Laura Anderson - Song of Summer

“Carter!” she signs. “You never told Robin we dated?”

The smile falters for a second. “No,” he signs, shrugging his shoulders like it’s no big deal, but he won’t meet my eyes.

Jolene turns back to me. “It was a long time ago,” she reiterates. “Ninth grade. I’m more friends with Denise now.” My brain reels with translation. I understand her about three seconds after she’s done and I nod. I look over at Carter. He swallows.

“We go to the same school,” he signs.

I nod. And he never told me. It must mean something. It means something. I give him a tight smile.

“I’m going to see what Denise is doing,” Jolene signs, leaving the room.

When she is securely engaged in conversation with Denise, I turn to Carter. “What?” I sign.

He pulls the little notebook out from his pocket. “I meant to tell you,” he writes. “I did, but it’s still so awkward and I just wanted to pretend it wasn’t happening.”

“So tell me!” I write.

I sit, shaking my head, stealing glances at the two girls signing to each other in the kitchen, while he writes. Finally, he shows me the paper.

“We dated for about half of ninth grade, but she got a CI and I didn’t and we haven’t hung out much since then. We’re on opposite ends of the same group of friends. This is the first time I’ve spend any amount of time with her in years.”

I look up. “She has a CI?” I sign. “She’s not wearing it.”

He frowns. “She’s not?” He glances back at her, although she’s too far away and her hair is too full and curly to see her ears. “I didn’t notice,” he writes. “I don’t know what that’s all about.”

I give him a look.

“I promise!” he signs, and he’s such a terrible liar I know that he’s telling the truth.

“Okay,” I sign. He reaches for my hand and I kiss his. I give Jolene one more sidelong look. “She’s just really pretty,” I sign.

“…and she knows it,” he signs one-handed.

I laugh. “I’m really pretty!” I sign, pursing my lips into a sassy face.

“Yes, you are,” he signs, and he leans forward, kissing me softly. I close my eyes and let his spiced-orange scent soothe my raw nerves.

The lights flash and he pulls away, glancing to the light switch. The girls aren’t there, though, so it must be the doorbell.

“Pizza!” he signs and hops off the couch. I sit for a second, then haul myself up and make myself walk into the kitchen. I smile at the girls, who are getting glasses down from the cupboards.

“Need help?” I sign.

They wave me off as Carter opens the front door.

“Pizza?” the guy says. I can’t see him, but I hear him realize that Carter is deaf.

“PIZ-ZA?” the guy says. “YOU ORDERED PIZZA?”

Denise hides a little smile behind her hand and starts signing to Jolene, who laughs. It’s not like Carter’s musical laugh. It’s like she was trained in laughter by TV sitcoms or something. Carter shuts the door and turns to us, pizzas in hand.

“YOU ORDERED PIZZA?” he mouths, overexaggerated. They all laugh.

He plops the pizzas on the kitchen table but throws his arm around me and escorts me to the living room. He pulls me down onto the couch next to him, our backs to the kitchen so it’s just us.

“Sorry we were interrupted by pizza,” he signs. “You okay?” His forehead nearly touches mine.

I nod.

“I love you,” he signs, his hand pressing to my heart.

“I love you,” I sign, pressing my hand to his.

He kisses me once. Soft. Sweet. Then he leans his forehead on mine and kisses my nose before pulling back. “Now let’s eat,” he signs with a grin.

We sit at the high counter and grab slices from the box. Jolene takes a bite and makes a face. “Not like New York pizza,” she signs.

I take a bite of my own thick-crusted, pepperoni-topped slice, a silent reply echoing in my brain: Actually, it is New York pizza. It was made here, in New York. New York is a lot bigger than one city.

But Carter just laughs and agrees, nodding and signing “Yes!” with one hand. He puts down his pizza.

“Remember that time when,” he signs, and that’s all I catch. His hands take off at a speed I’ve never seen before. Jolene picks it up, then Denise, and the conversation hops from person to person so fast it’s impossible for me to keep up. I catch a few words I know—hungry, pizza, cheese—then it looks like some giant mess happened. I laugh when the girls laugh, but I have no idea what’s going on. The girls go to the kitchen to refill their pop and Carter looks at me, glowing. “This is my real life,” he signs. “This is what it’s like back home.”

