Laura Anderson - Song of Summer

Jenni looks from me to him and then back to me before turning on one impressively high heel and enfolding me in a hug.

“Well that’s shitty, Robin. I’m so sorry.”

I pull away before I start crying again. I don’t want Carter to see me crying. I don’t want to share any more of myself with him. I just poured my soul out to a crowd full of people and the one person who mattered stomped on it and threw it away.

I look up at my best friend. “So can you please take him back to our house? The side door’s unlocked. He can get his stuff and leave. I never want to see him again.”

She glances over at him. “Okay… Are you sure, Robin?”

I nod. “I’m sure. And while he’s getting his stuff, can you go up to my computer and block him? I mean on everything—e-mail, Instagram, whatever. Everything.”

She nods slowly. “Okay…”

I walk over to Carter, who looks up when he sees my shadow. “Jenni’s taking you home,” I sign, mouth tight. I can’t look in his eyes. I focus on his shoulder instead. “I don’t want to see you again.”

He stands up. “Please,” he signs.

I shake my head, holding out a finger to stop him from coming any closer.

“I feel so stupid,” I sign, not able to find the right words to say that he’s a liar and a con and I feel taken in. I spent hours with him instead of practicing. I invited him into my town, my diner, my house. I took money from my guitar fund to buy pretty, lacy underwear. And he was laughing behind my back the whole time.

I sneak a look at his brown eyes and they’re red with crying, his face slack, drained.

“Please leave,” I sign. “Good-bye.”

“Please,” he signs one more time, taking another step closer to me.

“I don’t want to hear it!” I scream, stiffening up so I don’t explode. I look him in the eyes. “Just like you don’t want to hear me!”

His face turns stony and he steps back. “Fine,” he signs. His hands start to move, but he stops himself from saying anything more.

Head held high, he walks past me toward Jenni, who’s digging her keys out of her purse. She starts walking toward the parking lot and beckons him to follow her.

His shirt is soaked through the back with sweat. He walks like he’s fighting a river’s current. For half a second, I picture myself running after him, turning him around, kissing him and saying I’m sorry. Asking him why he never told me. Why he would ever do that to me. If he ever loved me at all. But my feet stay rooted to the ground, too stubborn to move.

Carter

That’s it. You know? That’s it. If this is the way she wants to be, then great. It’s not like we were made for each other. Nobody’s made for anybody, and a Deaf guy sure isn’t made for a girl who loves to hear but can’t listen.

I spend the car ride to her house texting her. They bounce back, one by one. She’s already blocked me on her phone. Without so much as looking at Jenni, I vault out of her car, in through the unlocked side door, and down the stairs to the basement. I shove my clothes and toothbrush in my backpack and stride out the door to my bike.

I rev the bike, feeling it rumble beneath me. This. This is what I need. This is what I had forgotten about. I breathe in country air and motorcycle exhaust and kick off, speeding down the back roads of Nowheresville, pushing one ten on flat stretches. I stop only for gas. The adrenaline takes all my concentration and I get lost out in the country, phone dead. To tell the truth, I don’t care. I’d rather be lost than stuck.

By the time I get home, the sun has long since set and the sky is dark. Mom is on my tail the minute I’m in the door.

“Where the hell have you been? Why is your phone off? I have been scared to death that something happened to you.” Her hands are almost violent.

“Out,” I sign. “I’m hungry.” My face betrays me. As always.

Mom’s face relaxes and she takes a step back. She reaches out to me. “Oh, Carter, what happened?” she asks.

Ducking her hug, I head into the kitchen and rummage through the refrigerator, grabbing a banana and a glass of orange juice. After pouring the juice, I turn around to find Mom looking at me, waiting. Her arms are crossed but her eyes are pleading. “What happened?” she signs again.

“It’s done,” I sign. I rummage in the cupboards for more food. I don’t want to tell her that Robin wants me to hear. That she thinks I’m implanted. That she called me a liar. “There was… a miscommunication.” I smile humorlessly. A miscommunication. I’m surprised it hasn’t happened before. We don’t even speak the same language.

