Say Her Name

by Stefani Deoul

  And then I’m off. I hook up with the gang outside the arena. Vik’s already picked up everyone’s tickets, so I fork over some cash, take mine and Ava’s and Joe’s, and shoo them off, reluctantly, truculently, to get good seats.

  Left alone, I do what I do best. Pace. I pause, glance around, nothing. I pace some more. And this time, when I turn back around, Ava and Joe emerge from the subway. And even wrapped up in a coat and scarf against the night chill, she takes my breath away.

  I sign hi, but not much else, as we make our way inside, muscling through the crowd just as the game is starting. And I’m hyper-conscious about everything, but particularly how loud and raucous it all is, and how as the skaters are pounding the track it vibrates the room.

  All things I never gave any thought to. Until tonight. Because tonight, well, tonight is different. Tonight, all I can think about is her nearness.

  The skaters go by, and the rush of their adrenaline mixes with my adrenaline, and I wonder if Ava feels them, or feels all the energy pouring off me, vibrating with that same rush of power the skaters exude.

  And then Manhattan scores big on a jam, the place explodes, and our hands brush as we stand up to glimpse the action. My knees buckle; my pulse jumps. Is it by accident, or by design?

  I feel light-headed, caught somewhere between pleasantly buzzed and rip-roaring drunk. I can feel my heart thumping, my pulse erratic, my body sending waves of heat as though it is thrusting me forward.

  Until somehow we are walking home. And the group keeps moving one step faster than us until they are six or seven steps ahead. And then they are eight or nine, and those green eyes turn to look at me.

  I don’t know who moves first.

  But there is a shop, an alcove, whose door is closed, wrought iron gate pulled across, and that’s all we need to know. Hands grab jackets and push and pull until we are tucked away from the street. And I search her face, watch those pale green eyes darkening, almost becoming the sea on a stormy night. And they’re pulling me into her, and I know she’s hungry. I know she’s hungry, exactly the way I’m hungry. Needy, the way I’m needy.

  And she’s here. And I’m here.

  I hesitate for an agonizing second, drinking her in, letting her lips move the slightest bit toward me until I am closing the gap, and even though I know it’s happening, it still takes me a minute to realize I am kissing her.

  Gently. Is it a question? So very gently. Is it permission?

  The soft pressure increases. The answer is there as she kisses me back. I feel her hand flutter upward, burning me as she touches my skin. I lean into that touch, a low groan of pleasure rumbling up from deep within.

  My hand buries itself in Ava’s hair. Twisting. Twining. She pulls back slightly, leaving me a moment to inhale its scent. Her scent. My entire body is a shaking mess, my knees threatening to buckle.

  What is too fast? What is too slow?

  I am fighting for air, and she pulls me back to her, her hands now tugging at the short ends of my hair, and I am lost, knowing without thought, only knowing that I can no longer breathe on my own, but only through her mouth.

  I want more, need more, but before I can shift, I hear it.

  Or more accurately, them.

  It’s a startling cacophony of catcalls, one of which instructs us, gleefully, to “get a room!”

  Crashing back to reality, pulling rapidly away, my heart pounds from a mixture of lust and fear. I never heard them coming.

  I glance over at my so-called friends—although since Joe is right there in the midst, I think I can say our so-called friends. It’s impressive how without even knowing some of the signs Joe is flashing I am able to fully interpret their meaning.

  Seems my potentially former friends backtracked and are now huddled together on the sidewalk, laughing, jeering, and raising their hands, shaking them in the air—the sign for applause—all with one shared goal, our total humiliation.

  Which is working. I am seized by mortification, followed by a rush of defensive annoyance, when I feel Ava hiding in my T-shirt, shaking with laughter. And everyone else recedes. This is everything, and it’s not enough.

  And as the obscene gestures, hoots, and howls continue to not impress, I am bombarded with conflicting thoughts. First, how on occasion it must be really nice to not hear anything and just have the world tuned out. But, it’s immediately pushed aside by the second, how frightening that must be and how vulnerable this leaves a person.

