Song of Summer (22 page)

She answers with a smiley face and I turn back to Barry, but he's left the room. Probably to get a snack or something.

After a second, my phone buzzes again. “Maybe… You want to spend the night tonight? Go with us to church tomorrow?”

The surprise must show on my face because Barry taps me on my shoulder, bag of chips in hand.

“What's up?” he signs.

“Robin asked me to spend the night!” I sign.

“Nice!”

“Really?” I text back, palms sweating. Unreal. But I might feel kind of weird going to church the next day.

“Of course my parents would never let us stay together. Our basement couch is pretty comfy,” she texts me.

Right.

I look up at Barry and sigh. “Parents home. Basement couch.”

“Sorry,” he signs, nodding his commiseration.

We finish out our lesson over dinner, which is really the best place to learn—in the middle of a conversation—and I pack my stuff.

I head downstairs. “Staying the night at Robin's tonight,” I sign.

“Be smart,” Mom signs, a mask of nonjudgment covering whatever her true feelings are. It's an enviable skill.

“Of course,” I sign. I give her a hug. “Love you.”

“Love you, too,” she says, and squeezes me one more time for good measure. “Be careful, honey.”

I head out the door into the sunshine that dapples the sidewalks, streaming through the leaves up above. Uncovering the bike, I secure the extra helmet before kicking it into gear. It's a beautiful day as I wind my way through the hills and the roads that my bike knows so well. By now, the back road miles far outnumber the city miles.

I pull into Robin's driveway and she comes out to meet me. She's wearing jeans and a T-shirt that says, “I can't. I have to practice.” Her cheeks are pink and she's smiling at me like she hasn't seen me in ages.

“Hi,” I sign.

“Hi,” she signs back.

I take my helmet off and give her a one-handed hug from the bike. She surprises me with a full-on kiss, and I let the moment linger.

“Let's ride,” she signs when she pulls away. I smile and shrug, putting my helmet back on. She takes my bag in the house and skips back out, wearing a jacket and pulling her hair up into a ponytail. I hand over the helmet and she buckles it under her chin. She uses my shoulders to vault onto the back of my bike and we take off, gliding over hills and under trees and through the sun. I find Route 5 and we cruise along the coastline of Lake Erie, ending at Barcelona Harbor.

I park down by the marina and she hops off. We unbuckle our helmets and her eyes shine up at me. Again, she kisses me before I have a chance to dismount the bike.

“I've missed you,” I sign. It's good to see her bounce and smile again.

“Me, too,” she signs back. As one of her hands takes mine, the other slides the ponytail holder out of her hair, letting the strands whip around her face. I dismount from the bike and we walk out toward the water. The ground changes from lake-smoothed rocks to rocky sand to the hard cement of the break wall. It's like a heavy cement bridge to nowhere, built to protect the boats in the harbor from ocean-size waves. The wind smells of fresh air and dead fish. Huge waves crash into the break wall, sending little droplets of water misting into the air and onto our faces.

We pass old men and little boys who are fishing, buckets full of lake trout and cans full of worms or flies. Robin waves to one of the old men and he waves back.

“He knows my dad,” she signs as we reach the end of the break wall. The cement ends abruptly but the barrier continues with huge boulders tapering out to a flashing beacon. We sit down and take off our shoes—her Vans, my boots—and leave them at the end of the cement wall. Ours are the only pairs—we're the only ones on this part of the wall today.

I climb onto the first rocks and hold my hand out, beckoning for her to follow me. She smiles, squinting as the wind whips her hair, and reaches her hand out. I help her onto the first rock, then let go and turn around, picking my way cautiously to the end. I turn from time to time and watch as she hops from rock to rock, sometimes using her hands for balance. She is so lovely. She stops to wrap the ponytail holder back around her hair and looks up at me. When she sees me looking, she grins and waves.

“Having fun?” she signs.

I nod. I'd forgotten how much I like being with just her.