My mom gives me a look. “A miscommunication?”

I pause, then nod. She must know it’s not the whole story.

“Well, you still broke the rules,” she signs after a few minutes of silence. “No bike for ten days.”

Ten days. The next time I’ll be able to ride is the day we go home. “Fine,” I sign. “I don’t want to go anywhere.”

“Then maybe I should take away the computer, too.”

“Do whatever you want,” I sign. I trudge up to my room and flip on the TV. Each picture blurs into the next as tears prick at my eyes. I wipe them one at a time and keep watching.

Robin

“So it’s a date?” Trent’s eyes gleam at me from under his newsboy cap.

There’s a moment’s hesitation before I answer. “Yeah.” Then my confidence grows. “Yeah. Sure. It’s a date.” I hold out my hand and he takes it, his calluses rough. We shake once and he drops it.

“Good doing business with you, Ms. Peters,” he jokes. “Now I think your table needs coffee.”

He’s right. I grab a coffeepot and head over.

Trent doesn’t know everything that went down on Sunday, but he knows enough to have kept his distance this past week. He’s got a gig tonight at Eason Hall—some square dance—and someone backed out on him, so he came in early to beg me to fill in. I haven’t even picked up Bender since Sunday. Six days without practice. I think it’s a record. I guess that ends tonight. It has to. Twenty bucks closer to the Dread Pirate Martin, right? Although after our near-holy experience last week, I’m considering keeping old Bender around a little longer.

I return to the counter, where Trent waits to punch in, drumming on the countertop.

“If you want to clock in early, you can help clean the egg grill!” Fannie hollers from the back.

“Oh no, Beautiful. That’s all you,” Trent replies. “There’s no way that job is worth the extra $2.25 I’d get from clocking in twenty minutes early.”

I roll my eyes and look for something to kill time. All my side work is done—silverware rolled, sugars filled, prep area cleaned, salads made… Now I just have to wait until my table leaves and I can get my tips and go.

Trent pats the stool next to him. “Come on, Robin egg. Take a load off.”

It’s a bad idea. My feet will only hurt worse. But I can’t help it.

“Okay… ,” I say. I pour myself a Mountain Dew and scurry to the customer’s side of the counter, hopping up on the stool next to Trent.

“How ya holdin’ up?” The question is quiet. It’s accompanied by a sidelong glance.

I shrug. “I guess I knew it would have to end sometime, you know? With him living in the city and all.” It’s a lie. I thought we would find some way to stay together despite the distance. I toy with the string bracelet Jenni made me after the breakup. It’s a lot better than her first attempt.

“A fish and a bird, Robin,” says Trent. “That’s all it is. It’s the fish and the bird.”

I bristle a little. I know what he’s referencing, of course. It’s that old saying: “A fish may love a bird, but where would they live?”

“You’re just two different creatures,” he continues. “There’s nothing wrong with admitting that.”

I shake my head, too worn out to argue.

Some peppy oldies breakup song plays over the radio and I hum the harmony. Why do they sound so happy? Were breakups happier in black-and-white? Trent’s clear tenor joins me under his breath. I can hardly tell where my voice ends and his begins.

My table leaves during the song, so after hefting myself off the stool onto swollen, achy feet, I clear the dishes and count up my tips. Sixty bucks. That’s Friday money, all right. By the time I head back to the counter, Trent’s at the computer, punching in.

“Tonight at eight?” I call as I trade out my apron for my purse.

“Eight!” He waves, poking his head in the pass-through window. “I may be a little late!”

“What else is new?”

When I get home, I have enough time to shower, eat some dinner, and go over the songs that Trent’s picked out. They’re simple enough. A few boom-chunk chords. Bender feels foreign in my hands, and I wonder if our Sunday synergy is lost forever. By the time I’ve brushed up, it’s nearly time to go. I throw on a cotton sundress and a pair of hiking boots, leaving my hair braided loosely over one shoulder. Then I grab my keys and go.

When I get to Eason Hall, John’s already unloading Trent’s stand-up bass from his minivan. I hold the gate open as he grunts and struggles to lift it out without damaging it.