Jessi's Secret Language

by Ann M. Martin

  I stopped talking as Mary Anne reached for the receiver and lined up a job for Kristy. As soon as Mary Anne was done, Kristy said, “Yes, Jessi?”

  This time I managed to speak like a human. I thought the club members should know about Matt and his progress, since any one of them might baby-sit for him and Haley sometime. I told them that Matt and Haley were both making friends. Then I told them about the conversation Haley and I had had about what it was like to be Matt’s big sister. Finally I said, “Is anyone interested in learning more about signing?”

  I was surprised at the answer. “Yes!” chorused Kristy, Claudia, Dawn, Mary Anne, and Mallory.

  “You are?”

  “Sure,” replied Claudia. “All the kids around here are learning to sign. We better learn how, too. Besides, us baby-sitters have to be prepared for anything.”

  “Right,” agreed Kristy, who sounded as if she wished she’d said that.

  So in between phone calls I showed the other club members how to finger spell. I figured that would be helpful because if they were sitting at the Braddocks and didn’t know the sign for something, they could always spell the word out. (Finger spelling is somehow more personal than writing stuff on paper. At least you can look at the person you’re talking to.)

  We were up to the letter J when the phone rang. Dawn answered it, listened for a moment, and then put her hand over the mouthpiece and said with a grin, “Hey, Mary Anne, it’s Logan!”

  (Logan is one of our associate club members, but he’s also Mary Anne’s boyfriend, remember?)

  Mary Anne took the receiver, faced herself into a corner of the room, and began talking so quietly that none of us could hear her, no matter how far we leaned over. Every so often a little murmur would come from her direction, but no actual words.

  When she finally hung up, she turned back to us, blushing, and said, “Logan says hello. He just wanted to know what was going on. He said he might want a signing lesson sometime, Jessi. In case he ever sits for the Braddocks.”

  “What else did he say?” Claudia teased, looking at Mary Anne’s red face.

  (I feel sorry for anyone who blushes so easily.)

  “Oh … not much.”

  We started talking about our families then. We do that sometimes, when we’re not lining up jobs or talking about club business. We sort of take turns saying what’s going on in our lives.

  “My brother called from California last night,” said Dawn. “He’s still really happy out there.”

  “You think he’ll stay?” asked Kristy.

  “I’m pretty sure. When the six months are up, the lawyers and everyone have to get together again to discuss the trial period — but I know he’ll stay.”

  I couldn’t imagine my family being torn in half like Dawn’s had been. I just couldn’t. What would I do if Squirt and Daddy were living in California?

  “Tigger learned how to fetch yesterday,” said Mary Anne. “Have you ever known a kitten that could fetch?”

  “You’re just trying to distract us from Logan,” said Dawn with a smile.

  “You’re absolutely right,” agreed Mary Anne.

  “Well, here’s something that’s been going on at my house,” said Kristy. “I find this hard to believe, but Mom has been mooning around saying she wants a baby.”

  “A baby?!” the rest of us shrieked.

  Kristy nodded, looking puzzled.

  “Is she pregnant?” asked Claudia.

  “Nope,” said Kristy. “I know that for a fact because she’s also been saying she wishes she were pregnant, but she thinks she’s too old. After all, Charlie is seventeen.”

  “Yeah, but how old’s your mom?” asked Dawn.

  “I don’t know. Thirty-seven or something.”

  “Then she could still get pregnant.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure.”

  “Hmm.”

  Ring-ring.

  “Hey, one of you guys want to get the phone?” asked Kristy, looking down at Mal and me.

  “Sure!” we cried. We both leaped up.

  “Only one of you can answer it,” said Claudia. “Trust me. In the old days, the four of us always used to try answering the phone at the same time and it never worked.”

  I might be more agile than Mal, but she’d been sitting closer to the phone, so she reached it before I did. I plopped back down on the floor with a disappointed “Hmphh.”

  “Hello, Baby-sitters Club,” said Mal professionally. She sounded good and she knew it. “Oh, yes. Hi, Mrs. Braddock…. Tell her what? … Oh, okay. Sure…. Bye.”

