Laura Anderson - Song of Summer

By the end of our first official lesson we’ve finished the alphabet, a few manners, the question words, and a bag of baby carrots.

The lights in my room flicker and I turn to see my mom at the door. “You guys want dinner?” she asks. As always, she signs as she talks.

The tips of Barry’s ears turn pink and he shakes his head. “No thanks, Mrs. Paulson,” I see him say.

“Oh, why not?” my mom says. “I’ve already set your place and this would be a great way to practice your sign!”

“I think he’s probably tired of practicing his sign,” I sign back to my mom. “It’s been two hours.” My family is not a freak show. He doesn’t need to see our silent conversation. He doesn’t need to observe our redundant moment of silence.

Barry glances at me and looks back at my mom.

“Sure,” he says, to my surprise. “Smells good.”

And it does. Stir-fry always smells good.

We head down the stairs and I sit at my spot. Barry’s set up next to me and Trina is eyeing him in that way little sisters have. That I-want-everything-my-older-siblings-have-including-their-friends way.

All of us, including Barry, bow our heads. Personally, I don’t want to reflect or talk to an invisible god or even think about the way my summer has progressed. It’s been a week since my date with Robin. I had a good time, and I thought maybe it could go somewhere. But her ex-boyfriend’s probably right. She loves music more than anything else. She said so herself. I mean, she also said that she had a good time, too, but who really knows? She could have just been sparing my feelings—poor deaf kid, you know?

Suddenly I realize that, despite my best efforts, I have been reflecting. I am, once again, the last one to lift my head. All the food is piled at my elbow, waiting for me to pass it to Barry. I take some rice and give it to him.

“Sorry,” I sign.

“It’s okay,” he signs back to me. It catches me off guard. I flash a surprised smile.

I catch Trina giggling, her little shoulders shaking as her hand tries to cover her mouth.

It’s strange to have somebody eating with us. Of course, we have people over all the time back in New York—my school friends, my dad’s work friends, my mom’s yoga buddies, Trina’s and Denise’s friends—but it’s strange to have somebody here at our Chautauqua house. It’s been ages since Barry’s been over.

“So how’s your father doing?” my dad asks. He talks as he signs, and Barry leans in to hear, his eyes intently on my dad’s mouth. They say that deaf people’s voices sound different than hearing voices. I’ve never been able to hear a difference. My hearing aids, and the little good they did, went out the window in ninth grade.

“Good,” signs Barry. “My father’s good.” His dad’s in politics, and networking is the main reason that Barry’s spent every summer since I can remember at Chautauqua. Wealthy people from all over the states come here to listen to lectures and seminars or attend concerts. It really is the perfect place to hobnob with donors and keep a finger on the pulse of the educated elite.

Trina giggles again.

I give her a look. “What’s your problem?”

“He’s cute.” She’s talking only with her hands, of course.

I shake my head and smile. “You’re only nine! What do you care!”

“I can still think he’s cute!”

My mom gives me a look. “What?” I ask.

“Secrets don’t make friends,” my mom signs back.

“Fine,” I sign. “It’s not my secret!” I turn to Barry, pull a pen out of my pocket, and write “My little sister thinks you’re cute” on his napkin.

He laughs and turns red and looks like he wants to say something but he can’t figure out what it is or how to say it. Maybe he just wants to run.

Thankfully, he doesn’t have to wallow for long because Trina pipes up. “Well, Carter has a girlfriend!” Of course it’s voiced for Barry’s benefit. Nine-year-old revenge is so funny. “She’s cute and works at a diner!”

That may be a little too far, because Barry quirks his eyebrows and turns to me. “The waitress?” his mouth asks and I shake my head at Trina as she dissolves into giggles.

“Yes!” her little mouth says. “The waitress! Her name is Robin!”

“She’s not my girlfriend,” I sign, and mouth.

“You took her on a date!” says Trina.

“Yes,” I say. “One date. Last week. That’s it. She’s not my girlfriend.”

I give Trina a warning look and, thankfully, she drops the subject.

