Song of Summer (24 page)

She kisses the top of my head and hugs it to her chest. I relish her softness one last time, breathing in the scent that is so distinctly her—not shampoo or perfume or anything artificial—just the soft scent that makes her who she is. Her hands run through my hair, over my head, but her left hand stops on the right side of my head. Her whole body stiffens as her fingers slowly explore the scar.

I look up. Her mouth is open. Her eyes, stunned, find mine.

“Oh my God,” her mouth says. She lets go and stands up and backs away, still facing me. “Oh my God!” She doesn't bother to sign. She doesn't need to, her words are so clear. “You!” She points at me. Her eyes are wide and red and her mouth has forgotten to hold itself shut. “Why?” she yells. The vein on her neck is standing out. I've never even noticed it before.

I wonder what my face is saying.

“Why didn't you tell me?” It's almost like I can hear the words. They're being shot at me. Forced at me. “Why didn't I know?”

I stand up. “It's not what you think,” I sign, but she waves me down and turns away, not wanting to see my explanation.

At that moment, Jenni bursts out of the church door. “What's going on?” her mouth asks.

Robin points and turns to face me, angry words spitting out of her mouth: “He could hear if he wanted to! He can hear.”

Robin

“Get him out of here, I can't look at him,” I shout, turning away from Carter, not caring if the church windows are open, not caring if the whole world can hear me.

I turn back to him. “How could you do this? You know that music is the most important thing in my life! You know that! And you hid this from me?” I don't bother signing. The words don't matter anyway. He knows how I feel.

“Robin.” He signs the name-sign he gave me at the park all those weeks ago.

“Don't,” I say. “Don't you dare.”

He tries to sign something else, but my brain doesn't care to wade through the pain of translation. I hold up a hand and turn to Jenni.

“Can you please take him home?” I ask her, my face hot, the tears practically evaporating before they have a chance to drip off my chin.

“Um, sure,” she says. She places her hands on my arms. “Are you okay? What happened? What do you mean he can hear?”

I look over my shoulder. Carter's sitting on the rock I was just sitting on. The rock where he dumped me and I hugged him and kissed him before finding out what a liar and a fake he is.

“You know that implant? The kind that Trina has?”

She nods.

“He has one.”

She glances over my shoulder at Carter, who, I guess, is still sitting on that rock. “What?”

I shake my head, pressing my lips together hard so I don't cry even harder. I take a deep breath. “I felt the scar. On his head. In that same spot where Trina's is. I don't know why I've never felt it before, but I know that's what it is.”

Jenni still looks confused. “But Trina's CI is so obvious—I mean, it's under her hair, yes, but it sits on the outside of her head.”

“No,” I say. Explaining something takes the focus from my heart to my head, giving me a chance to recover. “There are two parts to it—the outside part is removable but there's a part that's implanted right under the skin. That's permanent. That's what the scar is from.” I walk away, arms folded across my stomach, as though I could hold all the hurt in. I look back up at Jenni. “All he would've had to do is put on the outside part and switch it on. That's all he would've had to do to hear me. That's all.”

Jenni looks from me to him and then back to me before turning on one impressively high heel and enfolding me in a hug.

“Well that's shitty, Robin. I'm so sorry.”

I pull away before I start crying again. I don't want Carter to see me crying. I don't want to share any more of myself with him. I just poured my soul out to a crowd full of people and the one person who mattered stomped on it and threw it away.

I look up at my best friend. “So can you please take him back to our house? The side door's unlocked. He can get his stuff and leave. I never want to see him again.”

She glances over at him. “Okay… Are you sure, Robin?”

I nod. “I'm sure. And while he's getting his stuff, can you go up to my computer and block him? I mean on everything—e-mail, Instagram, whatever. Everything.”

She nods slowly. “Okay…”

I walk over to Carter, who looks up when he sees my shadow. “Jenni's taking you home,” I sign, mouth tight. I can't look in his eyes. I focus on his shoulder instead. “I don't want to see you again.”

He stands up, “Please,” he signs.