I climb until I find a large flat rock that's a little lower than the rest but still dry, and turn around again. She climbs steadily toward me and I can't resist taking my phone out of my pocket to take a few pictures. They're perfect—the glow of the sunset, her face concentrating, the lines of her body, the flow of her hair—until she sees me taking them and starts making faces. They don't stop me, though. They just prove that this is not the same girl who apologized for the Grape Country Dairy, who made excuses not to hang out with us, who kept her mouth and her hands still in every conversation. This face-making, rock-climbing girl is the one I fell in love with.

Soon, she's just one boulder away. I put the phone in my pocket and reach out a hand. She takes it, hopping onto my rock and I tug a little, throwing her off balance so I can enfold her in a hug. She snuggles her head into my chest. We look out over the water at the setting sun, and I kiss her on the top of her head as little curls escape from her ponytail.

I turn her around. “You are so beautiful,” I sign to her. She blushes and shakes her head.

“You're crazy,” she signs.

I act shocked and look away over the choppy gray-blue water, but she reaches for my face—a cold hand against my warm cheek—and kisses me, hard and deep.

She takes a step back. “I missed this,” she signs. “I'm glad it's just us now.”

“Me, too.”

We stand like that for a while—her cheek on my chest, my hands around her waist—watching the water. Gently, I turn her face toward mine and kiss her. Her arms wrap around my chest, reaching up to my shoulder blades.

I ease her down onto the rock, cautious of the cold, hard edges of the boulders that rise up around us as we cuddle and kiss. Nuzzling my face in between her neck and her shoulder, I kiss the little pocket above her collarbone and feel her sharp intake of breath. She slides her hands under my shirt, no longer cold but as warm as the skin they're touching. Sheltered by the rocks, we kiss until I can't stand it anymore.

I pull away, panting. “You sure about that couch?” I sign. “Is it big enough for two?” Her cheeks are flushed and her lips are swollen and red. She smiles and shakes her head.

“No, sorry,” she signs. She struggles for words. “I can't… I…”

“It's okay,” I sign. “I still love you.” I kiss her again. Once. Final. Cooling down. I'm sitting against the boulder and she's curled into my side, hand resting on my chest, her head nestled between my shoulder and neck. The waves grow choppier as the wind picks up. We still have two more weeks. We only have two more weeks.

“I love you,” she signs into my heart.

In answer, I kiss her on top of her head and run my fingers behind her ear and down her neck, brushing lightly over her breasts and pressing into her heart.

“I love you,” I sign. I move my hand up to her shoulder and kiss her on the top of her head, gripping her shoulder to keep from moving my hand places she doesn't want it to go. I don't know how much longer I can hold out. Thankfully, the sun is setting and we've got to get the bike to her house before it's dark. I tap her on the shoulder and she turns to look up at me.

“Ready to go?” I sign.

She nods.

I stand and help her up and we travel precariously across the rocks, down the cement stretch, and back to the bike. We hold hands, watching gulls swoop across the water, geese making splashy landings, a dog chasing sticks into the water on the rocky beach. We ride back to her house, the shadows stretching out long and lean, the sky nearing dusk. When we get to her house, we pick out a movie and settle in the basement (with the door open—dammit). She curls up in my side, eating popcorn, my notebook by her side.

About halfway through
X-Men
, she picks up the pen.

“That picture Trent took… ,” she writes, and I look from the paper to her face. So he did send it. I take the pen out of her hand.

“. . . was nothing,” I finish, my usually neat handwriting scrawling all over the uneven surface. “Jolene had never been for a ride before. Trina was bugging her, so I got her out of the house. I just went where the bike took me and it took me to our overlook.”

She smiles up at me. “Thanks,” she signs. “Sorry I asked.”

I shake my head. “He just wants to stir up trouble,” I write. “It's fine that you asked. If someone had sent me a picture of you and him together, I'd be nervous, too.”

She shakes her head. “Don't worry,” she signs, laughing under her breath. “It won't happen.”

Halfway into the second movie, around midnight, the lights flash. I look up and Robin's dad is at the top of the stairs, tapping his watch.

“Bedtime,” he signs. He's learned a few phrases since our first meeting, including the prayer he says before dinner. He always signs it now when I'm over to eat. It's nice. He gives me the eye and Robin scoots away, not even asking if she can stay up to finish the movie.

