Song of Summer (8 page)

“I'll let you know when to get on the bike. Hang on to me around my chest. You'll be perched up pretty high and leaning forward in order to hang on. Lean with me on the turns, but not too much. Keep your feet on the pegs. I'll let you know when I'm about to go and when I'm about to make turns or stop. Don't worry, I've carried passengers before. I'm a really safe driver.”

I look up and hand her the notepad, kind of digging the tank top/leather jacket/jeans/Vans look. It suits her. Her blue eyes grow steadily bigger as she reads the instructions. Finally, she looks up at me and gulps. I take the paper back from her limp hand.

“You don't have to do this if you don't want to!” I write hastily. “Your car will take us places just as well as my bike.”

“No!” she writes. “I want to do this!”

“You sure you're okay?” I write. I sign it, too, when I show her the paper.

She nods confidently, then her whole face lightens and she signs yes with her right hand. She points at it with her left hand and I golf clap, impressed. She takes a deep breath and smiles as she lets it out through pursed lips.

I unhook her helmet from the back of the bike and give it to her. She slides it on, but I buckle it to make sure it's snug. She puts her hands on her hips and cocks her head at me, then holds her hand out for the pad of paper.

“Hot stuff?” she writes, then strikes a pose.

I laugh and dig my phone out of my pocket to take a picture, flipping it around so she can see it—the full-coverage helmet (can't mess up your face if something goes wrong) and the too-big jacket on her little body. As I'm holding my phone up, I notice two figures in the diner windows: the older waitress and the cook. I wave. They scurry away like they were never there.

I turn back to Robin. She's shooing them away. She shakes her helmeted head and shrugs at me, holding out her hand for the pen and paper. I pass it over and she writes, “Let's do this!”

I smile and pull on my own helmet and motorcycle gloves, then flip down the passenger foot pegs.

Swinging my leg over the bike, I start the engine. A little motion catches my eye—she's jumped back a bit. “You okay?” I sign.

“Yes,” she signs back.

I do a half turn and pat the passenger's seat behind me, if you can call it that. It's perched way above the rear wheel. I point to my foot, then the foot peg. She shakes out her hands and puts them on the seat like she's about to mount a horse. One, two, three bounces and she's up in the seat, her feet firmly on the pegs. The bike settles a little under her weight. She leans forward in the seat and wraps her arms around me, loosely at first. I put my hand up and make a motion like I'm going to rev the bike. She tightens her grip and I kick off from the ground to glide out of the parking lot.

The bike and I take a little time to get used to having a passenger. By the time I'm out of town and on the winding country roads, though, the three of us are a well-oiled machine.

Once I've found our rhythm, I'm very aware of how tight she is against my back. Her thighs are pressing into my sides. I breathe in and out, once, and glance down. If I were to lean back, I could rest my arm on her leg like an armrest. It's right there. Her hands tighten as we bank a corner and I feel her helmet against the back of mine. I glance in the mirrors and see that she's watching the road.

“Okay?” I sign.

“Yes,” she signs back, into my chest, her right hand pressing into my button-down. I guess she doesn't want to let go. I smile behind the wind visor.

When I was first allowed to carry passengers, I gave rides to each of my friends. I've taken a couple of girls out from my school this way, too. But dating is tough. Most of us grew up together. The Deaf community is a pretty small one, even in New York. The teen Deaf community? Even smaller. I can remember every embarrassing thing that all of them ever did. Every now and again, we get a new kid. Then it's like a feeding frenzy and pretty soon they're either hooked up or they just become part of the family.

This girl? She's practically a stranger. It's… thrilling. To say the least.

Her hands change their grip, opening so they hold on to my rib cage instead of curling into tight fists on my chest. Her fingers stretch and relax and my skin is suddenly extra-sensitive, tingling wherever she touches. She's against my back, my legs, and around my ribs.

I'm driving.

I shouldn't be this distractible.

I turn by the Amish school and then into the long driveway to the parking lot. After rolling to a stop I take off my helmet and look back at Robin. She takes her hands off my ribs and the shirt is sweaty and wrinkled where she was holding on. She sits up straight and takes her helmet off, like me.

