Song of Summer (7 page)

As I open my eyes, I realize that I'm the last person to do so. Everybody else is passing food, and the stir-fry is sitting at my elbow.

I give myself a generous helping and lean back, ready to pack it in. The Reuben seems like a long time ago. Compulsively, I check my phone. Nothing from Robin. Still. Maybe it was a bad idea to give her my number. I look up to see my dad waiting for me to see him.

“You were gone for a long time,” he signs.

“Yeah,” I sign. “Took the bike out. It was beautiful.”

“The bike or the weather?” my dad signs, smiling. His bike is a BMW R 1200 R, and I think one of his proudest moments was when I got my motorcycle license. I think he hopes that I'll follow in his footsteps and become an architect someday. Maybe I will. I don't know what I want to do, though. Jolene once told me that I should be a model, which is stupid. That's just something girls say.

“The bike and the weather,” I sign back, grinning.

Trina bumps my elbow. “Or was it a girl?” Her little fingers fly and she grins.

Crap.

I shrug.

My mom's fork hangs in midair, not quite to her mouth. Trina realizes she struck gold.

“A girl?! A girl?!” Her hand fairly flies off her chin.

“I don't know,” I sign weakly, avoiding eye contact. I suck at this. My face always gives away everything before I decide to say it.

“What's she like?” my dad signs. He's measured, as always, but smiling.

“Cute,” I sign. I try to be offhanded about it.

Trina claps her hands with a huge grin. My mom's grimace tells me that my little sister is probably also squealing.

“
Eeeee!
” my mom signs in an arc, pointing at Trina and rolling her eyes, confirming my suspicion.

“What else?” Trina says. “Is she local? Is she hearing?”

“Yes,” I say, “and yes.”

Mom and Dad exchange a look. My dad flicks up his eyebrows and my mom cocks her head, and I see an entire conversation happen in that one look.

They're shocked. Skeptical. Not because they don't like hearing people.

Because I don't.

And that sounds really trite and kind of elitist, but I just… Hearing people are always trying to fix me. They think everyone should be like them. Everyone should speak English and listen to music, and if I don't want to, well, why wouldn't I want to?

But I don't. I don't want to listen to music. I don't want to speak English. I don't want to dance. I don't need any more people staring at me.

In middle school, I went through a phase where I tried to act hearing. I wore band T-shirts. I carried an iPod. I had my room wired up with a huge sound system. I had sub-woofers that would shake the apartment. I even got this fancy system that flashed lights in rhythm with the beat of the music. My friends and I went to concerts and screamed along with everybody else. My YouTube showed me music videos, with their crazy story lines and characters. It all seemed so forced. So… inauthentic. In about ninth grade, I just got sick of it.

Most deaf people aren't as jaded as I am. I promise. And I try not to be a jerk about it. I really do. It's just, I don't need to be fixed. There are fewer and fewer of us left to “fix” anyway.

Thanks to the almighty CI.

I look at my plate to avoid any more conversation. I manage to find stir-fry interesting for about ninety seconds. When I do look up, though, everybody is still staring at me.

“More!” signs Trina.

I have a flashback of her as a baby, signing “More!” It was adorable. I shovel more food on her plate.

She gives me a withering look. She must be getting older—she's getting really good at that. “More about the girl! What's her name?”

“Robin,” I spell.

Trina clasps her hands over her heart. “Awww! So cute! Can I meet her?”

“No,” I sign.

She looks at Mom. “Mom!”

“Carter doesn't have to introduce you to anybody he doesn't want to.”

“Does she know ASL?” Trina asks.

I shrug, but I know the answer. No, she doesn't.

“How will you talk?” Trina continues. “Bet you wish you had an implant now!”

“All right. That's enough,” my dad breaks in. “Leave him alone.”

She rolls her eyes and settles back into her chair. “Fine,” she signs.

“Don't worry,” Dad signs. “We'll return the favor when you have a boyfriend.”

Trina's face lights up. “Is she your girlfriend?!”

“No,” I sign. “She's a girl. A nice girl.”

“A
beautiful
girl,” corrects Trina.

I look at my dad.

“Enough,” he signs. Again.

