Laura Anderson - Song of Summer

She sneaks a smile. “You said it, I didn’t,” she signs.

I mock applause again. “Very funny.”

“So I can bring Jolene?”

“You can bring Jolene. When are you coming?”

“In about a month—beginning of August.”

“Cool,” I sign, but, again, my face takes some convincing. Time to change the subject. “What have you been up to?”

“We’ve missed you! Saw the new superhero movie the today at Walter Reade,” she signs and I shake my head. There are no open-captioned theaters around here. Of course.

“Jealous,” I sign back to her.

“What did you do?”

“Hid in the house and played video games,” I sign. “Went for a bike ride. You know— Sunday. Chautauqua’s open to the public. People everywhere. Not really my scene.”

“Lots of people? Oh no! You poor baby. That’s nothing like New York,” she signs back sarcastically.

I give her a look.

“Anything else?”

“Saw some trees,” I answer. “And cows. Lakes. And… lectures. Pavilions. Amish.” I have to spell that last one. I don’t know if there’s even a sign for Amish. I pause for a minute, deciding whether I should say anything about the cute girl at the diner. I give in. “And a waitress.”

Her eyebrows shoot up to her hairline. “A waitress?”

Big mistake. I shrug, playing it off. “Yeah. A waitress.”

“A waitress… What kind of waitress… ?”

“Never mind. Forget I said anything. No waitress.”

“Doubt it.” She grins.

She turns her head from the screen and says something with her hands and her mouth to somebody who’s out of the frame.

“Sorry,” she signs, facing me again. “Gotta go. Matt.”

“Make good choices,” I sign, and she rolls her eyes at me.

“Good night,” she signs.

“Good night.”

I reach around and click off the computer. A waitress. I wonder if she works on Monday…

Robin

“Anywhere ya want!”

The door swings shut behind me, and once again I enter the restaurant at 11:00 a.m.

“Hey, Violet. It’s just me,” I say, sliding my purse into the cubby, pulling out my apron, and wrapping it twice around me so it skirts out over my hips.

I wave hi to Elsie, who helps with lunch on Mondays, since Violet gets out early. She’s twentysomething and going through a divorce. She waves back to me as she looks through Hair Weekly while making salads.

“Anything… interesting happen on Sunday?” I ask Violet as I write “ROBIN’S MARTIN DREADNOUGHT JUNIOR FUND” across a paper cup and set it on a shelf. Twenty bucks. Gunning for twenty bucks to put toward the guitar. It’s a Monday, so that’s ambitious.

She smiles at me. “No, he didn’t come back yesterday.”

I laugh. “That’s not what I was talking about.”

“It’s not?”

She shimmies her shoulders, making a kissy face at me before staring absentmindedly out the plate-glass windows, her hands wrapping silverware seemingly on their own. It’s second nature to her, like tying a shoe or typing. Her face lights up as Rex pulls up in their old Ford pickup. Mondays are date night- he has the day off from the factory and she gets off work early. He parks the truck and busts through the door, limping on his bad leg.

“Ready, babe?” he asks.

Her penciled-in eyebrows crinkle and her shoulders droop. “In a minute,” she says, nodding at the unfinished silverware.

“Gimme that. I’ll finish it,” I say. It’s not like I have anything better to do. Who am I to stand in the way of true love?

“Would you really?” It’s like she’s a 50s Disney movie.

I nod. “Yeah. Don’t worry about it. Go be in love.”

She unwraps her loaded apron and hands it to Rex, hefting her purse from the cubby under the counter.

“Thanks, sweetie! See ya tomorrow!”

“See ya!” I yell after her.

“Bye!” shouts Fannie from the grill. “I’ll call you later with that recipe!” She seems strangely incomplete without Violet.

“Hey.” Elsie sidles up to me after sliding the tray of salads into the cooler.

“Hey, what’s up?”

“Nothing. It’s dead.” She sighs and sits at the bar. Her limp blond hair hangs from its ponytail, brushing the bar. For somebody who wants to be a stylist, her own hair always looks a little lackluster.

