Taking a deep breath, I walk up to the gate, pay my entrance fee with shaky hands, and receive my ticket. It’s time-stamped and the lady tells me to keep it with me to verify the fact that I’m allowed to be there at all. I smile and thank her. I still can’t believe this. I grab a little map and follow the signs to Carter’s house.

Carter’s house looks like most of the other houses at Chautauqua—a traditional two-story house with painted wooden siding. There’s a stone path leading up to the front door and well-manicured bushes in full bloom under the big picture window. The window is covered with a lace curtain but there’s a friendly glow coming from inside.

I raise my hand to knock, and am confronted with my first conundrum of the night—there is a doorbell and a knocker. Neither of which Carter can hear. Well crap. The second my finger hits the doorbell, I realize that I could have just texted him. Crap. Oh, well. I’m sure it won’t be my last mistake.

When my finger presses the doorbell, the front window goes dark for a second, then flashes back on. So that’s how it works. Sure enough, in seconds, Carter is at the door.

He is grinning and beautiful, wearing jeans and a white T-shirt and socks on his feet. He looks softer in socks. Huggable.

“Hi,” he signs.

“Hi,” I sign back, shyly. I peek around him, expecting a barrage of people, which is silly, but it’s what I’m expecting.

“Come in,” he signs, stepping back.

I walk into the light of their living room and I’m blown away by how modern the inside is compared with the very traditional outside. All the lines are clean and shiny. The lights are bright and warm and inviting.

“Beautiful,” I sign, and point around the room.

“Thanks,” he signs back, smiling. “Want to see my room?” He mouths the words and signs slowly so I know what he’s saying. I have to admit, it’s easier than the writing thing.

“Yeah,” I sign. I take off my shoes and line them up with the rest of the family’s. Farther into the house, I catch a whiff of Asian food.

Carter’s mom is at the stove. She, of course, looks nothing like Carter, but she’s still beautiful, like she spends her days doing Pilates and her nights wrapped in seaweed.

“You must be Robin!” she says and signs. “It’s nice to meet you!”

“Nice to meet you too,” I say, and I immediately feel bad that I don’t know how to say that in ASL. Carter’s mom looks at him and she signs while saying, “She said, ‘Nice to meet you, too.’” I watch her hands closely.

“Thanks,” I say. “I wish I knew more sign.”

She smiles, “Don’t worry,” she says and signs. “I don’t judge! I’m so glad you’ve been kind enough to hang out with Carter.”

I look over at Carter, who gives his mother a pained look. “Mom,” he signs, and then his hands move too fast for me to understand.

She laughs and turns to me. “He says, ‘I’m not a charity case.’”

I laugh. But it’s funny to see somebody understand him so easily, when it’s always such a struggle for me. Like I have any claim on him anyway—I’ve known him for just a few days, and that’s his mom! Of course she understands him better than I do! Still, I can feel it cheapening my smile.

Carter turns toward the stairs and motions for me to follow him. “We’re going to my bedroom,” he signs to his mom, who raises her eyebrows.

“Your bedroom? Dinner will be ready in ten minutes.”

He signs something too fast for me to understand.

His mom gives him a warning look and he laughs as she signs something about a door.

“What did you say?” I ask as we walk up the stairs.

“I just told her we’d see her in the morning,” he writes back. “She said to leave the door open.”

Remembering my boring cotton underwear, I fake a laugh, just to be polite. Then realize that he can’t hear it, so I start laughing for real. He looks over in time for that one and grins at me, reaching for the door handle.

His room is unspectacular. Pretty much a regular guy room, if you forget that it’s his summer bedroom, and the technology is waaaayyyy more current than anything I’ve ever seen in real life. There’s a big-screen TV and a high-end desktop. A digital SLR camera sits on the desk next to it. His queen-size bed is covered with neat-as-a-pin white sheets and a puffy comforter, and it matches the rest of his dark, manly furniture. The walls are light green printed wallpaper and the floor is hardwood and scattered with area rugs.

“Nice,” I sign.

“I spent all day cleaning,” he writes.

“Ya done good,” I write back, smiling up at him.

He looks down at me and I swallow hard. This is the first time we’ve been alone together. Ever. He takes a step closer, his eyes lingering on my lips, and runs the back of his hand up the back of my arm, sending shivers all down my spine like a piano glissando. My mouth waters.

