by Karen Kane
I do go to that school! Charlie wanted to yell. It’s my school, too!
But he looked out the windows instead.
From high above the Hudson River, the view was spectacular. The village was nestled in a valley of orange, yellow, and red trees. The river sparkled in the sunlight. Two people paddled kayaks in the water as a sailboat glided by them. Charlie turned his head toward the castle sitting on a bluff, grand and glorious.
Charlie had parents who wanted to be with animals more than they wanted to be with him.
He had grandparents who loved watching television, visiting doctors, and now (thanks to Charlie) playing card games.
But he also had Castle School for the Deaf.
Charlie belonged to that school, even if he was hearing. He wouldn’t let his school down tonight.
As for Frog, maybe she wasn’t too upset about what Vince Vinelli had said.
Maybe, just maybe (Charlie crossed his fingers), Frog had missed watching Vince Vinelli’s Worst Criminals Ever! last night.
• • •
Wendell Finch was one of the students helping at the gondola today. Wendell was shorter than Charlie, with thick, round glasses that gave him the look of a wise and eager owl.
“Hi, Charlie!” signed Wendell as Charlie stepped off the gondola. “It’s here! The best day of the year is finally here!”
The Fall Extravaganza was the best day of the year because it was the day Boney Jack’s story was retold. Wendell wanted everyone to remember that Boney Jack had once done secret good deeds for people in the Hudson Valley. And every fall, in the spirit of Boney Jack, Wendell also did secret good deeds. It was the worst-kept secret because everyone knew it was Wendell, but everyone pretended they had no idea.
“Happy Boney Hand Day!” signed Charlie. He had been practicing this just so he could sign it to Wendell today.
Wendell beamed. “Happy Boney Hand Day to you, too!”
“I just learned,” signed Charlie, “that the Boney Hand is a real hand!”
“I know!” Wendell signed slowly and clearly for Charlie. “Isn’t it wonderful? We have Boney Jack’s hand to help us remember him!”
Charlie watched as Wendell flashed the signal light several times toward the village across the river, sending a message to Mr. Simple. When the gondola was loaded again with people, Wendell would send another message.
The castle grounds were a flurry of students, teachers, and staff, preparing for the Fall Extravaganza—carving pumpkins, making scarecrows, putting out bales of hay, and setting up fires for s’mores and the telling of ghost stories. Obie, the DeafBlind castle caretaker, stood in the middle of all of this busyness with his wild white hair and his new dog, Max, at his side, calmly directing everyone.
Students checked in with Obie by putting their smaller hands under his larger ones to ask him what they should do next. Obie’s coworker, Darius, stood next to Obie with one hand on his back, letting Obie know what was happening around him, quickly telling him the things he did not see with his eyes. After lunch, Charlie would help Obie in the barn.
Frog’s six-year-old sister Millie and her huge dog, Bear, a Newfoundland, ran up to Charlie. Millie flung her arms around his waist as Bear slurped Charlie’s hand with his tongue. Millie finally let go of her hug, and Bear flopped down on the grass, having used up all his saliva on Charlie.
“I don’t like Vince Vinelli!” Millie told Charlie. “Frog is not cute! I’m cute!”
Charlie knew Millie was not allowed to watch Vince Vinelli. That meant Frog had watched it.
“I was hoping Frog hadn’t seen the show,” said Charlie as Frog’s older brother, Oliver, came over.
“Of course Frog saw it,” said Oliver. “She never misses an episode.” He put an arm around Charlie. “Your mission this morning is to cheer up Frog enough to come to rehearsal.”
“Wait—Frog might not come to rehearsal?” said Charlie.
“She didn’t take last night very well,” said Oliver. “And you know how Frog is—when she’s mad about something, she can’t think of anything else.”
Charlie’s worst fear was happening. Even just thinking about being without Frog at rehearsal left him feeling unanchored, floating on a life raft in the ocean with no land in sight.
“If she’s not there, Mr. Willoughby will have a fit,” continued Oliver. “And if Mr. Willoughby has a fit, Mom will have a fit. You know she gets intense this time of year,” Oliver added as they walked toward the castle.