  Mallory hung up the phone and turned to me quizzically. “That was Matt’s mother. She said to give you a message: Everything is arranged.”

  “It is?!” I cried. “Oh, that’s great. Really great!”

  “Are you going to let us in on this?” asked Kristy.

  “Yeah,” said Mary Anne. “What’s arranged?”

  I hesitated. “I can’t tell you. I mean, I can’t tell you yet. But I’ll be able to soon…. Really, I promise,” I added when I saw their frowning faces.

  “How come you can’t tell us now?” asked Mal.

  “I just can’t, that’s all. But I do want to ask you something — all of you. I was wondering if you’d like to come see Coppélia. Everyone in the cast gets ten free tickets to opening night, so I’m inviting Mama, Daddy, Becca, Grandma, Grandpa, and you guys.”

  The club members began shrieking, “Opening night! … The ballet! … Going to Stamford!”

  I’d never heard them so excited.

  I took their reaction as a yes.

  My personal feeling about the principal’s office is that it’s better not to be in it. For any reason. What could happen is that someone passes the office, sees you there, and spreads rumors about your being in big trouble, when in fact you’re just handing in a late insurance form or something.

  Despite my thoughts, I had to go to the principal’s office early one Thursday afternoon. I had a note from my mother giving me permission to leave Stoneybrook Middle School an hour early that afternoon. When the school secretary read Mama’s note and saw why I was leaving early, she started gushing. “Oh, what a lovely thing to do! Why, I think that’s wonderful. Simply wonderful.” She made out a pass and handed it to me saying, “You kids today! You’re so nice and thoughtful. No one gives you enough credit.”

  I had to agree with her on that one.

  At 1:25 that afternoon I was waiting on the sidewalk in front of school. At 1:30, Mrs. Braddock pulled to a stop in front of me, and I climbed into the front seat.

  “Ready?” she asked, smiling.

  “Ready as I’ll ever be.” I began rehearsing a speech with my hands. “What’s the sign for costume?” I asked. I realized that this was not a good question to ask a person whose hands were gripping the steering wheel of the car you were riding in, but I asked anyway.

  “I’ll demonstrate at the next red light,” Mrs. Braddock replied. And she did.

  The ride into Stamford took awhile, and we talked and rehearsed the entire time. At last we were driving into the city. Tall buildings everywhere. I recognized the street my ballet school is on, and the street Daddy’s office building is on. Finally we pulled into a parking lot with a big sign in front that said PARKING FOR SCHOOL FOR THE DEAF. We found a space and parked, and then Mrs. Braddock led me inside an old, old building that looked like it might once have been a mansion, somebody’s home.

  “It’s run pretty much like any other school,” Mrs. Braddock said as we walked slowly down a brightly lit corridor. “The kids go to art lessons and gym classes. They eat in a cafeteria. The differences are that the classes are quite small — usually not more than eight students, at least in the lower grades, and that the children start here at a very young age. Matt was two when he entered, and the teachers began lessons in signing right away. His classes were much more intense than regular nursery school classes.”

  We were walking slowly because I kept t
rying to peek into classrooms each time we passed a doorway.

  “The younger classes are on this floor,” said Mrs. Braddock. “Matt’s is at the very end of the corridor.”

  We reached the last door in the hallway and paused beside it.

  “This is one of the two second-grade classes,” Mrs. Braddock told me. “The children here are all seven years old, but they have different degrees of hearing difficulty. Some are profoundly deaf, like Matt. A few have some hearing. Several of them can speak. The children receive lots of individual attention. They all know how to sign, but those with speech are also given speech lessons. A few are learning lip-reading. Matt may try that when he’s older, if he wants to.”

  I nodded, trying to peek into the classroom.

  “Since some of the children can hear, and some are learning speech and lip-reading,” Mrs. Braddock went on, “make sure you speak — slowly and loudly — while you’re signing, okay?”

  “Right,” I replied. (Mrs. Braddock had mentioned that before.)

  “Well … are you ready, Jessi?”

  “I hope so.”

  “Don’t be too nervous. It’s just a bunch of seven-year-olds who love visitors. And Matt’s teacher and I will help you if you need it.”