We all go back to eating.

Mom and Dad converse about work, weather, dinner, etc., etc. I space out until my mom points a question at me.

“What are you doing tomorrow?”

I shrug once more, but I'm not fooling anyone. Trina's eyes light up.

“Bike ride,” I sign.

My dad raises an eyebrow. “Where and when?”

“Westfield. I'll leave around 3:30 and get back before dark. Why?”

“Does she live in Westfield?” breaks in Trina before my parents can answer.

I roll my eyes. “Yes!” I say. That little girl has had nine years of practice in bugging big brothers; she's an expert. “She lives in Westfield. She is about this tall,” I gesture to a spot right below my shoulders. “She has dark hair and blue eyes. She's a waitress at this diner. We write notes. She likes my bike. She wears capri pants and her hair is in a ponytail. She can carry a tray by balancing it on her shoulder and her hand. She is funny. And smart. And probably about my age. Tomorrow, she gets off of work at four. You happy?”

“Very,” the cute little blond devil signs smugly.

Robin

When four o'clock rolls around, I'm ready. Violet's sitting at the counter, drinking coffee and reading the paper (which she never does) when she should be getting ready for her second job. Fannie is sticking around, too, pretending to clean something as she waits for Chuck, another night cook. Thankfully, Trent has the night off. I don't have to worry about him coming in here when Carter shows up. Not like I should be worried about it, necessarily. But it sure simplifies things.

My tables are done. The last one, still lingering over coffee, is passed off to Elsie, who's keeping the tip. Thankfully it's been so slow I don't smell too much like grease. This morning I put on makeup for pretty much the first time all summer. Not a lot. Just a little cover-up and lip gloss. I'm wrapping my tub of silverware when I hear a rumble, followed by Violet's sharp intake of breath. Her newly manicured hand grabs the countertop.

“Lordy, Lordy.”

I already know what I'll see when I look out the big front window. Sure enough, a bright-yellow motorcycle is turning down our road and coasting to a stop in the parking lot.

“Fannie, come look!” Violet calls, and Fannie bustles out from behind the grill.

“Didn't I tell you? Dear God it's beautiful,” the bigger woman says reverently, a dirty dish towel held over her heart.

I pretend that everything's okay, but my heart is pounding and my palms are sweating. Jenni and I talked it over last night.

First, we stalked his phone number: New York City.

Next, we looked up some sign language (or ASL, since we're in America). I learned how to spell my name. And I learned how to spell his name. I tried to learn the rest of the alphabet but I get mixed up around G and then again around P. I can say, “Hi,” “Thank you,” “Please,” “I'm sorry,” and “You're welcome.” I'll be the politest date ever. If this is a date.

I woke up at four a.m., realizing that I never texted him.

For a minute, I was afraid he wasn't coming. But, as he dismounts the bike, taking off his helmet and unzipping that leather jacket, all my fear is replaced by breath-shaking, nose-sweating nervousness.

I push my hair behind my ear and look too hard at the silverware in my bucket. I hear him walk in so I look up, trying to look like this is my first time noticing him. I smile too big, I think. And my eyes are too wide. His helmet is tucked under his arm and he's wearing jeans and a button-down with the sleeves rolled up. He looks like an Abercrombie ad. But with clothes on.

“Hi,” I sign, hoping that the lady on the video was right.

I guess she was.

His eyebrows raise as he signs “Hi” back to me and smiles.

I pat a seat at the counter, one away from Violet. I pull out my order pad. “I'll be ready in a minute,” I write, as he sits down. “Gotta finish this bucket.”

He nods and leans forward on the counter, looking around the restaurant. Violet gives him a side-long glance and smiles, catching my eye. “Prize pig,” she mouths. She nods and indicates him with her head.

Good job, Vi. Because he can't hear, but he can read lips. Good one.

He gives me a strange look. I pretend nothing happened.

I wrap silverware in silence for the next few minutes. There is a commercial on the radio, and some guy yelling about a mattress sale makes the seconds seem like hours. I glance at Carter. He'll never know about that mattress sale. After rolling the last piece, I slide my full silverware bucket into the cubby under the counter and take off my apron. He stops jiggling his foot and starts to stand up, but I catch his attention and shake my head.

