The Dark Days of Hamburger Halpin (15 page)

I still have Ebony as a “buddy” even though we haven’t chatted in a while. It didn’t end badly or anything—it was just a growing apart based to some extent on a (possibly stupid) dispute that led to me leaving the school and her behind. It might not make any sense if you’re not deaf. Allow me to explain anyway. Ebony is a lot like me. At first glance you might not think so, since she’s black and really cute, and I’m, well, not. But we both grew up with “problems with our ears” but could hear somewhat for most of our early lives. (That’s how come I can read lips and write so well.) But Ebony is sort of a political deaf person who agrees with a lot of “prelingually” deaf people.
These people usually have sign language as a first language and sometimes don’t learn English at all. (And, yes, sign language is a totally different language from English, with its own grammar and everything. Technically, I’m bilingual, which is cool.) They also often have strong feelings about “deaf culture” and really like to harangue you in signed webcam diatribes if you are a postlingually deaf smart-ass who posts aberrant views on their message boards. I have a lot in common with them, like how I refuse to wear hearing aids and prefer sign language over speaking, but with me that’s not part of some grand political stance.

So Ebony and I were joking once about having deaf babies, which was definitely a joke, since we didn’t even get all the way to second base. (I guess you could say I got thrown out trying to stretch a single into a double?) I said something about how we’d have to look into the cochlear implant so our deaf baby could hear. Upon hearing this (hah), Ebony got seriously pissed. The cochlear implant is sometimes called the bionic ear, a device that is implanted in your head (or something, I’m not a surgeon) that lets deaf people hear. Any chance to be a bionic anything would be cool, but Ebony (and, to be fair, lots of deaf people) gets really mad about the idea that deafness is a disability and something you need to be cured of. People who are deaf should be damn proud of it, she said. More power to them, I said, but I’d want our baby to be able to hear if it was an option. This was so theoretical that I can’t believe we had a fight about it, especially since the baby,
which didn’t exist
, probably wouldn’t be a candidate for the bionic ear anyway, since you have to have a certain type of deafness, which neither Ebony nor I do.

So she got pissed, and we never got to make babies or even round another base. And then we broke up. And maybe we weren’t really “boyfriend and girlfriend” to begin with. We just chatted online a lot, goofed on everyone together, and awkwardly made out once in a shed.

Devon’s plan won’t work without another lip-reader. And Ebony is ridiculously good. She is the one who should have been in mainstream ed at CHS. But maybe she doesn’t care what other people think. And maybe she is onto something. Who wants to be normal anyway?

I check my buddy list and see that she is indeed online. Deaf people seriously love themselves some Internet.

I write back to Devon, who is already online too (he spends so much time on IM that, along with his skills at signing, I am thinking about making him an honorary deafie), and tell him Ebony is up for the plan. I have a few questions about the rest of his scheme, but all he will say is “Trust the Smileyman.”

I will go along with his plan. I have to. I want to see those tapes. I need to see those tapes.

Devon assures me that I don’t have to worry about the investigation into their “crazy new suspect,” but I feel the dance of nervous butterflies. I sit there thinking, breathing slowly, tapping on my keys, not really typing anything, just feeling the slick plastic beneath my fingers. Are we getting closer to the truth or further and further from it? Will I have to prove my own innocence?

Monday
. We are off from school (one of those in-service days when teachers get paid for a day of work but just come to school to have a cocktail party in the teachers’ lounge—possibly?), but I have to get up early. Crime solving is inconvenient. I tell Mom we are going to school to participate in a vigil for Pat, a thing that actually is happening, although much later in the day.

I wait outside on the still-dew-moistened lawn for Devon’s beat-up former police car (aka the Smileywagon) to retrample Mom’s flowers. My notebook is out, and I am flipping through, rereading the notes I have accumulated on Carbon High. I also have my fake beard with me and am pulling it on just as Devon careens into the driveway. As expected, he mashes the mums. He gets out and tries to fix the damage, rescuing a damaged stalk and putting it in his pocket. He makes a face to let me
know he is sorry about that. Then he starts cracking up and gestures for the pad and pencil.

“What’s up with the beard?” he writes. “This isn’t an undercover mission.”

I write back, “Oh yeah, I knew that.” Why
am
I wearing the beard? I shove it back in my pocket. Devon laughs. I force a weak grin. I had written out directions to Ebony’s place on a page in my notebook and flip to it, showing Devon the way. I spend most of the drive badgering Devon by breathing on the window to steam it up and then writing “WHAT IS THE FREAKING PLAN???” over and over again. Devon, unfortunately, has learned the sign for “Trust me.”

