Song of Summer (19 page)

She gives me a look. “There are no pretty girls in the whole city?”

“Well, there are none as pretty as you.”

She rolls her eyes and shakes her head. “You just want to get into my pants,” she writes. She shoots me a teasing look.

I know she's not serious, but it stings a little. Walking away from her at my house was one of the hardest things I'd ever done. One minute we were moving in sync; like the bike, we were racing together down the same road. Then she slammed on the brake and locked up the front tire. That's a wipeout.

I shake my head. “Regardless, there are very few ice-cream stands with grass, Central Park excluded,” I write.

“Do you go there a lot?” she signs, leaning closer to me.

“Central Park? Yeah!” I sign. “Trees, grass… good for the soul.”

“What about the Village?” she writes.

I laugh. “It's not exactly what you think,” I write. “It's pretty posh. Not like in the days of Dylan.”

“You know Dylan?” Her surprise is palpable.

“Well, I've never heard his music,” I sign with a smile. For once, she doesn't look embarrassed at my little joke. Just anxious, hanging on my every word. “But I know his lyrics. His poetry.” I fingerspell the last few words so she gets them.

“Oh God, the Mamas and the Papas; Peter, Paul and Mary; Simon and Garfunkel; Kingston Trio…” The pen flies across the page.

And now we're in foreign territory. My face must say as much. She looks up from the notebook and grimaces before looking down to write again. “Sorry. They're bands who all got their start in the Village. Some of them even met in the Village. I would kill to go there.”

I take the pen from her. “Well, when you visit me in NYC, I'll be sure to plan a trip.”

Her eyes shine at me for one glorious instant before dulling. She shrugs and takes up the pen. “Nah, it would be boring for you.”

I write back, pressing hard into the notebook, the handwriting getting messy. “Boring, my ass. I would love to see you on my streets.”

I can only imagine the look that would be on her face as she visited the places where her idols were born—like the craft fair times a thousand. I would give anything to see her there. And in the world where she comes to visit me, this relationship wouldn't have an expiration date. We would continue past August twenty-eighth. I swallow hard and keep writing, “Comes with the territory of being a New Yorker. I would take you on all of the touristy stuff—whatever you want: Empire State Building, Statue of Liberty, Radio City Music Hall…”

“Really?” she writes.

“Yeah! Whatever clubs, concerts, restaurants… I don't know.”

“Brooklyn Bowl?”

I laugh. How does she know about that? My friend lives close and we went once—dark and crowded but if it's on her list… “Yeah,” I sign.

“Mercury Lounge?”

I have no idea what she's talking about. “Sure! Whatever you want!” I sign.

“Thanks!” she signs. She sits back and rests on her hands for a couple of minutes, staring into the sky.

I'm just about to ask if she wants to get back on the bike when she turns to me. “I don't want you to leave,” she signs simply. She gives an apologetic shrug and waits for my reaction.

I give her a little smile. “But if I don't leave, I won't be able to show you the Village,” I write.

“That's okay,” she writes. “I'll take the trade.”

“Really?” I write. “You'd give up Dylan? The…”—I consult the list at the top of the page—“Kingston Trio?”

She shrugs again. “If it means you would stay… ? Absolutely. I would give up…” She looks up from the notebook, a light in her eyes, like she's deciding between two delicious candies. She decides, writing, “anything.”

Throw her a mock-doubting look and sign, “Motorcycle rides?”

“Yes,” she signs without hesitation.

“The lunch shift at GCD?”

“YES!”

I almost do it. I almost sign, “Music?” but at the last second I change my mind. “Mint-ting-a-ling ice cream… ?”

She pretends to think about it hard, then shakes her head. “No,” she signs, then writes, “I couldn't give that up. Go back to the city, you.”

A grin on my face, I lunge for her most ticklish spot—right above her knee. She jumps up and backward, her mouth open in a gleeful squeal. I jump to my feet and chase her, grabbing her around the middle and picking her up. She grabs at my arms, her face still grinning, and I set her down. She throws her arms around my neck and kisses me.

“Okay, okay,” she signs, when she lets me go. “You can stay.”