  I feel my arm wrap around her, tightening just a bit.

  FOUR

  “Bonne après-midi.”

  Uh oh. She is sitting in the kitchen, at the small bistro table, and is using the French good afternoon, rather than an English good morning. French. Not English. Delivered in mother tone—the one that instantly lets me know I have slept way later than I realize.

  It’s also the tone that reminds me of Oscar Wilde’s quote, “sarcasm is the lowest form of wit.” It’s a personal fav. Well, unless of course it’s aimed at me. And yes, I know there is some debate as to whether or not Oscar actually said this, which if he didn’t, he should have, so that’s good enough for me. Not that it particularly matters at this point. The tone has its intended effect. My hand freezes reaching for the coffeepot.

  Maman’s right eyebrow rises over her cup. “Shall I take it you had a good night last night?”

  Now, I would love to report I played it cool. That I was completely chill, cavalier about the whole thing, or at least coy, or even perhaps cloaked, but the minute she asked, my face broke into a huge, stupid grin, so I am forced to admit I folded like a cheap suit.

  But at least I am smart enough to not start talking. If I start, I am not going to stop, and that would be humiliating.

  Instead, I switch gears, forget about the coffee, reach into the fridge, grab a yogurt, rip off its lid, and shove a spoonful into my mouth. Only then do I look up, do that grin/shrug thing, turn and go for the hasty exit before I have a chance to swallow and she has a chance to get another question out.

  There might have been a chuckle following me as I hightailed it down the hallway. I shall neither confirm nor deny.

  I shall, however, return to the safety of my bedroom . . .

  . . . or so I think. Because while I was happily sleeping away, which let’s be honest, did not occur until sometime deep in the wee hours of the morning, other people were rising and shining. Until then, when they had presumably been happily sleeping, I had been seriously very wide-awake, replaying every inch of my evening over and over and over again, which, for the record, was a lot of replay. Therefore, they are now happily awake and furiously messaging me.

  I scroll the list. It is endless, filled with everyone’s need to know.

  Well everyone except one.

  And yes, this would normally be my crazy-making spot, dwelling incessantly on what this very particular lack of communication could, in fact, mean. Only I’m not. I am not consumed by anxiety because I am assuming my lack of text from Ava is from a similarly exhausted, and yet bliss-filled, night.

  Why such sudden adulting?

  Because standing here, echoing still, on a continuous loop in my head is the now-added mental musical accompaniment of Shakira, telling me hips don’t lie.

  And that’s only half of it. Oh yeah. Neither do lips.

  Exhaling, I shake my head, stick the spoon in my mouth, grab my phone, prop up my pillows, and climb back into bed.

  Where you might assume I busied myself responding. Errant assumption.

  In my defense, I did take a short stab at responsible responding. I clicked on Jimmy’s first, because his was unsurprisingly at the top of the list, only to find an MP3 waiting for me.

  I roll my eyes, but go ahead and hit play. I hear the opening chords of Kehlani’s “Honey.” By the time she sings the part about the beautiful wreck/colorful mess/but I’m funny, even knowing fully well this was sent to tease me, I am incapable of stopping my reaction, which, while it has nothing to do wi
th any pranking he may have been thinking, is still torturous.

  I let my phone fall to the wayside as Kehlani’s bed of acoustic guitar chords mingles with whispers of my memories, and together they begin rhythmically teasing me, taunting me, beckoning me.

  I don’t bother fighting. Nope. I succumb to their power and resume my state of self-induced floating on air. Which for a wee while keeps my mind wonderfully occupied.

  The next few hours pass in a whirlwind of emotion. I am jubilant, aroused, relishing how when I lie still, close my eyes, I can actually, physically, feel her lips.

  The pings continue; however, because I can identify each one, they are no more than a faint background tone to be ignored. None of them are hers.

  But as I feel her lips, I caress this union, believing we are equally entwined in a memory of erotic phantasmic proportions.

