Song of Summer (2 page)

I laugh full-out this time, shaking my head, a glass in each hand, and walk back to the table. Right before I reach it, I look back over my shoulder. Violet has bustled into the kitchen. Through the pass-through window, I see her and Fannie gossiping like sixth-grade girls. Fannie peeks through the window and I give her a don't-you-start look. She grins and waggles her eyebrows before turning back to Violet.

I shake my head and plop the waters down, tossing a couple straws from my apron pocket to the table.

“So, what can I get for you today?” I say, pen and paper ready.

“I'll have a bacon cheeseburger with everything, and fries,” says the strawberry blond. He checks his phone and points at Mr. Perfect Guy. “He'll have a bacon cheeseburger with pickles, no onion, and fries.”

“Okay…” So maybe this is a date, after all. Strawberry blond is ordering for both of them. I venture a glance at Mr. Perfect Guy. He's wearing a fitted blue T-shirt, which tells me that he works out but says nothing about his sexual orientation. No Chautauqua pass. He glances up from his phone and gives a little nod and a closemouthed smile. I blush.

“Sounds good,” I say. “Anything else?”

“Nope,” says strawberry blond. His phone buzzes and he checks it. “Um, and a chocolate milkshake. After the meal.”

“Okay.” I force a smile.

Milkshakes are a pain. I have to make them myself and the milkshake spinner is so ancient it splashes everywhere. There's a good chance that I'll end up with as much milkshake on myself as in the glass.

Turning back toward the kitchen, I give a defeated look to Violet.

“What?” she says as I punch the order into the computer. (Grape Country Dairy is so small we don't need one, but at least this way Fannie doesn't have to read my writing.) “What? Does he have a girlfriend?”

“I think… ,” I say, finding the No Onion button, “he has a boyfriend.”

“Noooo!”

“Unfortunately, yes. The strawberry blond guy has been ordering for both of them. All the time. Mr. Perfect Guy hasn't spoken once.”

“Oh, well. What can you do?” Violet says hopelessly.

“I know. Le sigh.”

“How'd it go?” hollers Fannie from the kitchen, over the
kkssshhhh
of frying bacon and burgers.

“He's gay!” yells back Violet.

“Vi!” I glance back over my shoulder at the guys, all the way across the restaurant, to see if they heard. Strawberry blond is looking in our direction, but Mr. Perfect Guy is still bent over his phone.

“Figures,” yells back Fannie. “All the hot ones are.”

“Except Rex,” corrects Violet.

“Except Rex,” agrees Fannie.

“Will you two stop!”

“We'll find him,” says Violet, affectionately patting the paper tacked to the wall. She plucks the pen from my hand and adds “Not gay” to the corner of the list.

“Thank you,” I say, taking my pen back. “Thanks for that.”

The front door swings open.

“Anywhere ya want!” Violet calls out, and grabs two menus as a new couple sits down.

Too soon the burgers are done and plated with their respective fries. I load a tray and strut, tray balanced on my hand and shoulder, to their table. I keep ketchup and mustard in my apron pockets. This time both guys are looking up at me, practically licking their lips.

I swing the tray down to the table and lift the plates off, sliding each one in front of the correct guy.

“Thanks,” says strawberry blond.

“No problem.” I grin. Our burgers rock. Especially with Fannie on grill. I glance over to Mr. Perfect Guy.

He smiles at me and nods.

“Anything else I can get?” I ask as I pull the ketchup and mustard bottles from my apron and set them in the middle of the table.

“Nope,” says strawberry blond.

I get another table as the guys chow on their burgers. It's just the farmers, in for their afternoon coffee. They smell like manure but look like my grandpa, so it's okay.

When I look over, the guys are almost done with their burgers.

Crap.

Milkshake.

I scuttle back to the ice-cream station and grab a milkshake tin, pile in three scoops, add milk, and squeeze in some chocolate. I hold a towel up like a shield in front of me as I slide the milkshake tin under the spindle and the machine whirs to life. After a few seconds, I check its progress. Bad idea. The spindle chooses that moment to catch a chunk of ice cream and splatter milk and chocolate across my face. I hastily shield myself with the towel once more, blinking milkshake out of my eyes.