  “Okay.” I took a deep breath and let it out slowly, just like I do before I go onstage during a performance.

  Mrs. Braddock opened the door and I entered Matt’s classroom. Eight excited little faces turned to me, and a young woman rushed over to us.

  “Hello, Mrs. Braddock,” she said, shaking her hand. Then she turned to me and shook my hand. “You must be Jessi. I’m Ms. Frank, Matt’s teacher. Thank you so much for coming. I’m glad this visit could be arranged.” (This visit was what Mrs. Braddock’s mysterious phone call had been about at our club meeting.) “The children are thrilled, even though they don’t know why you’re here. All I’ve said is that you have a surprise for them. Before I introduce you, though, I just want to say that your idea is marvelous. It’ll be a great experience for the children, and I really want to thank you.”

  I was beaming. Everyone, at least once in his or her life, deserves such praise.

  The children were still looking at me eagerly. You might have thought that eight deaf children would make for a pretty quiet class, but no way. First of all, the talkers Mrs. Braddock had mentioned were talking — loudly. (Matt’s mother had said that since deaf children can’t always hear themselves, they don’t know how loudly they’re speaking and have to learn to modulate their voices.) Some of the others made sounds as they signed to each other. And one child, finishing up an assignment, was listening to a cassette at top volume.

  While Ms. Frank gathered the children into a circle on the floor, I took a quick look around. Matt’s classroom seemed pretty much like a classroom in any elementary school, except that I felt bombarded by all the things there were to see. I guessed that Ms. Frank’s idea was that if her kids couldn’t learn by hearing, they’d learn by seeing. Every inch of wall space and table space was covered — with displays about the months of the year, telling time, using money, colors and shapes, insects and animals, you name it. Across the top of the blackboard was a long chart showing the alphabet. Underneath it was the finger spelling alphabet, a hand demonstrating each letter.

  The other difference between Matt’s room and most second-grade classrooms was the audio equipment — tons of headphones and tapes for the kids who could hear and talk.

  Mrs. Braddock took a seat in the back of the room, and Ms. Frank led me to the front of the room.

  “Why don’t you sit on the floor with the kids?” she suggested. “You’ll all feel more at ease.”

  (Good thing I was wearing jeans.)

  Ms. Frank, also wearing pants, sat right down on the floor next to me. (Now that’s my kind of teacher.)

  “Boys and girls,” Ms. Frank said, speaking loudly and clearly, and always facing the kids (so the lip-readers could watch her mouth), “this is Jessi Ramsey.” She signed as she spoke, and of course spelled out my name, J-E-S-S-I R-A-M-S-E-Y.

  Matt took his eyes off Ms. Frank’s hands long enough to grin at me. I smiled back.

  “Jessi is here,” Ms. Frank went on, “because she knows Matt Braddock and has a very special surprise for you. Jessi?”

  “Thanks,” I said. Then I began speaking and signing. Ms. Frank stayed where she was, in case I needed help. “I am a dancer,” I began. Then I finger spelled the word ballet, for which I hadn’t been able to find a sign. “I like dancing because I can tell a story with my body. I don’t need to talk.”

  A few faces perked up at this idea.

  “A ballet,” I went on, “tells a story without any words — just dance and music. I know some of you can’t hear music, but did you know that you can feel it?”

  The children nodded.

  “We’ve talked about that,” Ms. Frank told me. “We’ve been experimenting with vibrations — with rhythm and drumbeats and the piano.”

  “Oh, good.” I began signing and talking again. “My dance school,” I said, “is going to perform a ballet called Coppélia.” (More finger spelling.) “I’ll be dancing in it. It’s about a toymaker and a big doll that he creates. Everyone will wear costumes —” (luckily I remembered the sign for that word that Mrs. Braddock had shown me in the car) “— and the stage will look like a village.”

  The children were hanging on my every word and sign.

  “I would very much like for you to come see Coppélia, to come to the theater.” (The invitation was for opening night, but I decided not to try to explain what that meant.) “I know you might not be able to hear the music, but you can watch the dancers tell their story. Do you want to come?”

