by Antony John
I honestly think I could have kept up the silent treatment all day, but when USS Immovable’s decrepit engine turned over and over without starting, Finn began to laugh. Thirty seconds later we still hadn’t moved, and I cracked up too—restrained at first, then an all-out belly laugh. Suddenly we were shaking so hard that Finn couldn’t sit still and I couldn’t turn the keys.
Predictability has its upside.
CHAPTER 3
“I swear, she’s like a clone of you when you were a baby.” Instinctively, Mom had said and signed the words simultaneously, but she was gazing at my eleven-month-old sister, Grace, not me.
I stared at Grace’s cochlear implant, a black contraption surgically attached to her right ear. She’d had it a month, but it had only just been turned on.
“Not anymore,” I said truthfully.
“Don’t go there, Piper. Not today,” warned Dad.
Yes, my name is Piper. And no, I don’t see the funny side. Seriously, what family with a history of hereditary deafness names their child after the player of a musical instrument?
“It’s amazing,” said Mom.
“A miracle,” gushed Dad.
They took turns whispering sweet nothings to Grace, who obediently tilted her head from side to side, seeking out the source of this new world of sound. I hadn’t expected the implant to work so quickly.
“Shame it wasn’t around when I was younger,” I said.
“Don’t be silly, Piper,” said Mom. She turned her mouth toward me as she stopped signing, so that I could see her lips. She still wouldn’t make eye contact, though. “You didn’t lose your hearing until you were six. And you know that Grace’s deafness was far more severe. Besides, your hearing aids work fine.”
Easy for her to say. The reason everyone assumes my hearing aids work fine is because I can lip-read with Olympic precision, and the combination of the two helps me get by. But it’s still hard work, and my hearing aids are old behind-the-ear models in Barbie pink that stopped feeling cool about a week after I got them, seven years ago. I was supposed to get a new in-the-ear pair for my birthday. Mom and Dad even promised me the Bluetooth iCom hookup, so I could hear my computer and cell phone through the aids, but then Dad lost his job and there wasn’t enough money. In a reckless moment I considered buying them with money from the college fund my grandparents had set aside for me, but I knew my parents would have a fit. Anyway, the fund was too important for that.
At that moment, Grace turned to me and smiled, as if to remind me that none of this was her doing. She was still the same Grace—the one whose face lit up each time I returned from school, who slept with the snuggle blanket I knitted, who made me feel like an inspired comedian just by sticking out my tongue. I still mattered to her, I realized.
Then Dad spoke and she looked away, breaking the spell.
I’ll never hear the way she does, I signed, adding a little oomph as I smacked my chest (to indicate myself), and a lot of oomph as I flicked my hand toward Grace.
“You know this wasn’t an easy decision,” sighed Mom, refusing to sign back to me. “But let’s not forget, the implant works best on very young children, and with your residual hearing you wouldn’t have been a good candidate. Besides, it wasn’t covered by insurance back then.”
“It’s not fully covered now either,” said Dad, no doubt relieved that we were speaking, not signing. “The co-pay is monstrous. We talked about it, remember?”
Mom hushed him, then glanced at me and turned scarlet.
I felt my pulse quicken. “What are you talking about? I thought it was going to be covered.”
“Well, partially,” said Mom reassuringly, “but it turns out my insurance isn’t as comprehensive as your dad’s used to be. It’s complicated.”
“Try me.”
“There’s no need to get all worked up about this, Piper,” said Dad. “We’ll make up the shortfall somehow.”
“Shortfall? What shortfall? Where did you get the money?”
Mom glared at Dad briefly, then turned on the charm for me. “You’ve just started senior year, Piper, honey. We’ll return the money to your fund before you need it for college.”
“And if we can’t, you’re even more likely to qualify for financial aid,” added Dad helpfully.
I felt like throwing up. “You raided my . . . college fund for this?”
“Being part of a family entails making sacrifices, you know.”