I shake my head, holding out a finger to stop him from coming any closer.

“I feel so stupid,” I sign, not able to find the right words to say that he's a liar and a con and I feel taken in. I spent hours with him instead of practicing. I invited him into my town, my diner, my house. I took money from my guitar fund to buy pretty, lacy underwear. And he was laughing behind my back the whole time.

I sneak a look at his brown eyes and they're red with crying, his face slack, drained.

“Please leave,” I sign. “Good-bye.”

“Please,” he signs one more time, taking another step closer to me.

“I don't want to hear it!” I scream, stiffening up so I don't explode. I look him in the eyes. “Just like you don't want to hear me!”

His face turns stony and he steps back. “Fine,” he signs. His hands start to move, but he stops himself from saying anything more.

Head held high, he walks past me toward Jenni, who's digging her keys out of her purse. She starts walking toward the parking lot and beckons him to follow her.

His shirt is soaked through the back with sweat. He walks like he's fighting a river's current. For half a second, I picture myself running after him, turning him around, kissing him and saying I'm sorry. Asking him why he never told me. Why he would ever do that to me. If he ever loved me at all. But my feet stay rooted to the ground, too stubborn to move.

Carter

That's it. You know? That's it. If this is the way she wants to be, then great. It's not like we were made for each other. Nobody's made for anybody, and a Deaf guy sure isn't made for a girl who loves to hear but can't listen.

I spend the car ride to her house texting her. They bounce back, one by one. She's already blocked me on her phone. Without so much as looking at Jenni, I vault out of her car, in through the unlocked side door, and down the stairs to the basement. I shove my clothes and toothbrush in my backpack and stride out the door to my bike.

I rev the bike, feeling it rumble beneath me. This. This is what I need. This is what I had forgotten about. I breathe in country air and motorcycle exhaust and kick off, speeding down the back roads of Nowheresville, pushing one ten on flat stretches. I stop only for gas. The adrenaline takes all my concentration and I get lost out in the country, phone dead. To tell the truth, I don't care. I'd rather be lost than stuck.

By the time I get home, the sun has long since set and the sky is dark. Mom is on my tail the minute I'm in the door.

“Where the hell have you been? Why is your phone off? I have been scared to death that something happened to you.” Her hands are almost violent.

“Out,” I sign. “I'm hungry.” My face betrays me. As always.

Mom's face relaxes and she takes a step back. She reaches out to me. “Oh, Carter, what happened?” she asks.

Ducking her hug, I head into the kitchen and rummage through the refrigerator, grabbing a banana and a glass of orange juice. After pouring the juice, I turn around to find Mom looking at me, waiting. Her arms are crossed but her eyes are pleading. “What happened?” she signs again.

“It's done,” I sign. I rummage in the cupboards for more food. I don't want to tell her that Robin wants me to hear. That she thinks I'm implanted. That she called me a liar. “There was… a miscommunication.” I smile humorlessly. A miscommunication. I'm surprised it hasn't happened before. We don't even speak the same language.

My mom gives me a look. “A miscommunication?”

I pause, then nod. She must know it's not the whole story.

“Well, you still broke the rules,” she signs after a few minutes of silence. “No bike for two weeks.”

Two weeks. The next time I'll be able to ride is the day we go home. “Fine,” I sign. “I don't want to go anywhere.”

“Then maybe I should take away the computer, too.”

“Do whatever you want,” I sign. I trudge up to my room and flip on the TV. Each picture blurs into the next as tears prick at my eyes. I wipe them one at a time and keep watching.

Two Weeks of Summer Left

Robin

“So it's a date?” Trent's eyes gleam at me from under his newsboy cap.

There's a moment's hesitation before I answer. “Yeah.” Then my confidence grows. “Yeah. Sure. It's a date.” I hold out my hand and he takes it, the calluses rough against the back of my hand. We shake once and he drops it.

“Good doing business with you, Ms. Peters,” he jokes. “Now I think your table needs coffee.”

He's right. I grab a coffeepot and head over.

