Love Is More Than Skin Deep (A Hidden Hearts Novel Book 4) (36 page)

LOOKING AROUND CAUTIOUSLY, I CAN’T help but be a little disappointed. This is nothing like I expected it to be. I guess maybe I had built it up in my head to be some magical place — unlike anything I’d ever been to or experienced before. Aside from the fact it’s overwhelmingly loud, this high school is just like the School for the Deaf I’ve attended since Preschool; girls still shriek, hug each other like it’s an Olympic sport, wear too much makeup, smell like they’ve bathed in perfume and laugh like every joke is the funniest thing they’ve ever heard. The only difference is, with my implants, I can now hear all of this chaos. My parents were super protective and didn’t want me to leave that safe world. So, this is the first time I’ve been able to venture out of the safety of the deaf community. Honestly, I’m not really sure whether to be scared or excited.
 

My grades are top-notch. They always have been. I pay meticulous attention to that. I don’t want anyone judging my worth by my inability to hear. Honestly, it’s a sore spot for me. I’ve always hated it when people call me retarded because of nerve damage. It was so stupid too — when I was a kid, my dad was rear-ended by some idiot and nobody knew I was severely injured because everything was on the surface. It wasn’t until I stopped responding to people that they figured out there was a problem. My parents are worried I’m not going to be able to compete on the “big kids’ stage.” I think they forgot that I started solving algebra problems in the second grade because I was bored.

I am a little nervous about being able to fit in here. I don’t really have any friends. There is a guy who transferred from the School for the Deaf just a couple years ago, but I think he’s a senior. He probably won’t want anything to do with me because I’m a freshman. In that sense I’m going to be a fish out of water. Girls are weird that way. They judge you by the friends you hang out with, and since I don’t really have any, I think I’m going to be at a disadvantage. My plan of attack is to just pretend to be as normal as humanly possible.
 

It was weird trying to guess what people would be wearing today. I usually don’t think about it much. I usually wear whatever I want to. My mom wants me to dress like a little mini-business-person because she says that projects an image of success to my teachers and everyone around me. I’m more prone to wear yoga pants or a bodysuit with a big old sweater over it, but whatever.

 
I’m still fighting with my combination lock on my locker when something catches my eye. There is a very large mob of people coming my way and they don’t seem to see me. I start to sign, “Hey! Watch where you’re going.” About four beats too late, I remember that I need to use my voice.
 

A guy so tall he probably plays on the basketball team, sneers at me as he comments to his friends in a singsong voice, “Look, Elijah, they found you another retard to play with at recess.”

Another kid pipes up, “Yeah, Defuct-o-matic, maybe you should get together with this one and make a bunch of little freaks.”

Crap. I haven’t even been here ten minutes yet and they’re already calling me names. Why did I think this was such a good idea again?

At first, it’s not even clear who they’re talking about. The scene is so jumbled and chaotic, I’m having trouble figuring out what’s going on. There are so many people in the hallway that I’m completely smashed up against my locker, trying to stuff my backpack behind me so that doesn’t get stolen.

 
Suddenly, I hear a booming voice from down the hall. It’s so loud, I probably could’ve heard it without implants. “Is there a problem here?”

 
“No, Mr. King… no problem… just going to class.” The tall kid responds as he scurries away.

 
The man looks at me and asks, “Ms. Anderson, problem?”

 
Oh just fab, he already knows my name too — so much for being invisible
.

 
“No, Sir — I mean yes,” I stammer. “I can’t seem to get this stupid combination lock to work.”

“Why don’t you work on it for a few more minutes and if you still can’t get it to work, I’ll have the janitorial crew give you a hand — just stop by the office. Tell them Vice-Principal King gave you permission to be in the hall.”

 
“Yes, Sir,” I mumble.

He looks at his watch and hits his forehead as he says, “I’m sorry, Sadie, I can’t believe I forgot the conference call with the school board. I have to run.”

I’m standing by my locker pondering the last few minutes in complete shock and trying to decide how I’m going to explain to my parents that the vice principal of the school is already on a first name basis with me when I haven’t even been to class yet.
 

I notice that the crowd of people has dispersed, leaving a pale, shaky young man who is currently so busy trying to stem the trickle of blood from his nose that he doesn’t even notice my presence. Geez, what do I do now? Should I get the principal? He didn't even seem to notice the guy, but he said he was going to be in a meeting so I don't know if he can help me. Maybe the guy doesn't want me to call a teacher anyway. Since I haven’t been able to unload the truck load of stuff that my mom stuffed in my backpack this morning, I’m able to retrieve the box of Kleenex my mom insisted that I bring to keep in my locker. My mom still thinks that I need to do an annual school supply run as if I am a first grader picking out my first set of jumbo crayons.