“But shouldn’t that be my decision? Oma and Poppy left that money to me.”
“What about your hearing aids? They cost money too, you know,” Dad pointed out.
“A few thousand bucks, yes. But that was years ago. You said the implant was going to be over eighty thousand.”
Dad raised a finger menacingly. “This is your sister we’re talking about, Piper. You want what’s best for her, right?”
Silence. My father—master of the rhetorical question. Of course I wanted the best for Grace, but not at my expense. The college fund my grandparents had set up for me was my ticket to another world. I’d dreamed of heading to Gallaudet University in Washington, DC, ever since they told me about it: the finest liberal arts college in the world for deaf and hard-of-hearing students—a place where I’d automatically fit in, instead of standing out in all the wrong ways. What if the financial aid package wasn’t enough?
Oh God. I had to concentrate to keep from crying.
Anyway, who’s to say what was best for Grace? Mom always called her my baby twin, and if she remained deaf we’d be closer than mere sisters. As she grew up we’d sign nonstop, sharing words that few others could understand. I’d be there for her, help her, allow her to express herself in her own way, not demand that she conform to society’s bias toward oral communication. I even came close to saying all this, but then I had an epiphany: My father wasn’t indifferent to my deafness; he was mortified by it. For him, Grace’s total loss of hearing was an insurmountable disability, something that had needed to be remedied at the earliest opportunity through major surgery. And even though my hearing loss was less severe than hers, the notion that I was also “disabled” struck home. Could it really be that after eighteen years Dad saw me that way—a poor girl struggling to be understood, who achieved self-sufficiency only by virtue of others’ help?
Dad interpreted my silence as petulance and shook his head disgustedly as he returned his attention to his fixeddaughter, leaving me wondering when and how we’d gotten so far off track.
Meanwhile, Mom called Grace’s name again and again—from above, from behind, from either side and from the corners of the room. And each time, Grace turned toward her like an obedient puppy, large eyes blinking in wonder, the corners of her mouth turned up, caught between a grin and total bemusement.
“Of course I want the best for Grace,” I whispered, hoping that one day my father might understand the million layers separating our ideas of what counts as best.
CHAPTER 4
Finn was late again, and I didn’t feel like waiting around while he broke a few more school rules. I figured if he was working on getting expelled, he could at least do it during regular school hours.
It didn’t help that I was already in a bad mood. Belson forgot to give us our homework assignment until the bell had already rung, so his announcement was made over the scraping of chairs and the ceaseless chattering of the supermodel wannabes. I couldn’t catch what he said, so I had to wait for the room to clear before asking him to repeat everything to me privately. I wish I could say it was an unusual occurrence.
As I trudged back from the parking lot to the school’s main entrance I noticed the steps were still blackened, and those stains weren’t coming off anytime soon, either. Dumb weren’t just the talk of the school, they’d left their mark on the building itself. If Finn needed lessons on how to break school rules with style, he could do worse than learn from the members of Dumb.
As it turned out, that’s exactly what he was doing. They’d just been releas
ed from suspension for the day, and a motley assortment of a dozen or so hangers-on had gathered to cheer them. They loitered in the hallway outside the principal’s office, presumably to draw attention to themselves, although the principal never emerged. Maybe he was concerned for his safety.
Sensible guy.
At first I kept my distance, so that teachers emerging from their lounge would know that I wasn’t connected to the motley crew. But after a few minutes I grew tired of waiting. I signaled to Finn that it was time to leave, but he ignored me. I stepped forward and was about to make a grab for him when Josh Cooke glanced up and waved in my direction. He flashed a smile and I waved back enthusiastically, touched that he must have noticed I was one of the last people to abandon Dumb the day before.
Josh saw me waving and looked confused, then amused as he pointed at something behind me. I spun around and came face-to-face with blazingly gorgeous Kallie Sims, in her trademark miniskirt and knee-high brown leather boots. Designer labels flashed from every item of clothing, like sponsors jostling for space on a winning racecar. Of course Josh wasn’t waving at me. Why would any guy notice me when they could be ogling her instead?