Sometimes, on slow days, we just take a crossword and I sit at the bar and call out the clues: “six-letter word for nostalgia!” It’s not like we’ll get in trouble; there’s no prayer of seeing the boss. I’ve seen him exactly three times—once when I was hired, once when he wanted breadsticks, and once when he brought his girlfriend to lunch. They got lasagna.

But today I want to rush. I want excitement. Since “rush” and “excitement” aren’t possible on a Monday in Westfield, I take a rag and start going around the restaurant, dusting the Styrofoam-filled milk bottles, farming tchotchkes, and plastic-framed black-and-white photographs that cover the walls.

I sing along to the oldies with a porcelain cow as a microphone, upping Elsie’s tip as her one table smiles at me bemusedly. Then a noise stops me in my tracks.

I look at Elsie. She hears it too. In fact, I think everybody in Westfield hears it. It sounds… loud and expensive. Looking together, we see the source of the noise through the diner’s huge plateglass windows. It’s a motorcycle, but not like any I’ve ever seen in Westfield. It’s sleek and beautiful and tough. And bright, bright yellow and black. The rider is crouched low over the handlebars, not sitting up straight and tall like on a Harley. It’s the difference between a jockey on a racehorse and my uncle Jim on his Belgian horse. I can’t help it. My jaw drops.

That beautiful bike glides up our street and into our parking lot. Ever so slowly, I set the porcelain cow back on its shelf. Even Fannie peeks her head through the pass-through window to get a look.

The rider turns off the engine and dismounts, almost in slow motion. He kicks out the kick-stand and takes off his helmet, shaking his head to fix his hair. Which doesn’t need fixing because it’s perfect. Like his dark brown eyes. And his one crooked tooth. And everything else about him. I gulp.

“Holy hell,” says Elsie.

Holy hell, indeed.

From the ground up, Mr. Perfect Guy is wearing black leather boots, jeans, and a tight Italian leather jacket over a red T-shirt. The helmet is under his arm, and he’s taking off his motorcycle gloves as he walks down the sidewalk into the restaurant.

“Your table,” says Elsie wistfully as the bell dings, even though she’s too old for him and technically still married.

He looks at me and flashes a grin, waving hello.

“Hi,” I quaver, gesturing to all the tables. “Anywhere ya want.”

I close my eyes, face instantly red. I can’t believe I just said that. Thank God he can’t hear me.

He sits at a booth by one of the huge front windows and drums his fingers on the table. It’s not an impatient move, it’s an awkward one. It reminds me of the way somebody might say “um…” or “So…” I stash the dusting rag and get a menu and a roll of silverware.

“Hi,” I say again, setting the menu and silverware down on his table. His brown eyes look up through their lashes at me. I look away before I start blushing. “I’m Robin.”

What must my name look like to somebody who’s lip-reading? Crap, crap, crap. And suddenly, inspiration strikes. I pull out my waitress pad, ripping off the last order from yesterday.

“I’m Robin,” I write on it. I tear it off and put it on his table. He reads it and reaches into his back pocket, pulling out his own pen and small pad of paper.

“Hi, Robin,” he writes. “I’m Carter.”

Carter. Suave. Beautiful. Sophisticated.

“Hey,” I say, smiling. I give a little wave.

He waves back and smiles.

“Something to drink?” I ask out loud. I figure that’s easy enough to lip-read, right? My hands are still. I feel the urge to pretend that I’m drinking from one of them, but that’s probably wrong, so I feel stupid and don’t do anything. My fingers flex.

“Soda?” His handwriting is careless and seamless. My handwriting is chicken scratch. I’m surprised he could decipher my name.

I smile and write, “We don’t have soda.”

He tilts his head and points to the pop dispenser.

I finish the joke. “We have pop. You’re in western New York, buddy! Time to talk like a local!”

His mouth opens in a silent laugh. “Fine,” he writes. He x-es out “soda” and replaces it with “pop.”

I sigh and start writing out the list. This could take a while. “Pepsi, diet, Mountain Dew” halfway through the word, he inches his hand up to mine and drums his fingers. Just once. I stop writing and he points to Mountain Dew, tapping it twice.

He looks me in the eyes and it’s all I can do to nod instead of melt.

“Okay,” I say.

I write, “brb” on the paper and head to the counter to get his drink.

I chance a look back at him. He’s grinning at his menu.

Carter