Trent doesn't know everything that went down on Sunday, but he knows enough to have kept his distance this past week. He's got a gig tonight at Eason Hall—some square dance—and someone backed out on him, so he came in early to beg me to fill in. I haven't even picked up Bender since Sunday. Six days without practice. I think it's a record. I guess that ends tonight. It has to. Twenty bucks closer to the Dread Pirate Martin, right? Although after our near-holy experience last week, I'm considering keeping old Bender around a little longer.

I return to the counter, where Trent waits to punch in, drumming on the countertop.

“If you want to clock in early, you can help clean the egg grill!” Fannie hollers from the back.

“Oh no, Beautiful. That's all you,” Trent replies. “There's no way that job is worth the extra $2.25 I'd get from clocking in twenty minutes early.”

I roll my eyes and look for something to kill time. All my side work is done—silverware rolled, sugars filled, prep area cleaned, salads made… Now I just have to wait until my table leaves and I can get my tips and go.

Trent pats the stool next to him. “Come on, Robin egg. Take a load off.”

It's a bad idea. My feet will only hurt worse. But I can't help it.

“Okay… ,” I say. I pour myself a Mountain Dew and scurry to the customer's side of the counter, hopping up on the stool next to Trent.

“How ya holdin' up?” The question is quiet. It's accompanied by a sidelong glance.

I shrug. “I guess I knew it would have to end sometime, you know? With him living in the city and all.” It's a lie. I thought we would find some way to stay together despite the distance. I toy with the string bracelet Jenni made me after the breakup. It's a lot better than her first attempt.

“A fish and a bird, Robin,” says Trent. “That's all it is. It's the fish and the bird.”

I bristle a little. I know what he's referencing, of course. It's that old saying: “A fish may love a bird, but where would they live?”

“You're just two different creatures,” he continues. “There's nothing wrong with admitting that.”

I shake my head, too worn out to argue.

Some peppy oldies breakup song plays over the radio and I hum the harmony. Why do they sound so happy? Were breakups happier in black-and-white? Trent's clear tenor joins me under his breath. I can hardly tell where my voice ends and his begins.

My table leaves during the song, so after hefting myself off the stool onto swollen, achy feet, I clear the dishes and count up my tips. Thirty bucks. Not bad for a Monday. By the time I head back to the counter, Trent's at the computer, punching in.

“Tonight at eight?” I call as I trade out my apron for my purse.

“Eight!” He waves, poking his head in the pass-through window. “I may be a little late!”

“What else is new?”

When I get home, I have enough time to shower, eat some dinner, and go over the songs that Trent's picked out. They're simple enough. A few
boom-chunk
chords. Bender feels foreign in my hands, and I wonder if our Sunday synergy is lost forever. By the time I've brushed up, it's nearly time to go. I throw on a cotton sundress and a pair of hiking boots, leaving my hair braided loosely over one shoulder. Then I grab my keys and go.

When I get to Eason Hall, John's already unloading Trent's stand-up bass from his minivan. I hold the gate open as he grunts and struggles to lift it out without damaging it.

He rests it on the pavement, face red. “Why can't he just bring an electric bass and an amp, like everybody else?”

I smile. “You know Trent. Purist in the extreme.”

“Then why can't he lug it his own damn self?”

I laugh. “Because he got you to do it for him!” With the bass safely out of the way, I reach up and slam the gate of the minivan.

John glances at my guitar case. “You bring your pennywhistle?”

I nod. I keep it and my harmonica with Bender.

“Good,” John grunts as he hefts the bass up the marble stairs. “We might need you on lead.”

“Oh. For some reason I thought I was playing guitar.”

He shakes his head. “You might just be playing backup with me, or you might be playing lead. We'll know in about a half hour when the whole thing starts.”

After setting the bass in one corner of the big dance hall/gym/roller-skating rink, John goes to his van and returns with his own guitar, a little Irish drum, and pair of spoons.

“And Stumpy's coming,” he says. “Someday. He can play percussion, I can play guitar.”