I nod and squeeze his hand.

“You doing okay?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I sign.

“You understand everything?”

“Maybe… ?” I weigh my hands back and forth with a confused smile and he laughs. With his voice. Like that day weeks ago sitting right in this spot. Cloud nine is way below me.

I come back to Earth when the girls reenter, pop in hand.

“What have you been doing in NYC?” Carter asks.

“Not much,” Denise answers. Then she starts talking about coffee and this guy who’s really snooty… Jolene takes it over, impersonating the snooty guy with a quirk in her eyebrows and a tilt of her neck, and Carter laughs with her, like he just laughed with me. The laugh I have heard twice in three weeks she gets after only two hours. The meal continues in a haze of half stories and not-quite-understood jokes.

By the time pizza is finished, my brain hurts from translating and my ears are aching for music, voices, sound of any kind. Every single conversation boasts how much Jolene knows him—how much she’s always known him. And how much I don’t.

By the time Denise goes upstairs to call her boyfriend, Carter is practically a different person. He and Jolene reminisce and I nod occasionally, not bothering to stop them when they sign too fast or don’t explain a joke. I’m the third wheel with my own boyfriend.

Keeping an eye on the clock, I break up their conversation at eleven, signing, “Sorry, it’s time for me to go.”

His face falls. “You want me to walk you to the car?” he asks.

“No thanks,” I sign. Of course I want him to walk me to the car. Why did he even ask? He always walks me to the car.

He looks closer “You sure?” he asks.

I nod.

“Okay… ,” he signs.

I sigh. “Nice to meet you,” I sign to Jolene. “Bye to Denise, too. See you again soon!”

Jolene waves at me. “Great to meet you, too!” she signs. She stands up and gives me a hug. “See you tomorrow!” They’re coming for breakfast tomorrow at the restaurant.

Carter walks me to the door and waves, shutting the door behind me.

I let out the breath that’s been sitting in the top of my chest. My shoulders relax for the first time all evening, and I shake my wrists out like I’m about to start a solo. Trudging up the hill to the gatehouse, I inhale the scent of sweet flowers and trees I smelled on the night Carter first kissed me. The final notes of a concert waft through the air. Audience members mill around in resort wear, stopping at the coffee shop or the ice-cream shop and discussing the concert or tomorrow’s plans. I blend into the crowd and bathe in voices that aren’t mine, letting them wash over me. Little staccato laughs and deep baritone drones and soothing murmurs. I never knew I could miss speech so much. My sigh joins the cacophony. My throbbing headache starts to ebb.

A man is playing his violin on the lawn in the park. The familiar tunes wash over me—“Beautiful Dreamer,” “Yellow Rose of Texas,” “My Old Kentucky Home.” I dig in my pocket for a dollar for his violin case. First, I wish that Carter was there, and then I’m glad he’s not.

It doesn’t sit well.

Carter

“Save me!” Jolene signs, one-handed, as Trina drags her to the door of the den and the glitter-covered craft table that awaits.

I grin. Okay. I tap Trina on the shoulder. “Let her go,” I sign.

“But I want—”

“She did crafts with you yesterday. Plus, I… promised her… a bike ride.”

Jolene looks at me, surprised.

“You did not!” signs Trina. “You’re lying!”

“You’re right,” I sign. “I was lying. But not anymore.” I look up at Jolene. “Want to go on a bike ride?”

She nods.

“I promise I will take you right now,” I say. I look down at Trina. “See?”

“Not fair!” She crosses her arms.

“Maybe we’ll do a craft when I get back,” Jolene signs to her. She looks up at me. “Bike ride… ?”

“I promised,” I sign.

She throws on her shoes and we head out the door, out the gate to the parking lot. The sun is shining, and for once the humidity from the lake doesn’t make you feel like you’re swimming everywhere. A perfect day for a bike ride.

“You know you’ve never taken me on your bike?” she signs.

“Never?”

“Never.”

“Well, here’s the deal…” I explain how to be a good passenger and hand her the helmet.

“Where are we going?” she asks after scrunching it down over her curls.

“I don’t know,” I answer. “Let’s see.”

Her weight is different from Robin’s— she’s taller and a little curvier—so it takes time for me to get used to the balance. Once I do, though, it’s smooth sailing.