Again I signaled to Finn that it was time to go, and again he ignored me. He knew I’d be too self-conscious to call out to him in such a public place, so all I could do was wait while he fawned over the mini-celebs of Dumb. Since he had no more aspirations in life than to get expelled and play guitar in a rock band, they probably seemed like ideal role models.
I think I’d have stayed rooted to the spot forever if Josh hadn’t looked over and waved again, and I hadn’t accidentally waved back again, at which point he (again) signaled to Kallie just behind me, and she responded with that stupid half smile like she’d just accidentally Botoxed her mouth shut—which seemed completely plausible, by the way.
I guess I must have turned even redder than usual, because Kallie looked almost sympathetic as she glanced my way. Maybe she’d heard the rumor about me never having had a boyfriend. Maybe she knew it was true.
I turned away and tried to focus on a small spot of crumbling wall, but I couldn’t stop my eyes from twitching around defensively. Dumb were evidently enjoying their newfound celebrity, and Finn was enjoying their attention. In fact, everybody treated Finn like a long-lost best buddy, like it didn’t matter that he was just a freshman. He even gave their amplifiers a thorough checking out, and it took me a moment to realize they must have purchased new amps, like these things were practically disposable; maybe they were, for parents as rich as Josh and Will’s. I thought of my own situation—friendless at school, dysfunctional home life, freshly emptied college fund—and something just snapped.
Here’s a bizarre fact: When you stride up to a group of people and start signing in exaggerated gestures, conversation stops. It’s completely counterintuitive really, since they could keep talking and it wouldn’t interfere with my signing at all. But I knew they’d shut up, and I knew Finn would be embarrassed. At that moment, both situations seemed ideal.
Car. Now.
Finn didn’t move, wouldn’t even make eye contact.
“What did she just say?” asked Josh, clearly unaware that I could understand him without an interpreter. (After sharing the same classes for the past three years, you’d think he’d have noticed.)
“She didn’t say anything,” said Finn.
That was the final straw. Tell them they’re crap, I signed.
“What did she say now?” pressed Josh.
Finn looked up at me like he truly hated my guts. “She says you’re . . . not living up to your potential.”
I raised my eyebrows. Apparently Finn had a gift for improvising. Who knew?
“She seemed to like us when we performed yesterday morning,” Josh replied.
All style and no substance, I countered, not waiting for Finn to pass along Josh’s words. Complete amateurs.
At this point, Finn started relaying my comments verbatim. He probably figured it would increase the odds of Dumb beating the crap out of me right there and then.
But Josh was too smart for that. If he was going down, it was going to be in a war of words.
“Amateurs, huh?” he said, facing me directly now. “And how do you figure that?”
Have you been signed yet?
Finn sighed, passed along the message.
“Course not. We only won the Battle three days ago.”
How are you capitalizing on the buzz your win created?
Finn shook his head, mumbled something.
“We did an interview on the University of Washington’s unofficial radio station last night.”
I wasn’t even aware the university had an official station. How much did they pay you?
Finn’s mouth seemed reluctant to open and close. His shoulders slumped even more than usual. I got the feeling he’d never again be late for his ride home.
“Nothing. It’s about exposure. You don’t make money while you’re breaking out.”
I laughed in what I hoped was a mocking tone.
Tash shoved in front of Josh, the green spikes in her hair bristling. She flared her nostrils at me in an unflatteringly unfeminine way and turned to Finn, too unobservant to notice I’d been lip-reading all along.
“So, what—she thinks she could get us paid for everything, is that it?”
Yes. If you have any sense, you’ll focus on charging for every interview and every appearance, instead of doing free performances on school grounds and getting suspended for it.
Finn swallowed hard. “She says . . . yes.”