  Minutes turn to hours, and even phantasm cannot be sustained. At some point, even an illusionary likeness needs feeding. By the time six o’clock rolls around, my hunger is raging. I am beside myself and have definitely turned on Shakira and her thinking.

  The earlier texts, that barrage of “how was it,” I managed, in between lolling, gasping, and dreaming, to answer with various forms of “amazing,” be it in words or emoticons or gifs. New messages ping “well?” implying I should have a plan, a next thrill to share, and for this I have no answers.

  By my count, I have about thirty minutes before a parent will expect my appearance to help with dinner, and all I have to show for my day is the figurative skin I am crawling out of.

  Shakira is wrong. It seems hips, and lips, do lie.

  Deflation is an incredibly painful thing. It’s like all the cells in my body are shrinking down, eating into themselves, feasting upon my sadness.

  “Sidonie?”

  The call is faint, but I hear it. I don’t need to answer. It’s the dinner help yell. I wish I had a good excuse to ignore it, but I don’t want to talk about it, so I don’t bother to try.

  I stand up, put my phone down, put my eyeglasses on. I don’t even care that they are smudged. I take a deep breath, let it out as a choking sigh, and leave the room. My walk has turned from victory to shame, a small journey of apparent palpability because by the time I reach the kitchen, Mom and Dad are suddenly very busy with their chopping and dicing, leaving me alone to quietly set the table.

  The quiet continues unabated.

  Until, somehow, it is Monday morning. And my palpability seemingly travels, as evidenced by a waiting Imani and Ari. No Jimmy. No Vik. Just the two of them.

  I walk gingerly up to meet them, afraid of what they will say, afraid of how I must seem today, shrunken and depleted. They say nothing, but turn so I am positioned between them. And they walk me to school, providing me the silent support of the girlfriend type. A procession, a vigil, a ritual whether standing or sitting or walking or weeping we keep for each other when we need it.

  When we need it, I realize with a shock, is when we are ghosted.

  “Ghosted.” I say it out loud, even as I try to absorb its meaning, just as we arrive at the steps. “I have been ghosted.”

  Imani puts her head on my right shoulder as Ari wraps her right arm through my left elbow. And just like that they usher me up the stairs.

  Upon arrival, my silent support team expands to four and maintains itself throughout the day. But when school lets out, I know it is time for me to work this out for myself. So, with hugs all around, I head out. And just as I am determining which view will be prove the best High Line safety/thinking seat, my phone pings with a new text.

  It’s a GIF. It’s written in lipstick and says “I want to kiss all over you.” And then lipstick lips pop up one after another until the screen is covered in kisses.

  I take it in with my eyes, but feel it with my groin. The lower half of my body squirms painfully, then pleasurably, then repeat.

  The GIF gave way to a message: Tomorrow. After school. My apartment.

  And just like that, ghosting is gone, swept away in an instant, replaced by light and warmth and something like relief. It’s heady and giddy and knee-weakening. It’s as if the universe took a deep bow replete with a big sweeping flourish and said, Sidonie Rubin, you’ve won a week to remember.

  Or at the very least, a Tuesday.

  I arrive a little later than I want. By the time school lets out and I get a train to DUMBO, it’s nearly four. So I run as fast as I can, suddenly hating their quaint cobblestones, but still make it from the station to the building in record time. Then, right as I am about to pull open the glass doors to the vestibule, I slow my roll and try to find my balance.

  I let go of the handle, standing outside the entry, remembering the last time I was here. Which did not go well.

  But that time, I just showed up. This time, she did ask me. I am an invited guest.

  And I reach for the right-side metal door handle. Before I pull it open, forty thousand thoughts have grabbed on and take off running, each trying to scramble a route through my mind until we have a winner. Maybe I should have changed my outfit, maybe I should have gotten my hair cut, maybe I should have studied up on how to sign “you look great.”

  As the beat-the-brain race continues, an older woman exits the building, pausing to scrutinize me with the suspicious “do I let her in, do I call the police” side-eye. I give her what I hope is a reassuring slight head nod, small grin attempt, trying not to look threatening, which seems to work because she moves on, but not before she checks the inner door has closed with me still on the outside.