Quietly, I walk up to the young man and tap him on the shoulder before wordlessly offering him my box of tissues. He punches wildly and almost knocks them out of my hand. Instinctively, I duck.

 
He blinks rapidly and slaps the side of his face as if to stop it. Finally, he takes a deep breath and looks at me as if he is just now noticing that I’m not with the same group of kids that just beat him up. “Jigger… sorr — jigger, jigger—”

 
Usually, context helps me figure this stuff. I still tend to rely on lip-reading even though I have the implants — but this just isn’t making any sense. What I think it sounds like doesn’t even remotely apply to me. I must have misheard. Maybe I’m getting some odd feedback or something. Whoever this guy is, he doesn’t look like he’d be in a position to mess with me. If I thought my day was off to rough start, his is far worse.
 

I pull a Kleenex from the box and stuff it into his hand, “This will help. Hold some pressure on your nose.”

 
“Jig, Jigger if you want to survive in this school jig jigger, you should pretend jigger you don’t know me and I need to act like I don't know you. Thanks for the help, though.”

WELL, THAT’S JUST GREAT. SO much for my dad’s lectures all summer about how this was going to be a fresh start for me; about everyone was going to have a new level of maturity.
It will be different,
they said.
You all are high schoolers now. Kids know more now because of the Internet, they’ll understand Tourette’s syndrome. They’ll know that you’re smart and that your tics are just a difference, and don’t mean that you’re stupid.
 

Yeah, not so much. It’s been that way ever since Scotty McDougall decided to make Cub Scout camp all about torturing me. From that moment on, Elijah Fischer became synonymous with, wimp, target, weirdo, retard, stupid, reject and my favorite of all, defuct-o-matic or maybe Jigger-nut because of my tic. I thought that the new medication I tried over the summer was doing pretty good job of controlling my tics, but I guess I was wrong.
Again.
What else is new?

 
Really
? Did I have to fall to pieces in front of one of the prettiest girls I’ve seen in forever? I had one chance to make a good first impression and I practically biffed her in the face. I look down at my shirt and see a growing spot of red. Great! This was a brand-new shirt that I just got at an Aidan O’Brien concert. It even has an autograph on the back. I’ll never get the blood out.

 
I walk to my first period class — of course because I’m late, there are no seats in the back. The only seat in the room is right next to new girl.
FML
. I try to slide into my seat before the teacher notices. Just my luck, it’s somebody new. “Mr. Fischer, I presume?”

 
I nod tightly and inexplicably, New Girl smiles at me and gives me a little wave.

 
The new teacher gives me a look of sympathy just shy of pity as she comments, “Mondays are tough on me, too. I have an extra copy of the syllabus and handouts for you.”

 
As the new teacher cheerfully tells us about her attendance policy and all the exciting things we’re going to do this year, New Girl slips me a note. I honestly don’t know how to react. I don’t have a very good history with notes. Usually, they involve threats to bodily parts that I’d rather not lose. I open this one with extreme trepidation. Surprisingly, it just has a few random doodles on it. Okay, so it’s not fair to call them doodles — they’re pretty much works of art. Among all the doodles is a note:

 
Her handwriting is almost a work of art in itself.

 
I tear off a piece of paper from my tablet and scribble.

 
After looking at Sadie’s note, I wish my handwriting was better — but it’s not. Usually, I am in such a rush to get my ideas down that I don’t take the time to focus on my writing. If I do focus on my writing then I can get
too
focused and start to repetitively count the strokes in the letters and that’s bad. It’s easier for me just to rush through and not pay attention to the actual physical act of writing. I am just weird that way. I carefully fold the note up and pass it to her.

 
I watch as she visibly rolls her eyes while reading my note. I cringe because I am afraid that the teacher is going to catch on to her body language if she’s not careful. Sadie seems completely oblivious as she hurriedly scribbles an answer to me. I’ve never seen anybody write as fast as she does. It’s awe-inspiring.

 
In no time flat, a note appears on my desk. As if the speed writing wasn’t impressive enough, there is a whole new doodle. It is astonishingly accurate for the amount of time she had to draw it.