The Smileywagon pulls up to Ebony’s house. She is standing out front waiting for us, basically bouncing on her toes with excitement. Devon looks at her and then me and then her. He mouths, “She’s black.” I palm my cheek and act shocked. Devon shrugs and Ebony jumps in the back, waving happily to the both of us. I blow her a kiss. Devon still seems a little flustered by her unexpected blackitude. (Wasn’t the fact that her name is Ebony some sort of clue, Frank?) He obviously panics as he tries to remember the signs he had learned for the occasion. Then he signs, “Good morning! I am very happy to have us with you.” Nice try, Dev.

Ebony signs back very politely, “Nice ride,” even though it totally isn’t. The car lurches into drive, and we are off. Ebony notices the note I had written on the window. She taps Devon on the shoulder and points to it. Devon repeats his mantra: “Trust me.” Then he sideswipes a bush.

Since only teachers are in attendance, the school parking lot is sparsely populated. I can see that Ebony is confused by the fact that Devon parks at the extreme end of the lot near the soccer fields, past about a hundred closer spaces. I find myself thinking of Devon’s words from the Porkrinds mission and trying to convey in signs that it is to “secure our cover.” Oddly, Ebony actually seems to think this is a good idea. This must have been a maneuver in
Nancy Drew in The Fat, Black, and Smiley Mystery
.

My hope that Devon won’t do anything too embarrassing is squashed when he unfolds two copies of a new top-secret file folder explaining the day’s mission. He hands one to each of us. Ebony doesn’t flinch, as if getting this file is totally normal. I read:

Ebony gives a serious nod and then signs to me, “I like him already.”

“Not so fast,” I sign. And then, so Devon can see, I finger-spell, “
H-O-W A-R-E W-E G-O-I-N-G T-O E-X-P-L-A-I-N W-H-A-T W-EA-R-E D-O-I-N-G T-H-E-R-E
?”

Devon looks perplexed. My stomach lurches. He hadn’t thought of this? What if we get caught? Our janitor, a kind, shriveled little man whose name tag indicates the curious moniker of Lucille, doesn’t seem like the murderous type, but I am not trusting anyone anymore. Then Devon laughs and gives an informal sign indicating that I should flip over my paper. On the back it says:

I look up and see him wiggling his eyebrows triumphantly. And I have to admit that the Smileyman has thought of pretty much everything. The three of us strut across the parking lot like the Odd Squad. Entering the school’s main corridor, I feel exposed and nervous, but Devon quickly finds a door that leads to a back stairwell going down to the basement. It is just about as charming as you’d expect the basement of a public high school to be—and, as Devon had predicted, totally deserted. Still, to my nervous eye, danger lurks in every shadow.

I am about to open the door to the janitor’s office when Devon grabs me and steps in front. He indicates that I should
wait and points to the tips of his fingers, improvising a sign for fingerprints. He wears a handkerchief over his hand like a sock puppet while he flicks on the lights. The janitor’s room is a nasty little rat cave with a multitude of gray stains of unknown origin all over. Devon quickly turns on the two monitors and begins both typing furiously and scrolling maniacally with the mouse while somehow keeping the handkerchief on any surface he is touching. He had indicated that he needed my computer skills to help solve the case, but he obviously knows more than he let on. Ebony also seems impressed. “He is good,” she signs.

Devon searches for Friday’s footage on the server while I fill Ebony in on the details. I let her know about the party, the field trip, and who our main suspects are.

“What are we looking for?” Ebony asks me.

“I guess we’ll know it when we see it,” I lamely respond. “Or if you are so good at lipreading, just write down everything everyone says.” I go to rip out a page from my notebook. She smirks, shows me that she brought her own notebook (labeled
TOP SECRET)
, and signs, “The game is afoot.”

Devon has done it. Marie Stepcoat’s nervous face appears on the monitor in front of me while the dopey grin of Chuck Escapone pops up on Ebony’s screen. He gives the informal sign that we should get to it. He signs, “I’ll keep watch,” which he must have learned just for the occasion.

We scribble transcriptions like it’s a race, quickly going through all the suspects. We see Marie Stepcoat and Chuck Escapone, Kevin Planders and Derrick Jonker. Suddenly I feel an
elbow in my ribs. Ebony is laughing. She points to her screen. A huge rear end is waddling in front of the camera, taking up pretty much the whole picture.

“Christ,” I sign. “Am I really such a wide load?” She nods. I redden a little and press fast-forward on her screen so we don’t have to keep looking at my balloon face. Devon sticks his head in to see why Ebony is laughing. Ebony points and signs, “Big boy.” Devon grins. And then we see his grin in double—he is on the screen right after me. Devon indicates that we should skip that interview. He grabs the keypad, making his interview fly by at double time. He looks like a mental patient, the way his nervous gestures are sped up like that. Why doesn’t he want us to see what he had to say? Is he just saving time? Once his interview is over, he lets the footage play normally and goes back out to his guard post in the hallway.