Laugher erupts from the kitchen, which has a perfect view of the ice-cream station. “Thanks, Fannie,” I say. “When's Trent getting here, again?” Yeah, that's right—I got my now ex-boyfriend a job at my workplace. We used to wait the dinner service together. When we broke up he switched from waiter to cook and I switched from dinner to the brunch-lunch shift.

“Prob'ly never,” she calls back. He's also perpetually late.

When the milkshake is done, I pour it into a pretty milkshake glass, top it with whipped cream, two cherries (“So you don't have to fight over it,” I always say), and stick two straws into it (five-dollar tip every time).

I print out their ticket and sashay my way back to their table, placing the milkshake proudly in the middle of the table. I sneak the ticket onto the edge of the table and clear their plates.

“There you go!” I say, arms full of dirty dishes. “Anything else?”

Strawberry blond gives Mr. Perfect Guy a not-so-happy-couple look and Mr. Perfect Guy grins.

“Yeah,” strawberry blond says, picking up the check. “Can you split this?”

I startle. Mr. Perfect Guy is pulling the milkshake toward himself, turning both straws to his own side, shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

“He gets the milkshake,” strawberry blond says.

“I can see that,” I say before catching myself. “I mean… Yeah, sure, I can split it.”

I take one last look at Mr. Perfect Guy, who's watching me, drinking his milkshake with eyebrows raised. His perfect lips drop the straw and he grins at me, crooking his finger like he wants to tell me a secret.

I bend in closer to hear what he has to say, but he doesn't say anything at all. Instead, he picks up his napkin and brings it up to my forehead, wiping it right above my eyebrow. A lightly spiced cologne cuts through the greasy diner air and for a moment I'm disoriented. This newly not-gay gorgeous guy is touching my face, which is probably bright red. He pulls his napkin away and shows me: chocolate sauce. He tilts his head and smiles.

“Thanks,” I say.

He nods, not saying anything. Of course.

I almost run back to the bar, dishes threatening to spill out of my arms

“Not gay!” I whisper-yell to Violet. “Not gay! Or at least not on a date! Separate tabs! Separate!”

Her mouth makes an “o” and she claps twice. “Good, that's good,” she says, trying to regain composure. “Not gay!” she yells back to Fannie, who squeals.

I take the newly separated checks back to the guys at their table. “There you go,” I say as nonchalantly as possible.

This time, strawberry blond is the one who nods as he picks up his check. And Mr. Perfect Guy does something totally unexpected:

He lifts his right hand to touch his dimpled chin. Then he arcs it down, like he's blowing a kiss.

And it all makes sense.

He's not gay.

He's deaf.

Carter

Usually, people realize I'm deaf when my back is turned; when I'm signing with a friend or with my family. They approach me carefully, if at all, and always after the fact.

This time, I see the realization hit her. It's almost physical. It makes both her smile and her stance waver. She nods, unsure if she should talk.

I should have told her straight off the bat, but I didn't. It's a big deal, you know? It's like telling somebody that you're a Buddhist or that your mother died when you were a child or something. It makes me who I am, but it might be a game changer to somebody else.

Because I've found most hearing people are like Barry, my current illustrious companion. His knowledge of American Sign Language (ASL) extends to “bathroom” and “okay,” which doesn't really count because it's two letters. Seriously. I've seen him every summer since I was two, and this is the first time since middle school that we've hung out. And we're only hanging out because my parents told his parents that I would tutor him in ASL. He obviously doesn't really want to learn—we've been texting all through lunch.

Anyway, this hearing townie girl is just so cute. All bounce and smile. She's wearing black pedal pushers and a white V-neck with black Vans sneakers. Her apron is wrapped twice around her little waist, and dark curls escape from her ponytail. Her eyes are the bluest I've seen.

She's blushing and nodding too fast. Averting her eyes, like she doesn't know where to look. Taking it well, I think.

I almost didn't show her at all. I was happy when she thought we were gay. Barry? Not so much.

“U tell her or I tell her,” he texted after she left to split the check.