“Good!” I sign. But I can't stay. I don't know if I would stay, even if I could. I live every day as an island here. I feel my grin begin to fade. When I look down at her, her face has also turned thoughtful. I throw my arm around her and we walk toward the notebook and our helmets in the grass.

“Question,” she signs, turning toward me under my arm.

“Yes,” I answer, the smile back on my face.

She laughs and runs to the little notebook, writing, “I didn't ask it yet!”

“Go on… ,” I sign.

She starts writing. “I'm playing guitar in church next week. I know it's not really your thing, but I'd love it if you came.”

“Sure,” I sign.

“Really?” she signs.

“Yes!”

Her eyes light up. “Thank you, thank you!” she signs. “I was afraid you would say no!” There's an eagerness to her excitement that turns my stomach a little bit.

“I'd love to see you play,” I sign. I take up the notebook. “It will be a great way to end the summer.”

Her hand gently turns my face toward hers. “Don't say that,” she signs, her mouth happy, her eyes sad. “We've got three more weeks.”

I kiss her once, then hug her tight.

Three more weeks, and then forever.

Three Weeks of Summer Left

Robin

“They're here!”

The text comes as I'm practicing. I stretch my hands, shaking them out and rubbing life back into the red calluses. Denise and her friend must have arrived.

“Yay! :)” I text back. My heart flutters and sinks a little, which is funny and unexpected.

I go back to my song. I've warmed up with a few
boom-chunk
chords and a song about old Joe Clark's house, which doesn't have a whole lot of meaning, but it's something I can do without thinking.

My fingers switch to the First Aid Kit song “Emmylou,” and I sing along. Their songs are in the American folk style, complete with American folk instruments and accents. You'd never in a million years guess that they're Swedish.

From the first time I heard that song, I've always dreamed of being someone's “Emmylou.” Half of a duet. My eyes drift to a picture stuck to the wall—Carter with his arm around me. Both of us squinting into the camera. He will never sing with me. I've never even heard his spoken voice. I haven't even heard him laugh again—not since that night at dinner. Does he know how much I loved it?

I push those thoughts away and find that my feelings have spilled over into the music, switching from “Emmylou” to a different song—about a girl missing a boy who's gone forever. Where did that come from? I stop fingerpicking and jam on some bright chords. I speed it up to distract me. Less contemplative, more demanding. The melody works its way into my hands and my ears, pouring into and filling up my soul. I smile and belt out a harmony, even though nobody's on melody, but the heart of the message is in the music. My fingers speak better than my mouth does—like Carter. But he'll never hear the language my fingers speak and his heart language will always be my second one.

My phone buzzes, saving my spiraling thoughts. It's from Carter again.

“Dinner tonight! You're coming, right?”

“Of course,” I text back. “Want me to bring anything?”

I wait for a second but he doesn't answer immediately, so I put the phone on the bed and Bender on her stand and move to my ancient desktop. I wiggle the mouse and my new homepage, the ASL dictionary, pops up.

“Hi,” I practice signing, although that particular one is second nature. “What's up?” “I'm fine,” “I'm sorry, can you slow down?” “I love music,” “I'm a singer,” “I'm a waitress,” “Tell me about yourself,” “How do you know Carter?” “So what is Carter like at school?”

All too soon it's 5:00 p.m., and my mom calls up the stairs. “You going soon?”

“Yeah.” I throw on the pair of jeans and black tank top that I wore when I first met his family.

“Does he want you to bring anything?” My mom is standing in my doorway, leaning up against the doorjamb.

“Um…” I check my phone. He never answered. “I guess not.” I glance up at her. “I don't know why, but I'm a little nervous.”

“You'll do fine,” she says, and gives me a hug. “Say hi to Carter for us, honey. Tell him it's our turn to have him over! We don't get to see enough of him!”

“Will do, Mom,” I say. I grab my keys from their hook by the door and turn around to say good-bye to my mom, but she's not looking at me anymore. She's looking out the window, her arms crossed. Her face is distant.

“See ya, Mom,” I say. “Love you.”

She turns the smile back on and looks at me. “Love you, too. Have fun.”

I dial Jenni on my way out the door.

“How was work today, working girl?” I ask.

“Good! They love me. I'm the only one who doesn't steal bites in between cones.”