Tash narrowed her eyes, and I’d swear her daubed-on eyeliner cracked like one of those ancient oil paintings in museums.
“Whatever. There’s no way ...”
She turned away. I couldn’t lip-read anymore, and her words became indistinct—a really obnoxious thing to do to someone who’s hard of hearing.
I figured she was telling Josh and Will to ignore me, or pummel me, or puncture my tires and set fire to my car or something. But I could also tell from their expressions that what I’d said was NEWS to them, and seriously interesting news at that. As she turned back to face me, even Tash seemed unsure, the metal jewelry peppering her heavily accessorized face twitching like I’d piqued her interest. And flanking them on every side was an ever-growing legion of groupies, all of them staring at me unblinkingly, like they were looking at me for the first time, like I was someone they’d never met before rather than someone they’d simply ignored.
And that was the moment my adrenaline shot of bravado expired. For some reason, they obviously expected me to speak next, only what more could I say? Even if what I’d said was true, I was just venting, and continuing seemed increasingly risky, if not masochistic. Suddenly the eyes trained on me seemed bright with expectation, and I was blinded by the glare.
I turned and strode away, not looking at anyone or anything except the main door. My hand was already shoved deep in my pocket, fingers clasped around the car key that would hasten my escape. I didn’t even need to wait for Finn; he was jogging along beside me, as eager to get away as I was.
We tumbled into the car, and I only dropped my keys once before jamming them into the ignition. But somewhere around the twelfth or thirteenth time the engine turned over without starting, I caught a glimpse of Josh, Will, and Tash in my rearview mirror. I exhaled slowly, gave up trying to start the car, and waited.
Josh tapped on the driver’s-side window, and there wasn’t any point in pretending I didn’t know he was there. I gripped the door frame for support as I stepped out of the car, wondering if they’d really dare to beat the crap out of me on school grounds.
Josh glanced at his brother and Tash, then turned his blazing blue eyes directly at me. I couldn’t look away.
“Okay,” he said. “Here’s the deal: You’ve got one month to get us a paying gig. We’ll split the money with you—four ways. Do that and you can be our manager, even when we get big.”
; I knew I should be laughing. The Piper of five minutes before would have snorted, rolled her eyes, and made grand, sarcastic signs about the unlikelihood of them even making it small, let alone big. But that was five minutes ago. The Piper of the present was suddenly timid and utterly mute. This was a crazy situation in need of immediate resolution, but what was there to say? Josh hadn’t even asked me, he’d told me this was my job. And even though it would have seemed completely appropriate for the band to break down in bone-rattling laughter right there and then, they didn’t. They just stared at me like we’d signed a pact in blood. Suddenly our futures were bound together in a way that was utterly preposterous.
Josh wrote down a series of letters on a scrap of paper and handed it to me.
“Someone downloaded our performance onto YouTube. Check it out. Tell us what we need to do to be more marketable. We’re in this for real. We’ll listen to what you say . . . or, you know, sign.”
I took the paper and studied the website address. I tried to summon the energy for a final refusal, but Josh was smiling his irresistibly large smile, eyes gazing at me and me alone, and I couldn’t do it. Without Kallie behind me I had his undivided attention, and I’d be lying if I said it didn’t feel very gratifying indeed.
“You’re smart, Piper. Everyone knows it. And right now we’re too busy to be organizing gigs, whereas you probably have loads of free time, right?”
I sighed, but nodded. What was the point in denying it?
“If anyone can do this, Piper, it’s you. Let’s get famous . . . make some money.”
For someone who’d never spoken to me before, Josh sure had strong opinions on my suitability for the job. What’s more, he seemed to have a higher opinion of me than my own father, and was offering to let me make money, rather than siphoning it away from my Gallaudet fund. And while I knew that making money wasn’t a sure thing, something told me that if blind self-confidence was an indicator of future success, maybe Dumb was destined for greatness after all.
