Laura Anderson - Song of Summer

“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

She’s funny.

I can’t stop smiling as I look through the menu. It’s typical diner fare, with a few oddballs thrown in. Surf ’n’ turf? I almost want to try the strip steak, just for kicks. New York is good for more than tall buildings, after all.

Robin. She’s a little bird.

She’s back before I know it, sliding the glass, which glows with electric green liquid behind my menu. I look up.

“You ready?” she writes on her little waitress paper. Her handwriting takes some time to figure out.

I shrug. “Maybe,” I sign before catching myself.

She looks surprised. Probably because she understands it. The sign for maybe just looks like you’re weighing things in your hands. She probably uses it all the time, in the correct manner, without knowing it.

“How’s the surf ’n’ turf?” I write.

A laugh bubbles through her body. She shakes her head while she writes, “Stick to burgers.”

“Just burgers?”

Her hands are worn and dry, probably from handling hot plates and washing tables. Her fingers are strong and calloused, and her nails are cut close on her left hand, longer on her right hand. She taps the pen on her neck as she thinks, then writes for a while. When she shows me, it says, “The Reuben’s good too, if Fannie’s working. Anything deep-fried. And the veggie lasagna, even though it’s Stouffer’s. Shhh, don’t tell.”

I smile and nod, almost writing, “I won’t say a word,” but I don’t want to weird her out. Sometimes hearing people are uncomfortable with deaf jokes.

“Couple minutes?” she writes.

I point to where it says “Reuben” in the menu and tap it twice.

“Reuben?” her mouth says.

I nod.

“Okay,” her mouth says, and she smiles. She goes back to the kitchen, punches the order into a computer, and starts to roll silverware into napkins.

“Come talk to me,” I want to say. Summer will be so long and boring. I am a Deaf island in this rural hearing ocean. The stores and restaurants near my school, and even near my home, know me. A lot of people know ASL or have learned little bits. Here? She’s the only one I’ve found who even tries to get me. I guess she’s the only one I’ve tried to get, too.

I want to catch her eye but I don’t want to bug her. She’s probably busy with that silverware. She’s working, after all. Getting paid.

So I look out the window at Westfield, aka: the Middle of Nowhere. The diner is on the town’s one main street, called, of course, “Main Street,” like from an old TV show. There’s a bed-and-breakfast on one side, a grocery store on the other, and a doctor’s office across the street. An antique car is parked on the expansive lawn in front of the diner with a for sale sign in the window.

I pull out my phone. There’s a text from Denise waiting for me. I must have missed it on the ride up here. “At Sal’s. Jolene says yes! It’s a go!”

Sal’s is this coffee shop/art gallery that we go to all the time. There are big, bright tables with good sightlines and elbow room. We go at least once a week. Our favorite barista, Tim, learned all the signs for the drinks we get, and he chats with us if he has time.

“Wish I could be at Sal’s,” I text back.

“What are you up to?” appears on my phone almost instantly. She must not be too busy.

I purse my lips. “Got the bike out,” I answer.

“Nice. Get home before dark!”

“Duh.”

My dad spent a ton of time with me getting me ready for my license. He has a BMW bike he rides all the time. I almost got one myself, but then I saw the Streetfighter and it was all over. Love at first sight.

“Where’d you go?” she asks.

“Diner a couple towns over,” I reply.

“Nice. A diner with A WAITRESS?!”

“Maybe.”

“I knew it. Have fun.”

I roll my eyes, pocket my phone, and look out the window again. My bike is shining in the parking lot. A local walks by and eyes it like it’s a magazine centerfold. Kind of is. He must feel me watching him because he looks straight at me. His eyes land on the helmet that sits on my table, and he jerks his head in a “what’s up,” pointing at the bike and giving it a thumbs-up. I smile tightly and nod once. He keeps on going, looking back at the bike from time to time.

I’m watching his retreating back when a plate slides into my peripheral vision. Robin. I look up at the smile on her face.

“Here you go!” is written on her paper. “Need anything?”

I look it over—looks good. Smells even better. I’m about to ask for ketchup when she pulls a bottle out of her apron pocket. I’m about to ask for a refill but she brought one of those too. Then an idea hits me.