  “Yes! Yes!” cried the kids who could speak. The others nodded eagerly. Matt was so excited he looked like he might explode.

  Ms. Frank spoke up then. “The story of Coppélia is a little complicated,” she told Matt and his classmates, “so I’ll tell it to you before you go to the show. Some of you might want to read about the story, too.”

  The boy sitting next to Matt raised his hand. “When is the show?” he signed.

  “Next Friday,” I told him with Ms. Frank’s help. “Eight days from now.”

  “What should we wear?” signed another boy, and everyone laughed.

  “Whatever you want,” I told him, “but it might be fun to get dressed up.”

  The school bell rang for the end of the day, and I noticed that a big light flashed next to the door. I guessed that was the signal for the kids who couldn’t hear the bell.

  Even though school was over, none of the kids got up. Two more had questions. Finally Ms. Frank had to send them on their way. Soon the classroom was empty except for Ms. Frank, Mrs. Braddock, Matt, and me. While the adults were having some important-looking conversation, Matt showed me his desk and cubby and something (I wasn’t sure what) that he’d made in art class.

  I oohed and ahhed. And smiled a lot.

  Then — quite suddenly — Matt threw his arms around me and gave me a big hug. He leaned back and signed, “I love you. I can’t wait to see a ballet. Thank you. You’re my best grown-up friend.”

  At first I wasn’t sure what to react to — Matt’s enthusiasm or being called a grown-up. It didn’t take long to decide. I signed back, “I love you, too.”

  Wednesday

  Hey, everybody, Jessi’s brother and sister are adorable! Especially Squirt. I mean — not that Becca isn’t cute, but Squirt is a baby after all, and there’s something about babies…. Oh, well.

  Anyway, while Jessi was at the Braddocks’ I had a great time sitting at her house. I love taking care of babies, and Becca was a lot of fun. We had a good talk, too.

  Then Charlotte Johanssen came over to play and suddenly I got the feeling that something was going on. Becca and Charlotte have a secret. But they wouldn’t say a word about it. What’s going on?

  When Kristy baby-sat for Becca and Squirt, it was the first
time she’d been over to my house — at least, the first time she’d been there since Stacey McGill moved out of it. She went over after school to watch my brother and sister while Mama went to Stamford to run boring errands that Becca and Squirt wouldn’t want to be dragged along on.

  When Mama left, Squirt was taking a nap, but Becca was bouncing around. She loves new baby-sitters because she can show off all her stuff to them, stuff the rest of us have seen a billion times. The first thing she showed Kristy was her rock collection. Now let me set you straight about something. What Becca knows about rocks and minerals you could fit on the head of a pin. She doesn’t know shale from quartz. She just collects rocks she thinks are interesting. For example, she has a flat pebble that is almost exactly round and has a yellow splotch in the middle so that it looks sort of like a fried egg. And she has a rock that looks exactly like Mr. Millikan’s nose. Mr. Millikan is the principal of the school Becca went to in New Jersey. The resemblance of the rock to his nose is really amazing. In Oakley, if you asked anybody what that rock looked like, they’d say right away, “Millikan’s nose.” Here in Stoneybrook, people just say, “A nose?”

  When Becca had shown Kristy every last one of the rocks, she moved on to her dolls and then her stuffed animals. Becca has so many of both, that when she sleeps with all of them, sometimes it’s hard to pick Becca out of the crowd.

  “Want to see my books about cats?” Becca asked Kristy next. “I have The Christmas Day Kitten and Pinky Pye and Millions of Cats and —”

  “Bloo-ga!” Squirt suddenly called from his room.

  “Oops! There’s your brother!” said Kristy. I’m sure she was relieved that she didn’t have to look at another collection. “Let’s go get him up.”

  “Yeah!” cried Becca.

  Kristy and Becca opened the door to Squirt’s room, where their noses were met by baby smells — powder and Baby-Wipes and a wet diaper.

  “Oh, you need to be changed,” said Kristy, bending over the crib and feeling Squirt’s diaper.

  Squirt burst into tears. He wasn’t expecting a strange face to peer over the side of his crib. He was expecting Mama or Daddy or Becca or me.