to write, then scratches it out and writes, “Okay.”

“It’s embarrassing,” I write, “because I’m still so bad at it. But I had my friend over. And I was learning this.” And I show him: “Please,” I sign. “Sorry,” “You’re welcome,” and then I end with spelling his name, “C-A-R-T-E-R.” I look up at him and he’s smiling.

His left hand reaches and takes my spelling hand out of the air. His right hand says, “Thank you.” His left fingers interlock with my right fingers and our sweaty palms meet.

He sits up on his knees, so he’s tall, and he leans into me. But instead of kissing me, his eyes turn to the hand he holds. He gently pulls our interlocked hands toward his shoulder, so I’m up on my knees, too, and only my own arm’s length away. He turns his head in perfect profile and tilts it to kiss the back of my hand, like a crooner making love to a microphone. A pulse of electricity starts at that very spot and zings up my arm to the base of my neck, which sends it out to my whole body until the tips of my bare toes are singing.

I want to kiss him more than I want to breathe.

But I don’t.

“Robin!” It’s a loud voice. A male voice. Invasive yet charming.

Trent.

He’s jogging toward us in athletic shorts and a wrestler-cut T-shirt, holding a Frisbee under his arm. A couple of the soccer guys trail behind. Oh God no. They come here to play Ultimate sometimes.

Carter looks to see what got my attention and sets my hand gently on the picnic blanket. He sits back down. The moment is butchered.

“Hey, Robin,” says Trent, gleaming. “This the guy? Thirteen-dollar-tip guy?”

I nod once and stay outwardly composed but inside my gut is screaming, WHYYY????!!!! That was the most intimate moment of my LIFE!!!!! Everything with you pales in comparison! But the voice inside me that’s not screaming whispers, “See what you’re missing? Isn’t he awesome?”

“Hey, nice to meet you. Any friend of Robin’s is a friend of mine.” Trent holds out a hand to Carter and gives me a sidelong glance, winking at me.

I watch, frozen, as Carter stands up and takes Trent’s hand. Trent looks him up and down and tightens his grip as well as his smile. Straight guys always say that they can’t tell when another guy is hot. I call bull.

“This is Carter,” I say, gesturing weakly and apologizing to Carter with my eyes.

“Carter, this is Trent,” I say, feeling even more helpless. I can’t even introduce him properly. I suck I suck I suck until I think through the letters in Trent’s name.

“T,” I sign carefully, “R-E-N-T.” Trent. I look at Carter and he nods, his face frozen in a pleasant expression. He’s right—he’s a terrible liar. He looks like someone shoved a pistol in his back and told him to act natural.

Trent watches me for a minute, then looks at Carter again, his eyes narrowing. Suddenly, the lightbulb clicks on and he turns to me with a smile.

“Are you kidding?” he asks, the smile growing wider, one eyebrow arching.

I look away for a second, forcing my expression to stay amiable. I hope I’m succeeding a little more than Carter. “No. I’m not.”

Trent looks back at Carter, the smile taking over his whole face. He starts to pump Carter’s hand vigorously. “Seriously? You’re seriously deaf?”

Carter nods, the forced casual look replaced by a clenched jaw and tight lips.

“Ha!” Trent laughs to the skies. Then the handshake stops abruptly and he points at Carter in a “gotcha” kind of moment. “Then how did you know what I said?”

Carter indicates his own mouth. “Lip-reading,” he mouths, unfazed.

“Oh…” Trent nods, and the smile begins to creep back across his mouth.

“All right, well, you’re missing your game… ,” I try.

“Right. Frisbee,” says Trent. He looks over at me. “Just gotta say one thing.” He turns to Carter, talking clearly so Carter can catch every word. “This girl loves music more than she loves life. More than she loves chocolate. More than she’ll ever love any guy. Good. Luck.” The smile is, once again, stretched across his face. “And I mean it. You’re gonna need it.”

Carter’s expression stays the same but his eyes turn to steel. He nods once. “Thank you,” he mouths without signing.

Trent spins and flings the Frisbee across the field back to his friends, whooping as he jogs back to them.

I turn to Carter, helpless. Finally, I sign, “I’m sorry.”

He smiles warily and starts writing. “Boyfriend?” he shows me.

“Ha! No. Ex-boyfriend.” I think it’s the first time I’ve smiled while answering that question in the negative.

“I see,” he writes. “Sure know how to pick ’em, don’t you?”

“He’s not usually like that,” I scrawl.

“Yeah, sorry,” Carter writes.

I sigh. “No, I’m sorry,” I write finally. “He was being a jerk. I don’t know what’s up with him.”

I leave Carter with the pad and paper and walk away, arms crossed, and look out over the trees. Of course this would happen. Of course. The one time I don’t want Trent to show up. Grass pricks my feet. I hear footsteps behind me, and after a second there’s a light tap on my shoulder. It’s Carter.

“You okay?” he signs.

I nod, then sign, “Yes.”

He holds up the notebook. “You still want to hang out with me? Even though I can’t hear music?” it says.

I smile. That’s silly. Of course I do. “Yes,” I sign. I sit down on the blanket, picking up the bag of Cheetos again. He remains standing for a minute and watches me until I look up at him and pat the blanket next to me.

“Okay,” he signs, taking a seat across the blanket and facing me.

“Sorry about that again,” I write. “Now what were we talking about… ?”

“I think you were showing me the signs you learned last night.”

“Ah. Well that show is over,” I write. “You’ve seen them all.”

“Too bad.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Stop! Don’t feel sorry! It’s not your fault!”

But I can’t help it. Trent screwed with the mood of the whole thing. He’s right, after all. How could this work? Even if we worked around the music thing, he’s leaving at the end of the Chautauqua season. August twenty-eighth. That’s, what? Five weeks? Six? I look around the park with what I hope is a pleasant expression on my face, and Carter grabs the notebook and starts writing.

After a minute, the notebook slides across the picnic blanket, hitting me in the knee.

“Hey. Let’s do something right here, right now so this place isn’t ruined forever by The Ex. Here are you choices: (a) roll down the hill, despite the threat of bees in clover; (b) toss rocks into our helmets to see who’s got worse aim; (c ) try to do cartwheels. Just a warning: I suck at all of these, and the only reason I suggest them is to make you laugh.”

I grin and look up to him, adding my choice to the list: “(d) all of the above.”

Carter

“A,” says my hand.

“S,” says Barry’s.

I sigh and fix his thumb.

“B,” says my hand.

“Four,” says Barry’s.

I sigh and fix his fingers. This is going to be a long summer.

“C,” says my hand.

“C,” says Barry’s.

I nod and give him a thumbs-up, which he copies. I laugh and shake my head. After a second of hesitation his forehead, which has been wrinkled in concentration, relaxes and he smiles a little, shaking his head at his own mistake. I point to the handout I gave him and show him “D,” which he copies correctly.