“We'll never see her again,” I replied, typing with one hand and glancing at the little dab of chocolate still on my napkin. I'd never done anything like that before, but I couldn't help myself. I guess I was feeling brave. Are gay people perpetually brave? Are deaf people, for that matter? The world seems to think so. I don't think I'm brave. I'm just me.

“But I'M NOT GAY,” he sent. “Now tell her so she gets y I'm talking 4 u.”

“Fine,” I sent back.

So when she brought the check, I told her. In my language. By saying, “Thank you.”

More composed now, she can finally look at me.

A smile flickers around her lips. “You're welcome,” she says. She's speaking clearly through her smile, at normal speed, so I have no problem reading her lips. She gives two quick nods and turns her smile once more to Barry before turning on her heel and heading back toward the counter.

She knew my thank-you.

My phone vibrates and the screen flashes.

“About time. Let's go,” says the text from Barry.

I turn over the bill. Eight dollars and fifty cents. Eight fifty for a bacon cheeseburger, fries, and a milkshake? Definitely not in the city anymore.

I dig twelve dollars out of my wallet and leave it on the table, peeking the corners out from under my plate. She can keep the change.

Barry counts out exactly six-fifty. He pauses, then adds two more quarters. I roll my eyes, smack his arm, and point to the pile.

He adds a dollar.

I jam my hands in my pockets (an unusual place for them to be) and walk toward the door. The older waitress is watching me with wide eyes. Our waitress must have told her.

Yup—the younger waitress walks up to the older one, grabs her arm, and pointedly leads her away, giving her an earful, from the look of it. She glances over her shoulder at me, ponytail bouncing, blue eyes apologetic.

“Sorry,” she mouths.

I shrug and smile and wave good-bye.

She blushes and waves back.

“Good-bye,” her mouth says, clear as day.

I push the door open with my shoulder and whip out my phone.

“Did she say her name?” I text Barry.

“Yeah,” he replies.

“. . .”

“I forget.”

He would.

What does it matter?

I'll never see her again.

We climb into Barry's Jeep and I buckle myself in. My hands are moving before I remember that he doesn't speak my language.

“She's cute, that's all,” I sign.
*

He looks at me, exasperated. “What?” his mouth says.

I dismiss his question with a wave of my hand and run the hand through my hair, feeling the rough edge of the scar behind my right ear, which reminds me that my life could be very different. Doesn't matter. Can't miss what you can't have. Vineyards flash by, one long row after another, and I wish I'd brought my camera. Not my phone camera, which is good enough, I guess, but my Nikon. The good camera. My phone vibrates. It's Barry. Texting and driving. Perfect.

“You wanna do anything else?”

I shake my head. I've fulfilled my obligatory “tutoring” hour. It's not my fault he didn't actually want to learn the language.

He looks at me. I shake my head again.

My phone is still for the rest of the drive.

After a twenty-minute drive, we park in the Chautauqua lot and approach the gate to have our passes scanned. Barry's wearing his around his neck, but I took mine off before entering Grape Country Dairy. I don't think the people here realize how pretentious it looks to wear something that proclaims their status to everybody. Here, it's routine to wear Rolexes or carry Gucci bags.

Or drive Ducati motorcycles. Like I do.

Touché me.

Pondering the dichotomy of my moral choices, I walk down the cobblestone streets, past manicured lawns, parks, pavilions, and amphitheaters, to my house. Chautauqua Institution, my summer home, is an interesting place. It's a gated community on Chautauqua Lake that focuses on education, the arts, politics, and religion. Every summer, there are tons of concerts and lectures and performances. It's like an intellectual summer camp for privileged adults. There really is no other place like it in the world.

Anyway, I've been coming since I was just a little kid. The house was passed down through my dad's family, and he and my mom thought it was the perfect place to take their young family for the summer. There's a wall around the town, after all, and the whole atmosphere is inclusive. It's the perfect place for my deaf dad and CODA (child of deaf adult) mom to summer with their three adopted deaf kids. We've been coming for so long that we're something of a staple here. Some of the snowbirds learn basic ASL simply so they can communicate with us. My mom does ASL interpreting at the morning lectures and my dad does some architectural consulting work out of his summer office.