The rest of dinner is uneventful. We find out a little more about what Barry’s family is up to—his dad is managing some campaign and his mom is holding some charity event. His brother started West Point last year and Barry’s applied to a bunch of different schools.

After the dinner dishes are cleared, Barry heads to the living room and starts texting somebody as he plops down on the sofa.

My phone buzzes. “So what happened with the waitress?” I guess he’s texting me.

I sit in the seat across from him. With his shoes off and a soy sauce stain on his chinos, he’s a little easier to handle.

“I dunno,” I text back. “Had a good time. But I don’t really think I fit in her world.”

He gives me a confused look. “What do u mean?” appears on my phone.

I shrug. “She ‘loves music more than anything,’ which is a direct quote.”

“Oh,” he types. “I guess if she had a bad time…”

“She didn’t have a bad time,” I type. In fact, she texted me that night to tell me she had a great time. I didn’t answer, and I haven’t heard from her since.

“Then u had a bad time?” he asks.

“No.”

“Then y aren’t u seeing her again?”

The image of that guy, Trent, with the ripped shirt flashes through my mind—tall and laughing and glinting with an, “I-know-something-you-don’t-know,” look. He is the reason I stay away from hearing people. I’m sick of people knowing more than me, or thinking that they do. I look up to see Barry staring at me. His head is tilted and his eyebrows are raised.

I shrug.

“Why?” he signs, and I laugh as he gestures to his hand, showing off the sign he just made. He stares at me for another minute, waiting for an answer. When I don’t give one, he rolls his eyes, looks away, and shakes his head.

“What?” I sign to him.

He shakes his head again.

“What?” I text him.

“Why u gotta be such a jerk?” he texts back.

Whoa. What?

“What?” I text again.

“Like, she’s not good enough for you? Just because she’s a townie? I know ur probably used to dating supermodels or whatever but come on. She’s probably a nice girl.”

I have no idea what to say.

“Supermodels?” I text back. “What makes you think that?”

He gives me a look. “Looking the way u do. Always acting like ur better than everybody else. All quiet. And all the girls can’t stop talking about u. Don’t act like u don’t know.”

What?

“I don’t know!” I text.

“Christina Beasley? Margot Kingston? Alicia Melanowski?” he types back.

The names tug at my memory—girls from a few summers ago. I saw them hanging out with Barry when their families would come up for a week or so. I wasn’t really part of their group, though. The last time I remember hanging out with them was the summer after eighth grade. Barry and I were having ice cream with them at the Refectory. I had my hearing aids in, trying to catch everything that was going on, but there was too much chatter. Too much eating while they were talking to read lips. The conversation jumped from person to person and I didn’t catch any of it. I left with a headache and made excuses for the rest of summer.

“I couldn’t talk to them!” I text. “How did you feel at dinner, when Trina and I were talking without you? That’s how I felt around them.”

“Well can u talk to this girl?” he texts back.

I shrug. The notebook seemed to be working pretty well. She learned a few letters on her own. Her mouth is a lip-reader’s dream.

“I guess so,” I text.

“Then if u both had a good time and u can talk to her, y stop?”

I look up at him and laugh.

“Why are you so nosy?” I write.

“Maybe she has a cute friend.”

Didn’t she write something about that during our date? “Actually, I think she does.”

Robin

“Shave and a haircut, two bits!” plays my phone in the middle of church music practice. Everybody looks at me. I turn red and fumble to put down good-enough Bender, wiggling off the stool.

“Sorry!” I say, holding up a hand and running to my stuff. “I totally forgot to turn it off!”

“We can hear that,” Pastor Mark says, and somebody snickers.

I take a peek at the screen before shutting it off, just in case it’s an emergency. It’s not. It’s a text: “Had a great time too. Sorry I’ve been quiet. Wanna hang out?”

It’s from Carter.

I fumble to turn off the ringer and make my way back to my spot, head spinning. Why now? It’s been an entire week! I thought everything went really well, except for that blip with Trent, but we recovered! It was the best date I’d ever been on. And then he disappeared behind the quaint brick walls of Chautauqua.

I get back to my stool and Trent leans over. “What was that about?” he whispers.