“Good night,” she signs. She hugs me.

“Good night,” I sign. I kiss the top of her head. Her dad looks on.

“Bedtime,” he signs again. “Robin?”

She lets me go and follows him up the stairs, waving at me. I wave back, get into my pajamas, and stretch out on the couch and fall asleep, scenes from the break wall running through my mind.

Robin

My eyes snap open. This morning I have the privilege of waking up Carter Rockland Paulson. Who needs an alarm?

I put a bra on under my Nickel Creek tour shirt and trundle down the stairs, still in my pajamas.

“Morning, Robin,” I hear from the kitchen. I wave to Mom, who is drinking her coffee and reading the paper, a twinkle and a warning in her eye. I head to the basement stairs and flick on the light.

There he is, in all his shirtless glory. He's sleeping on his back with his forearm across his eyes, hair messy, sheets askew. His skin is dark against the white sheets, like some kind of Greek god in a toga. He feels the light and turns his head into the crook of his arm, breath hissing out in a sleepy sigh. I almost bounce down the stairs and then kneel next to the couch.

“Hey,” I say, even though he can't hear me. I brush his hair off his forehead and run my fingers through it, across the top of his head. Ever so slowly he rubs the back of his hand down from his eyes and across his face. His eyes crack open and he gives me a sleepy smile.

“Hi,” he signs.

“Hi,” I sign back.

He reaches up behind my head and kisses me sweetly on the lips.

I don't mind his morning breath and he doesn't mind mine.

“That. Is good,” he signs, his eyes still sleepy squints.

I laugh.

“Good.” I sign. I wish I could stay forever but I have to get ready. “We leave in an hour.”

He nods and closes his eyes again, nestling his head into the pillow.

I run my finger down the side of his face and tap the dimple in his chin. He opens his eyes. “No sleeping!” I sign. “Wake up!”

“Okay, okay!” he signs, still with that goofy smile, and pushes himself into a sitting position. “I'm awake!”

“Good,” I sign. I kiss him on the forehead and head up the stairs. When I turn around, he's still sitting up, watching me go.

I wave good-bye and shut the door, taking a minute to smile. I could get used to that—to his morning breath and half-asleep smiles. I'm partway up the stairs when I hear my name. “Robin?”

Mom.

“Yeah?”

“Come here, sweetie.”

I sit across her at the table. She's still in her robe, drinking her coffee. Her graying hair is pulled back and she's not wearing any makeup. A few little curls refuse to go in the ponytail with the rest of her hair, and it's like looking into a mirror that shows the future.

She tops off her coffee and offers me the pot. I shake my head. She sits back down and looks up at me. I wait.

“I just… don't want you to expect too much today,” she finally says.

I pretend not to know what she's talking about. “What do you mean?”

“I'm just saying”—she pauses—“that Carter has been deaf his whole life. You can guess that he's probably had plenty of opportunities to get an implant if he wanted one. This is just one morning. You can't expect him to change his whole future because of one church performance.”

I look away and shrug. “I know.”

“As long as you know,” she says, but she doesn't believe me. I don't really believe me either.

I look straight at her. “I know, Mom,” I say more defiantly this time. It comes off too harsh. “But thanks,” I add to soften it. I give her a half smile and head up the stairs to my room, shaking my head.

The truth is, I don't know. And I don't want his life to change, but I want to change his life, you know?

His sister sings in a choir, for God's sake. Denise talked with me. With her voice. He hasn't used his voice since they left. I didn't hear it once all day yesterday—not laughing, not talking, not anything.

This will be his first time ever seeing me play guitar. Ever. Me. We've been together for a month. I've never brought it up, and he's never asked me to play.

“Don't get your hopes up, don't get your hopes up,” I mutter under my breath as I put on my makeup for church.

But they are up. Hopelessly up. Maybe this morning he'll see—he'll see that music can change your heart. Your soul. He'll see me in my element, doing what I do best. Being my truest self. And after seeing all of that, how could he not want to hear? How could anybody really love me without loving music?