“Just like she got before the Founders’ Day Dinner,” said Charlie as he envisioned himself at tonight’s performance, forgetting his lines and staring blankly into the audience.
“Exactly,” said Oliver. “But let’s not kid ourselves—basically, the whole year is full of days with Mom getting intense. But especially today. With Mom, you have to know her ‘especially’ days.”
Charlie knew visitors came from all over to tour the castle, and to see and hear the Legend of the Boney Hand. That was why the whole school had been cleaning and decorating the castle for a week, as well as practicing the Legend of the Boney Hand. Many of the visitors would be hearing people who didn’t know sign language. Outsiders, Mrs. Castle called them.
Bear was walking between Charlie and Millie. Charlie rested a hand on Bear’s glossy black fur.
“Did you know the Boney Hand is real, Charlie?” Millie shivered. “It’s scary!”
“I just found out it was real,” said Charlie. “I missed that somehow.”
“You’re doing really well with signing, Charlie,” said Millie as she patted his arm.
“But not well enough,” said Oliver as they entered the castle. “And that’s why you have Boris.”
“Who’s Boris?” asked Charlie.
Oliver pointed to a big guy standing near the Flying Hands Café, staring at his cell phone. “Boris is your interpreter this week,” said Oliver.
“I don’t need an interpreter!” said Charlie.
“Oh, but you do,” said Oliver.
Bear trotted over to Boris, nudging him with his nose. Boris put his phone away and rubbed Bear’s head with both hands.
“I forgot!” said Millie. “I promised Obie that Bear would play with Max today!” Millie turned to leave, but Bear didn’t follow her because Boris was now kneeling and massaging Bear’s neck and back. Charlie could have sworn Bear was smiling.
“Bear!” yelled Millie. “Come!”
Bear woke from his blissful state and reluctantly pushed up to his paws. He looked up at Boris, waiting.
“Bear!” Millie yelled again.
Bear waited.
“Go with Millie,” Boris told him.
Finally, Bear turned and lumbered over to Millie.
“Bear listens to me,” she told Boris. “Not you!”
“Sorry.” Boris shrugged. “Dogs love me.”
“Bear loves me,” said Millie as she walked away. Bear glanced once more at Boris and then followed.
Charlie turned to Oliver. “I don’t need an interpreter,” said Charlie again. “And if I do, I have Miss Davenport.” Miss Davenport sometimes interpreted Charlie’s classes. “Or I have you, Oliver,” added Charlie. “No offense, Boris.”
“None taken,” said Boris. “I’m heading to film school in a few months. This castle looks like a movie set.” Boris held up his phone and began panning around the great hall.
“Look, Charlie,” said Oliver, “my debt to Frog is paid off. Besides, interpreting is hard work and it doesn’t make me happy. Baking makes me happy. And there are still a zillion pumpkin and apple pies to be baked for tonight. And you miss a lot,” Oliver told him, not unkindly. “Having Boris around will help you understand more. Besides,” he added as Mrs. Castle approached, “it’s what Mom wants.”
Mrs. Castle had another long to-do list with her, just as she had for the Founders’ Day Dinner. When she saw Charlie, she hurried over to hug him. Mrs. Castle always made a humming noise in her throat when she hugged people. Deaf
hugs were strong and solid. And Mrs. Castle’s hugs were the best hugs of all.
Mrs. Castle asked Boris to interpret for her.
“See?” Mrs. Castle signed to Charlie as Boris spoke what she said. “Now you don’t need pen and paper if you don’t understand something—you have Boris. Boris will be our interpreting intern for this week. Boris’s mother is Deaf and a dear friend of mine. She hopes her son will consider interpreting as a professional career. Perhaps he will go to college to become an interpreter instead of this crazy idea of going to film school.”
Boris interpreted what Mrs. Castle said. He didn’t even make a face at Mrs. Castle’s comment about him. Oliver would never have done that. He would have made a face, rolled his eyes, and then added his own opinion. Everything interpreters are not supposed to do.