“Ha!” Of course—lactose intolerant—I never thought of that.

“Tonight's the big night, huh?” she asks.

“Yeah. Meeting the infamous Denise and her friend. I think her name is Jolene?”

“Nice. You nervous?”

“A little, actually. So, you and Barry. How are things going?”

I can almost hear her roll her eyes as the smile creeps into her voice. “He's walked me to the ice-cream shop every day since I started, but he never comes in! I tease him about being seen with the help. Anyway, we're having dinner on Thursday. Some swanky place that he doesn't think is swanky.”

I laugh. I never thought they'd hit it off, but Jenni calls him on his rich-boy act and he just adores her. It's a good match. At least for the summer.

I wonder if that's what people think about me and Carter.

We discuss her outfit for Thursday, deciding on the ever-popular little black dress. I was there when Jenni picked it out. It will blow his mind.

I'm at Chautauqua before I know it. I park in the lot and walk up to the gate, giving a nod to the high-school-age gate attendant. I think she's in Chautauqua Lake's select singing group, but I've seen her more in the past couple weeks than at any music festival. She scans my pass, bored, and I start the walk to Carter's house. He usually meets me at the gate. But it's okay, I know the way.

I brush imaginary lint off my clothes before ringing the doorbell. The lights flash and in an instant, the door is hauled open by a girl with creamy brown skin, brilliant green eyes, and bright-white smile. This goddess is his sister's friend?

“Hi!” I sign, and gulp, trying to smile.

“Hi!” the girl (Jolene?) signs. “Come in!”

I walk into Carter's bright living room to find it empty. Apparently, everyone's in the kitchen. I follow Jolene in her New York City clothes and her bare feet and perfect pedicure. A cute Indian girl is texting. Denise—I know her from Carter's pictures. She looks up. “You must be Robin! It's so good to meet you!” she signs and says. Her speech is excellent—the R's are a little soft, but I wouldn't know she was deaf unless I noticed her hearing aids.

“Hi,” I sign. “Nice to meet you, too.” It's easier for me to sign if I'm talking. Carter said that it's okay for me to do both at once. I guess it messes with the grammar or something, but a lot of hearing people do it.

Jolene grabs a stool and sits down, turning to face me. “I'm Jolene,” she signs, mouthing the words but silently, like Carter. I glance at her ears—no hearing aids, no CI. Like Carter. “I'm a friend of Denise and Carter.”

“Cool,” I sign.

There's a pause. We look at each other and I give a little smile.

“Carter's in the bathroom,” Jolene signs, filling space.

Denise says, “Probably blowing it up in there. He's been gone forever.”

The girls laugh, and I join in reluctantly. I'm not really a bathroom-humor person, and I just met them. Plus they're talking about my boyfriend. Awkward doesn't begin to explain it.

“Where is everybody?” I ask. I'd expected Carter's parents and Trina to be hanging around.

“Trina's got a thing tonight—some kind of performance or something. Anyway, we have the house to ourselves,” says Denise, signing along.

“Cool,” I sign.

No hearing people. None. Except me. I am an island.

I hear footsteps running down the stairs and Carter steps into the kitchen. He is gorgeous as always, and a smile lights his face as he sees me. I smile back.

“Robin!” He signs the songbird-sign name that he gave me on the carousel.

“Aw so cute!” Denise signs. She signs my sign name, and I feel inexplicably violated. That's mine. Nothing to do with her.

I smile at her. “Thanks,” I sign. She's just trying to be nice, I remind myself. Inclusive.

Carter hugs me one-handed and kisses the top of my head. “Pizza?” he signs.

I snuggle into him, the warmth from his arm enfolding me for a second. “Okay,” I sign, and he gets on his phone, ordering online.

“Twenty minutes,” he signs.

He and Denise start signing rapid-fire to each other. I have no idea what it's about. Jolene turns to face me.

“Come on, let's chat in the living room,” she signs slowly, an encouraging smile on her gorgeous face. “Those two are fighting about who's leaving their clothes on the bathroom floor.” That sentence is so out of left field, she has to repeat it twice. I follow her to the living room and sit on one pristine white couch, curling a leg under me.