I’m unconsciously stepping in closer and tilting my head up when a loud little voice says, “Oh my God!” from the direction of Carter’s doorway. I turn. A little blond girl is standing there, hanging on the doorjamb.

“My sister,” Carter signs, sighing and pursing his lips. “T-R-I-N-A,” he spells slowly.

“Robin! Are you Robin? OMG I didn’t know you were here already!” The girl dances around me. Her speech! It’s nearly perfect. I thought that, even with the implant, she would sound… well… deaf. Like deaf people sound on TV. I’ve never heard Carter say anything, come to think of it. He doesn’t even laugh out loud. At least not around me. But Trina sounds like a nine-year-old girl who’s been hearing her whole life.

“Hi,” I say, signing.

“OMG, did you teach her to sign?” Trina says and signs to Carter, who’s glaring daggers at her, his knee jiggling.

“I didn’t teach her,” he signs, mouthing the words.

“I learned some online,” I say. “I don’t know much. Like that. I don’t know how to say that.”

“OMG, I’ll teach you everything!” Trina says. She slows down her signs and teaches me how to say “I don’t know much,” as Carter writes something down.

When he shows me the paper, it says, “Sorry. She just got a phone. ‘OMG’ is currently her favorite phrase. And she’s valedictorian of the school of bad timing.”

I smile.

“What? What did you say?” Trina tries to peek around the paper, but Carter rips off the top page and stuffs it in his pocket.

He signs it to her with a satisfied look on his face and she sticks her tongue out at him. My brain does a little happy dance. Universal sibling language! No translation necessary!

The lights flicker and Carter turns to me. “Dinnertime,” he signs.

“Okay,” I sign back and take a deep breath. This shouldn’t be hard. I only have his dad left to meet, right?

We’ve just entered the dining room when I see his dad come up from some stairs that must lead to a basement or a garage or something. He’s a well-dressed, handsome man with carefully parted silver hair. He smiles, waving “Hi” and holding out his hand.

I smile and wave “Hi” and accept the handshake, feeling my face grow red. He’s handsome in an old-guy way.

“Nice to meet you,” he signs, and I return his greeting.

The table is set and the dishes gleam in the bright light. The Asian food smells make my stomach growl. I haven’t eaten anything since pie that afternoon.

Carter pulls a chair out and motions for me to sit down. I do, and he pushes it in for me.

“Thanks,” I say and sign. So fancy! Trent never did that. Carter sits next to me.

“You okay?” he signs.

“Yeah,” I sign. I set my waitress notepad in between us and catch Carter’s dad signing something to his mom across the table.

She looks at me and says, “Chris is saying that I should tell you about our family’s tradition. We take a moment of reflection before we eat. If you’re a religious person, you’re welcome to pray, or you can just reflect on the day and prepare for the meal, as we do.”

“Okay,” I sign and say.

Then the whole family bows their head and closes their eyes, folding their hands, like they’re praying. Is Carter religious? I hadn’t even thought about it before. I follow suit, thinking, “For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly grateful.” It’s the prayer my dad says before every meal.

I’m the first one to look up. One by one, the rest of the family joins me. Carter glances over at me and rests his left hand on my knee under the table. Warmth spreads over my entire body and up to my cheeks which threaten to stay permanently pink. I give him a smile.

“You don’t have to act like that was normal,” Trina pipes up from across the table, her hands flying as she speaks. “It’s not a Deaf thing. And it’s not normal. We’re the only family in the whole world who does it.”

I smile at her. “I like it,” I sign and say.

“Thank you,” Carter’s mom signs. She starts to pass food around the table, and the rest of dinner is just like a family dinner from a sitcom—people eating, compliments on the food, conversations about people’s days. Carter’s mom is the unofficial translator and Carter writes me a few private notes, but if anybody asks what they say, he tells them. We all laugh as people tell stories—funny stories of the day or embarrassing stories of Carter’s childhood. Their faces and bodies are all involved and after I give it to her she writes,. I can see why Carter is such a bad liar: his face is a receptor to the conversation around him, open, unselfconscious. He relies on it to share the tone of his conversation, the same way tempo and dynamic convey the message of a song better than the lyrics do.