“I don’t need another interpreter!” signed Charlie to Mrs. Castle. Charlie especially did not want someone like Boris, who was quite large, following him around. It would be like having a babysitter. Or a bodyguard. Boris would make him stand out. Charlie did not want to stand out, especially not any more than he already did.
Oliver shook his head behind his mother’s back. He was reminding Charlie about his mother’s intensity and that today was an “especially day.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Castle signed to Charlie, “you do.” Mrs. Castle signed “yes” by making a fist and nodding the fist up and down. Charlie saw she had some red paint on the back of her hand.
“Now,” she continued, “please go talk to Frog. She’s taking this Vince Vinelli thing much too seriously. It was an honor he read her letter on the show! She should be thrilled, not ‘in the depths of despair,’ as she says.”
Boris spoke everything Mrs. Castle signed.
It was true. It was much easier to have Boris’s voice in his ear than to work so hard to understand ASL. And it was much faster than writing. Most importantly, Mrs. Castle wanted him to work with Boris. Charlie couldn’t say no to Mrs. Castle.
“Okay,” signed Charlie.
“Good!” signed Mrs. Castle. “Remember, having an interpreter will support your learning of ASL—”
She stopped signing and stared at someone. It was a man entering the Flying Hands Café. He wore paint-splattered clothes. Mrs. Castle didn’t seem intense anymore—now she seemed anxious, a feeling Charlie knew too well.
Finally, Mrs. Castle looked back at Charlie and gave him her “I’m-here-if-you-need-me” sign before hurrying into the Flying Hands Café.
The sign “I’m-here-if-you-need-me” was really the “I love you” sign, but as Oliver had explained to Charlie, it could mean so much more. And one way Mrs. Castle used the sign was to let Charlie know she was here if he needed her.
“Time to go cheer up Frog,” said Oliver. “Rehearsal starts in thirty minutes.”
Charlie took a deep breath. “Okay,” he signed and turned to leave.
“Where are you going?” asked Oliver.
“Up to Frog’s room,” said Charlie.
“When Frog is in the depths of despair, she doesn’t go to her room,” said Oliver. “Frog goes to the graveyard.”
The headstones tilted at odd angles. The wind rattled the leaves. Even though it was a sunny day, it didn’t feel sunny inside the graveyard.
“This,” said Boris, “would be the perfect place to film a horror movie.”
“I know,” said Charlie. And it would feel as if Charlie were in a horror movie if he couldn’t get Frog to leave the cemetery.
“Frog helped me set up my time-lapse camera to shoot the full moon rising last night,” said Boris. “Then she went to watch that show with the guy with the big teeth and fake tan. Bummer what he said.”
Through the trees, Charlie could see students stringing lights from the branches in front of the stone church. “You don’t have to come with me,” said Charlie. “I can talk to Frog myself.”
“But I’m supposed to interpret,” said Boris. “You heard Mrs. Castle. You don’t want to make her mad.”
“Consider this your break time,” said Charlie.
Boris shrugged. “Okay. But text me if you need me. You have a phone, right?”
Charlie did have a phone, but he rarely used it. Cell phones didn’t work in the village, only at the castle. At school Charlie often forgot he had a phone, especially since Frog didn’t have one. She lost her phone last summer, and her parents refused to buy her a new one. Frog said she would rather save her money for jewelry and books.
Charlie showed Boris his phone.
“Wow, this is old.” Boris examined it as if he’d just found an artifact from long ago. “Tiny, too.”
Boris took Charlie’s phone and sent himself a text message. He handed it back to Charlie, pulled out his own large and new-looking phone, and leaned against the headstone of Beatrice R. Bellows, beloved wife of Horace T. Bellows. The words on her headstone read:
I AM WATCHING YOU.
Charlie hoped she wasn’t. Beatrice, he was sure, would not consider it respectful to use her headstone as a backrest.
Charlie continued on the path that wound through the graveyard. Leaves twirled off trees, twisting and spinning to the ground. A crow cawed from the end of a branch. Frog was probably writing an angry letter to Vince Vinelli right now, telling him what she thought. She just needed to get that letter written before she came to rehearsal, Charlie thought.