“I'm gonna change really quick,” I write.

He settles back onto the stool. “Okay,” he mouths, his right hand forming the two letters. I'm proud of myself for recognizing them. As I grab the tote bag that holds my clothes, he runs his hand through his hair and looks around the restaurant again, sighing.

I fake a happy skip into the dingy little bathroom and creak the door closed, leaning against it.

What was I thinking? What are we going to do? Go to frickin' McDonalds? Trent and I just went to each other's houses and pretended to practice, but actually made out! I've only known Carter for two days! He could be an ax murderer for all I know! I don't even know his last name! He probably doesn't know a thing about Westfield. Can two people even fit on his motorcycle? Maybe he wants me to drive! I can't put that beautiful person in my crappy car!

I grasp both sides of the sink and look into the dilapidated mirror. “Get a grip, Robin,” I command my reflection, forgoing the usual whisper. Who the heck cares? He can't hear me anyway. I pull the band out of my hair and grab a brush from my bag, tugging the dark waves back into a neater ponytail. Once my hair has been ponytailed, there is no way to let it down without a nasty ponytail bump.

I pull off my diner clothes and slip into jeans and a loose-fitting white lace-back tank top layered over a bright-blue tank, fixing my boobs so the push-up bra does its darn job. I untie my Vans and exchange them for sandals, exposing my newly painted coral-colored toenails. And voila! The greasy diner waitress has been replaced by a somewhat cute (admittedly very pale) girl!

I do one last check (panty line, bra line, tags in), take a deep breath, and creak open the door. Carter is thumbing through his phone. I wipe my hands on my jeans, fix a smile on my face, and tap him on the shoulder.

He looks casually over his shoulder until he catches my eye. Then he spins the stool to face me, one eyebrow shoots up to his hairline, and his perfect lips part slightly. He stares and I smile for a second. Even though he's sitting on a diner stool, he's still taller than I am. He smells like oranges and motorcycle exhaust and light boy-sweat. It is divine. Finally, I reach past him for the paper.

“It's a girl!” I write.

“I can see that,” he writes back. Music pipes over the radio: “One Fine Day.” The mattress sale is long gone.

“I'm ready,” I write. “You?”

“Yeah,” he writes. “You hungry?”

I must look surprised. Most people think that if you work at a restaurant, you eat all the time. The total opposite is true. I work when everybody else is eating. Because of that, I have a bizarre eating schedule. And I'm starving.

“Or maybe you're not… ,” he writes.

“No! I am!” I take the pen before he can change his mind.

“Good,” he writes. “You ever ride a motorcycle before?”

Carter

God, she's beautiful.

I keep glancing over my shoulder as she follows me to the bike. She takes one little detour to toss her bag in an old Subaru station wagon.

When she joins me at the bike, she reaches out a tentative hand to touch the shiny metal and leather. Just before she touches it, she looks up at me.

“Can I?” her mouth says.

I nod and cover her delicate hand with my sweaty one. After making sure the metal isn't too hot, I run her hand along the matte black and yellow. Her pulse beats under my hand, and I stifle a surprise impulse to turn her wrist over and kiss the soft underside. At that moment, she looks up at me and smiles. The impulse grows stronger. I swallow and let go of her hand, unhooking my leather jacket from the handgrips. I hold the jacket open for her and she gives me a look, so I pull out my notepad and write, “To protect your arms from all the bugs.” And road rash. But she doesn't need to think about that.

She laughs and shrugs into it, letting the cuffs hang over those white wrists. I love it.

I look down at her feet and over at the foot pegs on the back of my bike. They're right next to the tailpipe. Sandals, like the tank top, are another no-no. Maybe she's just not meant to ride the bike. What was I thinking, that every girl would kill to be on this bike just because I like it? Too late now. I swallow and pick up the pen again.

“You have sneakers?” I write. “Or boots?”

She makes a face but I keep writing, “Your feet are by the tailpipe. Don't want you to get burned.”

She goes back to her Subaru and digs the black Vans out of her backpack, lacing them up. As she ties her shoes, I write a few instructions: