Laura Anderson - Song of Summer

I’m at Jenni’s house in less than three minutes. Traffic-less travel is just one of the many perks of living in a town whose population is one-twentieth that of the seating capacity of a professional football stadium.

“Going to Robin’s! I’ll be back tomorrow sometime!” Jenni calls over her shoulder as she leaves. Her long red hair ripples down her back in waves and her giraffe legs trip gracefully down the stairs.

“Okay!” I hear her mom call from inside.

She folds herself into the car and throws her bag in the backseat.

“How goes the final summer of fun?” I ask, and pull away before she can shut the door. She wrestles with the door handle and clicks her seat belt on.

“Wonderful,” she says. “Lovely. Perfect. I’m getting into macramé.”

“Ha! Macramé? When did this happen?”

“Yesterday. After the church thing.” She holds a knotted bracelet out for me to examine. I glance down. It’s a little rough around the edges, but great for a first try.

“Cute!” You know who was cute? That guy. Carter.

“Thanks. I think I’m going to start selling them online or at our Arts Festival weekend yard sale or something.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! What about the final summer of fun?”

“It can be fun and moneymaking, right?”

I burst out laughing. “I wouldn’t know. I tend to think the two are mutually exclusive. I’m the one who smells like a deep fryer here.”

She inhales. “I love the way you smell,” she purrs, acting all fake seductive. “It makes me want… cheese sticks.”

“No. No no no! It doesn’t matter how hard you try. There will be no cheese sticks for you.” She is lactose intolerant and loves cheese. It’s a bad combination for those within a ten-foot radius.

“Fine, fine. Can’t blame a girl for trying.” I drive down the country roads to my house, my mind replaying the conversation with Carter. Jenni stares out the window.

“Something up?” she asks after a couple of minutes.

“No,” I say. Nothing’s up. I just love the way his whole face responded when I wrote something or said something, like I had all of his attention and he’d rather it was with me than anywhere else.

“Okay.” I take a breath. “So there’s this boy…”

“I knew it! I knew you were acting weird! Tell me it’s not Trent!”

“It’s not Trent.”

She throws her hands up, hitting the roof of my Subaru. “Ow! Hallelujah. It’s summer! You’re single! What are you waiting for? Go after him!”

“I dunno, Jenni. He’s very perfect.”

Her tone turns serious. “Like my mom’s lasagna?”

“Exactly,” I say, my mood matching hers. “He is the guy version of your mom’s lasagna. And he has a motorcycle. Like a gorgeous bright-yellow and black motorcycle.”

She whistles low under her breath.

“But,” I say. “I can’t talk to him.”

“Honey, we’ve discussed this,” she says. “Just relax! Just because he is lasagna-level very perfect it doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to talk to you! Look him in the eye and say, ‘Hey, I’m Robin! I like your bike and your sexy, sexy ways.’ Try it!”

“Ha-ha. It’s not like I’m scared to talk to him, I literally cannot speak his language.”

She drops her hands and changes her tone. “You mean he’s perfect AND foreign! Does he have an accent? That is… ! That is… !”

I cut her off before she can decide what ‘that is…’. “No, he’s not foreign. He’s deaf.”

“What?”

“Not funny, Jenni. Acting like you can’t hear me. Not. Appreciated.”

“No! I seriously didn’t understand! He’s deaf?”

“Yes! And he speaks in sign language! So we’ve been writing notes.” I pull into my driveway and park in the little gravel space for my car, turning off the car, the music ending midmeasure. “He gave me his phone number…” I fish it out of my pocket and hand it to her as we walk into my house.

She takes it in careful concentration. “But how can he… ?”

“Texting, Jenni,” I call over my shoulder on my way up to my room. “It’s this thing where you type words to people…”

“Text-ing?” she says slowly, following me up the stairs. “What kind of magic is this?”

I laugh. “I don’t know. But there must be some kind of magic involved, because he’s picking me up after work tomorrow for a date.”

“A date?” Her squeal invites another laugh.

“A date!” I reply. “But enough about me! Tell me more about macramé.”

Carter

I glide into the parking lot, wiping down and covering my bike before heading across the street to the gatehouse, where I scan in and walk to the house. Even though I have a key (and nobody really locks things around here anyway), I ring the doorbell to flick the lights and let everyone know I’m home. My mom peeks her head around as I take my boots off at the door.

“Carter!” she signs. “Glad you’re back. Dinner’s almost ready. Fresh tomatoes from the farm stand down the road!”

She is too excited about those tomatoes. “Got it,” I sign with a smile. She’s got a love-hate relationship with our summers in the country. On one side of her mouth, she laments the lack of specialty food stores whereas on the other side she’s praising the size of our kitchen and the cheap, fresh produce. Sadly (for her), we leave before Labor Day, when harvest kicks into full gear.

I head up to my room and check my phone as I change into shorts. No text from Robin. I have a couple from my friends back home. Subway issues, Daniel’s house, Jolene… I read and reread every word, trying to imagine that I’m back in New York.

The lights flicker and I turn to the doorway. Trina’s there. “Dinner’s ready,” she signs and turns to skip back down the stairs.

Dinner smells like stir-fry. My mom’s been on this Asian kick lately. Evidently the combination of ginger and soy is supposed to slow the hands of time or something. I don’t know—she saw it on Doctor Something-or-Other’s TV show.

By the time I arrive, everyone else is sitting at the table. I slide into my seat and clasp my hands together like the rest of my family. It’s not really a prayer. It’s more of a moment of silence. A kind of signal that the meal has started. My parents are incredibly intentional people, as you can tell by our family—three deaf kids, all adopted far enough apart that each had time for a ton of attention while we were learning the important stuff. You know, like reading and writing and living with one foot in the hearing world and one in the Deaf world. So meals, like everything else, are intentional.

The moment of silence is supposed to be a moment to gather ourselves and reflect on the day, but we could use it to pray if we want, I guess. I don’t. I think about the overlook. Maybe I’ll take Robin there tomorrow. The overlook makes me think of the sunset, the pictures I took, the soul sense. What happens to those of us who don’t have a soul sense? Can we get a fake one? Like my sister’s fake sense of hearing? Or are we just fine without it? Like me.

As I open my eyes, I realize that I’m the last person to do so. Everybody else is passing food, and the stir-fry is sitting at my elbow.

I give myself a generous helping and lean back, ready to pack it in. The Reuben seems like a long time ago. Compulsively, I check my phone. Nothing from Robin. Still. Maybe it was a bad idea to give her my number. I look up to see my dad waiting for me to see him.

“You were gone for a long time,” he signs.

“Yeah,” I sign. “Took the bike out. It was beautiful.”

“The bike or the weather?” my dad signs, smiling. His bike is a BMW R 1200 R, and I think one of his proudest moments was when I got my motorcycle license. I think he hopes that I’ll follow in his footsteps and become an architect someday. Maybe I will. I don’t know what I want to do, though. Jolene once told me that I should be a model, which is stupid. That’s just something girls say.

“The bike and the weather,” I sign back, grinning.

Trina bumps my elbow. “Or was it a girl?” Her little fingers fly and she grins.

Crap.

I shrug.

My mom’s fork hangs in midair, not quite to her mouth. Trina realizes she struck gold.

“A girl?! A girl?!” Her hand fairly flies off her chin.

“I don’t know,” I sign weakly, avoiding eye contact. I suck at this. My face always gives away everything before I decide to say it.

“What’s she like?” my dad signs. He’s measured, as always, but smiling.

“Cute,” I sign. I try to be offhanded about it.

Trina claps her hands with a huge grin. My mom’s grimace tells me that my little sister is probably also squealing.

“Eeeee!” my mom signs in an arc, pointing at Trina and rolling her eyes, confirming my suspicion.

“What else?” Trina says. “Is she local? Is she hearing?”

“Yes,” I say, “and yes.”

Mom and Dad exchange a look. My dad flicks up his eyebrows and my mom cocks her head, and I see an entire conversation happen in that one look.

They’re shocked. Skeptical. Not because they don’t like hearing people.

Because I don’t.

And that sounds really trite and kind of elitist, but I just… Hearing people are always trying to fix me. They think everyone should be like them. Everyone should speak English and listen to music, and if I don’t want to, well, why wouldn’t I want to?

But I don’t. I don’t want to listen to music. I don’t want to speak English. I don’t want to dance. I don’t need any more people staring at me.

In middle school, I went through a phase where I tried to act hearing. I wore band T-shirts. I carried an iPod. I had my room wired up with a huge sound system. I had sub-woofers that would shake the apartment. I even got this fancy system that flashed lights in rhythm with the beat of the music. My friends and I went to concerts and screamed along with everybody else. My YouTube showed me music videos, with their crazy story lines and characters. It all seemed so forced. So… inauthentic. In about ninth grade, I just got sick of it.

Most deaf people aren’t as jaded as I am. I promise. And I try not to be a jerk about it. I really do. It’s just, I don’t need to be fixed. There are fewer and fewer of us left to “fix” anyway.

Thanks to the almighty CI.

I look at my plate to avoid any more conversation. I manage to find stir-fry interesting for about ninety seconds. When I do look up, though, everybody is still staring at me.

“More!” signs Trina.

I have a flashback of her as a baby, signing “More!” It was adorable. I shovel more food on her plate.

She gives me a withering look. She must be getting older—she’s getting really good at that. “More about the girl! What’s her name?”

“Robin,” I spell.

Trina clasps her hands over her heart. “Awww! So cute! Can I meet her?”

“No,” I sign.

She looks at Mom. “Mom!”

“Carter doesn’t have to introduce you to anybody he doesn’t want to.”

“Does she know ASL?” Trina asks.

I shrug, but I know the answer. No, she doesn’t.

“How will you talk?” Trina continues. “Bet you wish you had an implant now!”

“All right. That’s enough,” my dad breaks in. “Leave him alone.”

She rolls her eyes and settles back into her chair. “Fine,” she signs.

“Don’t worry,” Dad signs. “We’ll return the favor when you have a boyfriend.”

Trina’s face lights up. “Is she your girlfriend?!”

“No,” I sign. “She’s a girl. A nice girl.”

“A beautiful girl,” corrects Trina.

I look at my dad.

“Enough,” he signs. Again.

We all go back to eating.

Mom and Dad converse about work, weather, dinner, etc., etc. I space out until my mom points a question at me.

“What are you doing tomorrow?”

I shrug once more, but I’m not fooling anyone. Trina’s eyes light up.

“Bike ride,” I sign.

My dad raises an eyebrow. “Where and when?”

“Westfield. I’ll leave around 3:30 and get back before dark. Why?”

“Does she live in Westfield?” breaks in Trina before my parents can answer.