But Frog was not writing a letter. She was sitting by the headstone of her favorite author, D. J. McKinnon, her head bent over a book. A leaf landed on the page she was reading. As she brushed it away, she glanced up and spotted Charlie.
Frog was crying.
Charlie was so shocked, he stopped walking.
Charlie had thought Frog would be furious, enraged, angry, or fighting mad at what Vince Vinelli had said.
He had not expected this.
Frog quickly brushed the tears away with the back of her hand. She slammed the book shut and jumped to her feet. Grabbing a rake lying on the ground, she began scraping at leaves.
That’s when Charlie was shocked a second time.
Frog wasn’t wearing any jewelry. No diamond brooch glinted in the sunlight. No ruby earrings dangled from her ears. No pearl necklace swung around as Frog jerked the rake. Frog without her statement piece was harder for Charlie to see than Frog with tears.
Frog’s eyes stayed on the leaf pile she was building.
Charlie tried to get her attention. He put his hand down low and waved it around. Frog would see his hand from the corner of her eye, wouldn’t she? Charlie came as close as he dared to Frog, tapped her on her shoulder, and quickly jumped back. It was a good thing he did because Frog whipped around with the rake.
The two friends glared and stared. Frog did the glaring. Charlie did the staring. Charlie had never dealt with Frog being sad before. He wasn’t sure what to do or what to say. Then he signed the only thing he could think of, the only thing he needed Frog to know.
“I’m sorry,” signed Charlie, circling his fist flat on his chest. “I’m really, really sorry.”
Frog tossed the rake on the ground and hung her head. She pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes and then looked up at Charlie.
“How could Vince Vinelli have said that?” signed Frog. She signed some other stuff, but Charlie didn’t catch what she said. He pulled out his notebook and pen and handed them to Frog. He felt bad doing it. To Frog’s credit, she only gave a small sigh about having to slow down her communication with writing.
How, wrote Frog, could Vince Vinelli not see who I am? I wrote him dozens of letters. But all he saw was that I was cute.
Frog handed the notebook and pen back to Charlie and began raking again.
“He doesn’t even know you,” signed Charlie. “So how can he see you?”
Frog threw the rake down.
“He would know me,” signed Frog, “if he paid attention.”
“So write him another letter,” Charlie told her. “An even better letter!”
“Wait!” he signed.
Frog waited. And while she waited, she looked so sad.
Charlie hated seeing her like this. What could he say to Frog that would make a difference? How could he make her feel better? Charlie glanced down at the book Frog had been reading: Dorrie McCann and the Invisible Girl by D. J. McKinnon. Frog loved Dorrie McCann, who was also Deaf.
That was it.
Some people, wrote Charlie, didn’t see Dorrie McCann as a detective, either.
Charlie had no idea if this was true. He had only, after all, read one Dorrie McCann book. Frog considered this. Finally, she started to sign “True.” Then she dropped her hand and shrugged.
“So what if that’s true?” signed Frog. “I’m not Dorrie McCann.”
Frog fingerspelled DORRIE MCCANN slowly so Charlie would understand. Then she began raking again.
Charlie looked at his watch. Mr. Willoughby did not tolerate tardiness. And this was the final rehearsal before the performance. But Frog also had to be there. She had the most lines. And she needed to be there for Charlie. There was no way he could do this without her. Charlie tapped Frog on the shoulder.
“What?” signed Frog with one hand without looking at him.
How was Charlie supposed to tell Frog “what” if Frog didn’t look? He tapped her on the shoulder again. When Frog glanced over, Charlie pointed toward the church.
Frog shook her head.
“Not me,” she signed. “I’m staying here.”
She threw down the rake once more, picked up her book, and sat down by D. J. McKinnon’s headstone. She scooted back until she leaned against the headstone, just like Boris had. Frog crossed her legs, opened the book, and began reading.
But Charlie knew she really wasn’t. He waved his hand in front of her face.
“How long are you going to stay?” signed Charlie. Maybe Frog just needed a few minutes by herself. Then she would be ready.