Her cheeks flush and her eyes shine. Her hair is sticking out all over—little fuzzy curls all around her head like a dark halo. “Thank you,” she signs. “Thank you!” She shakes her head, grinning. “So much fun,” her mouth says clearly. “So much fun. Thank you,” she signs again.

I grin. “You're welcome,” I sign back.

I feel her hands, small and warm, on my shoulders as she leans to swing her leg over and slide off the bike onto the gravel. Both feet on the ground now, she smiles and looks away, down the hill, over the town.

“Beautiful,” she says without remembering that I can't hear her. But since I can't take my eyes off her lips, I have a pretty good idea what she's saying. She looks back at me.

I look out over the town, down the hill. “Beautiful,” I mouth, and sign. I look at her and she imitates my movement.

“Beautiful,” she signs, grinning.

I unhook the saddlebags and she looks at them, as though seeing them for the first time. There's not much in them—just a picnic blanket and some food. Although plenty of tables are available, Robin finds a spot on the ground in the middle of the close-cut grass, and I approve. Eating on the grass is the whole point of a picnic, after all. I pick up one of the saddlebags and unbuckle it, pulling out the picnic blanket, tossing it to her. It billows like a photo-shoot fan is on, and she lays it gently on the grass as I pull out a few of cans of soda (sorry, “pop”) to weigh down the corners. Pulling off my boots and socks, I sit on the blanket and pour everything else out. There is a veritable smorgasbord of food—sandwiches, Cheetos, cheese, apples, chips, granola, crackers, cookies, chocolate… and there are gluten-free, nut-free, and meat-free options. A full-size notebook and two pens are mixed into everything.

She laughs and sprawls across the blanket to grab a pen. Still lying down, she writes, “This looks awesome.” She opens the bag of Cheetos and munches happily, looking out at the view. “Tell me about yourself,” she scrawls.

I take the pen and let her look over the whitecaps of Lake Erie as I write, “My name is Carter Paulson. I'm profoundly deaf, which basically means I can't hear anything. Yes, that's rare. In fact, my entire family (except my mom) is deaf. Yes, that's rare, too. My dad's an architect, my mom's a stay-at-home and ASL interpreter. My older sister is twenty—she's a live representative. Like you would chat with online for technical help. My little sister is nine. She has a CI (cochlear implant), so she's practically hearing. Yes, this is a weird family in the Deaf community, too. My parents adopted us intentionally because they wanted to give us a good family. It worked. I have a great family.” I take the picture of my family out of my wallet to show her. I look up—she's sitting with her legs to one side, eating an apple and watching some little kids play tag. I start a new paragraph.

“I play soccer and baseball. I like art. Especially photography. And I love steak. And lattes. And movies. I live in Manhattan but go to school in Queens. I've stayed at Chautauqua every summer as long as I can remember. I'm eighteen. I'll be a senior at Lexington School for the Deaf. Go Blue Jays.”

I slide the notebook over to her, picture on top. She looks it all over, smiling. She picks up the pen as I spread peanut butter on an apple and enjoy at the view. And by “the view,” I mean the pretty girl who's actually here to hang out with me. She is lying on her stomach, propped up on her elbows as she writes. Her Vans and socks are in a pile in the grass, and her toes wiggle among the clover, off the blanket. She glances up and I look away, pretending to watch trees or something. I'm such a sucky liar. Finally, she slides the notebook across to me.

“My name is Robin Peters. I am 100 percent hearing.” I laugh, and continue reading. “My dad is an English teacher at the college in Fredonia. My mom is a Mary Kay rep. I am an only child. I have a great family, too. Even if they're more boring than yours. Hehe.

“My favorite thing in my world is music. I play piano, pennywhistle, guitar, harmonica, and dabble in fiddle, harp, and hammered dulcimer. In the school band I rock out the marimba and other piano-looking things. I think I like art but I don't get to see it much. I've lived in Westfield my whole life. My best friend is Jenni and she's prettier than I am. I can carry six milkshakes on a tray and not spill a drop. Even harder—I can carry eight cups of black coffee. I like movies, too! I'm sixteen—I know, I know, young for my grade. I'll be a senior at Westfield Academy and Central School.