  Which is perfect timing for my winning thought, racing across the finish line, ready to announce itself to me. Yes folks, it’s my alter ego, the “kazoo” voice. She didn’t actually say anything to you other than come over. It doesn’t mean she’s interested.

  Wow. I so did not see that one sneaking ahead.

  Yeah, well, Her GIF did come in lipstick and it did say she wants to kiss me all over. And she didn’t have to text. She could have just left us in silence mode until all my, what was that expression Ze uses, oh yeah my qi, until all my qi, all the energy that powers my body and spirit, ebbed away.

  Duck a fluck, Sid. We are not doing this. Take a deep breath. Now pull on your big girl pants. Pull open the doors. Scan the tenant list, and ring the damn bell.

  What can I say? Loudest voice wins.

  I reach out, pull open the door, enter vestibule, and buzz. And I wait. Maybe two seconds, maybe three. I am buzzed in.

  FIVE

  She’s waiting for me as I exit the elevator. She signs hello, and I sign back. As we walk, Ava begins to sign not exactly an apology, but more like her story, to me. I don’t get all of it, just bits and pieces.

  I manage to grasp that I was unexpected for her. A full hearing person with no ties to the deaf community. At first, she said, she laughed me off. Approaching her at the robotics competition, I was a flattering moment, and it was sweet. And that was that. Or it should have been. Only it wasn’t. Because then I went and I found her.

  I tracked her down just as I had promised. And while that was kind of shocking, it was still easy to take the action as a compliment and move along. Only then I came back. And by now, Ava had to admit she was shocked, but also impressed and, well, flattered by how hard I had worked.

  And yet, even as she said yes to roller derby, even then, Ava said she didn’t expect to find me . . . Her hands trail off as she pauses, searching for something, which I have to say is helpful, allowing me a too brief moment to play catch up.

  My head is spinning, both from the strain of trying to translate a language I don’t speak well, and then trying to process what she is telling me, because it’s important and not just some line or two of gossip I am missing out on.

  We’ve reached her apartment door. Ava turns to me, and for the first time signs very carefully, deliberately, watching to make sure I can interpret her.

  “You are unexpected. And,” Ava’s hands go still for just a s
econd before she points her index finger at me, followed by her fist closing and then reopening with her fingers splayed outward, over her breast, until they finally turn back to point to herself, “you scare me.”

  I scare her?

  Oh. Wow. I don’t know what I’m supposed to say or feel or even do with that one. Thankfully it seems my stunned face is enough. Ava continues to stare, but also reaches back to open the door.

  Her hand grasps the knob; then she seems to have a change of heart, and her hand comes forward one more time, open palm across her chest as she begins “My . . .”

  I watch her dance rapidly through several signs, but I’m already overloaded and definitely not catching what she is saying. I am catching that she looks rather fetching. I like fetching. It has a nice coyness to it.

  And score one for an absolutely epic multitask. Despite my inability to knowingly focus on anything other than how perfectly poofed Ava’s lips appear, my fingers manage to miraculously be replaying a few signs down low, repeating them for me until I can consciously pay them any mind.

  Ava looks at me quizzically for just a brief second, laughs, leans down, grabs my hand, and pulls me through the door.

  Where I can now look around at something other than her mouth, while my hand, which has continued its refrain, open hand, thumb to chin, bump up to forehead, begins to connect. Wait. I know I know this one. Think. Mom and Dad . . . Parents! Got it. “My parents,” hand sweep into letter “s” fists, tapping one over the other. “Work!” Exactly.

  Great. I am now trying to remember the other signs and suddenly two plus two do make four. And I blush, a rush of heat everywhere. My parents are working; we’re the only ones here.

  I turn, as though mesmerized by the bridge view showcased through those floor-to-ceiling windows. It is entre chien et loup. The sun is just lowering in the sky. The red, fiery ball sinks another inch lower. It is the time between dog and wolf.