“Your family sounds awesome. Your life sounds interesting and exotic.

“PS—I learned how to spell my name. Wanna see?”

I look at her. She's waiting, right hand ready. As soon as she sees me looking, her hand forms a tentative “R,” then “O” “B” “I” “N.” I laugh and shake my hands in applause. She tilts her head. “Deaf applause,” I write.

She imitates my motion, smiling. The sun bounces off her shining dark hair. Her blue eyes are sparkling.

I want to kiss her more than I want to breathe.

But I don't.

Robin

Over the next hour, I replace the study of fingerpicking patterns with the study of Carter Paulson. He is, in fact, perfect. I ask him to list his flaws for me and he writes, I quote, “I have none.” Of course, then he laughs, scratches it out, and writes, “Just kidding. I am stubborn and opinionated. I don't like parties. I am a terrible liar. I can be antisocial.”

“I don't believe it,” I write.

“You are the first friend I've made here,” he writes, “and I've been coming here my whole life. That is, if we are friends…”

“Of course we're friends. What about strawberry blond guy?” I write.

“Barry. Childhood friend. He… hasn't aged well,” he writes. “They pay me to hang out with him. Not joking.”

“Ah yes,” I write. “Well, we'll have to fix the friend situation.”

He gives me a look. “We will?”

I nod. “There's a craft fair at the end of next week…”

He shrugs. “If you take me.”

“Of course I'll take you! Like I would let anybody else take you.”

He smiles at me, then takes the pen and writes slowly, “Why didn't you text me? When you had my number last night?”

I facepalm and give him a pained look. “I was busy.”

“With…” he starts to write, then scratches it out and writes, “Okay.”

“It's embarrassing,” I write, “because I'm still so bad at it. But I had my friend over. And I was learning this.” And I show him: “Please,” I sign. “Sorry,” “You're welcome,” and then I end with spelling his name, “C-A-R-T-E-R.” I look up at him and he's smiling.

His left hand reaches and takes my spelling hand out of the air. His right hand says, “Thank you.” His left fingers interlock with my right fingers and our sweaty palms meet.

He sits up on his knees, so he's tall, and he leans into me. But instead of kissing me, his eyes turn to the hand he holds. He gently pulls our interlocked hands toward his shoulder, so I'm up on my knees, too, and only my own arm's length away. He turns his head in perfect profile and tilts it to kiss the back of my hand, like a crooner making love to a microphone. A pulse of electricity starts at that very spot and zings up my arm to the base of my neck, which sends it out to my whole body until the tips of my bare toes are singing.

I want to kiss him more than I want to breathe.

But I don't.

“Robin!” It's a loud voice. A male voice. Invasive yet charming.

Trent.

He's jogging toward us in athletic shorts and a wrestler-cut T-shirt, holding a Frisbee under his arm. A couple of the soccer guys trail behind. Oh God no. They come here to play Ultimate sometimes.

Carter looks to see what got my attention and sets my hand gently on the picnic blanket. He sits back down. The moment is butchered.

“Hey, Robin,” says Trent, gleaming. “This the guy? Thirteen-dollar-tip guy?”

I nod once and stay outwardly composed but inside my gut is screaming,
WHYYY????!!!! That was the most intimate moment of my LIFE!!!!!
Everything with you pales in comparison!
But the voice inside me that's not screaming whispers, “See what you're missing? Isn't he awesome?”

“Hey, nice to meet you. Any friend of Robin's is a friend of mine.” Trent holds out a hand to Carter and gives me a sidelong glance, winking at me.

I watch, frozen, as Carter stands up and takes Trent's hand. Trent looks him up and down and tightens his grip as well as his smile. Straight guys always say that they can't tell when another guy is hot. I call bull.

“This is Carter,” I say, gesturing weakly and apologizing to Carter with my eyes.

“Carter, this is Trent,” I say, feeling even more helpless. I can't even introduce him properly. I suck I suck I suck until I think through the letters in Trent's name.

“T,” I sign carefully, “R-E-N-T.” Trent. I look at Carter and he nods, his face frozen in a pleasant expression. He's right—he's a terrible liar. He looks like someone shoved a pistol in his back and told him to act natural.