One day toward the end of September, I returned from the bathroom after Historical Literature, a class I shared with Beau, and found him talking with Kathleen. They were just a few feet away, and because Kathleen had her back to me I couldn’t see her response to Beau’s question of, “Then why . . . Maya like to . . . back?”
I went marching over to them, peeved Beau wanted to talk about me when I wasn’t present.
WHAT’S UP? I signed to Kathleen, raising my eyebrows.
Beau offered a HELLO in sign, but I ignored him, waiting on Kathleen.
HE ASK WHY YOU NOT SIGN WITH HIM, she finally signed to me, looking away from Beau.
I rolled my eyes so hard they almost disappeared into the back of my head.
WHY HE CARE? I signed. I knew with his limited knowledge of ASL Beau wouldn’t be able to understand what I was signing, but I made it a point to sign quickly just in case. HE NOT BUSY WITH HIS FRIENDS RIGHT NOW? SCHOOL?
For one second Kathleen looked like she was about to smile, but her face remained impassive as she replied, SIGNING NOT THAT BAD, nodding toward Beau.
DOESN’T MATTER, I signed back. I NEVER ASK HIM LEARN SIGN LANGUAGE. WE GO CLASS NOW.
OK, Kathleen signed, and turned to Beau to say, “See you later,” signing as she spoke.
I shot off down the hallway without waiting for Kathleen, but she was at my side again once I rounded the corner. We were seated for the final class of the day, chemistry with Mr. Burke, when Kathleen decided to sign, B-E-A-U NICE BOY, RIGHT?
I dug my pencil into my paper, deepening the lines of the doodle I was making in the margins. My answer was an indifferent shrug.
Kathleen tread carefully as she signed next, WHY NOT SIGN WITH HIM MORE? HE LOOK EXCITED.
DON’T CARE, I signed back. I SIGN WITH N-I-N-A, THAT ENOUGH.
TRUE, Kathleen signed with a nod. BUT MAKE NEW FRIEND NOT HURT.
DON’T WANT NEW FRIEND, I told her firmly. HERE FOR SCHOOL, NOT BOY.
Kathleen looked like she wanted to keep this conversation going, but she went palms up in defeat when Mr. Burke flashed the lights, his new way of calling class to attention. I was happy to put this topic to rest, and I was hoping it was one we would not ever resume.
The day after my run-in with Beau, Nina and I were carrying on one of our half lip-reading, half signing conversations during lunch.
“Do you want . . . over this . . . ?” she asked me as she popped the top off the salad she bought for lunch and dug in.
“What?” I said aloud, confused. I couldn’t fill in the blanks I’d missed.
Beau leaned over, waving his hand to sign HEY to get my attention. He started to sign what Nina said slowly, struggling a little to come up with the right words.
SHE ASK IF YOU . . . Beau frowned, biting his lip as he concentrated. I noticed there was that same determined look in his green eyes whenever he was trying to sign. WANT MEET . . . ?
“You want to hang out this weekend?” I guessed, and Beau signed, RIGHT.
“For . . . Mr . . . midterm,” Nina said.
I seemed to be off my lip-reading game, so I turned to Beau and signed, HOMEWORK?
He nodded, adding, FOR W-E-L-L-S. M-I-D-T-E-R-M.
The midterm for AP US History was to be a presentation on the historical importance of one major event that took place during twentieth century America. I wasn’t sure how my half of the presentation was going to go in sign language, since I was definitely not going to use my voice for this. It was nerve-wracking enough giving a presentation if your hearing worked perfectly.
“Sure,” I said to Nina. “We could do that.”
“Great!” Nina said, smiling all big. “Want to . . . my place?”
Going to Nina’s house was the better alternative than her coming over to mine. Most of the unpacking was done, but Connor was still struggling to adjust. Moving to a higher elevation made it harder for him to get enough oxygen, which meant he now had to be on oxygen 24/7, and he did not like that one bit. He was grumpy most of the time now since being put on oxygen, kicking up a minor fuss whenever we had to change his oxygen tanks or get him a new cannula.
When we were at home, he attached himself to my hip and wanted to watch cartoons. This made it a little difficult to get homework or chores done, but I would do anything to make sure Connor got some peaceful rest. If that meant staying up late to finish my homework, I had no problem making more than one pot of coffee in the morning.
Not that I thought any of this would bother Nina, but still, not a great work environment for midterms.
SURE, I signed to Nina.
“I’ll . . . my address,” Nina said, tapping her phone, and I nodded.
Nina and I texted a lot, mostly about homework and class assignments, but we did find enjoyment going off on tangents over how ridiculous our classmates could be or college plans after graduation. She’d been nothing but supportive when I told her I was determined to get into the best respiratory therapy program possible.
It took me far longer than I would’ve liked to write my letter of intent to include in my application to Cartwright, but Mrs. Stephens was pleased with the result. We’d submitted the finished application this past week, and I was thinking I wouldn’t get a good night’s rest until I received a response from the admissions office. It was probably a good thing I had midterms to obsess over.
My gaze fell on Beau as I picked at the peanut butter and jelly sandwich I brought from home. Jackson was sitting next to Beau like always, chatting about whatever it was the school’s baseball star and his friend did, but Beau didn’t seem to be paying attention to him at all. He was fiddling with his sandwich wrapper, and by the way his lips were only moving once in a while, he was giving Jackson one-word responses.
Beau looked up as Jackson gave him a friendly jab to the side, wanting him to participate in the conversation. He raised his eyebrows when he noticed I was watching him, and I couldn’t look away fast enough before he signed, WHAT’S WRONG?
NOTHING, I signed back. I kept it as basic as possible when I signed, J-A-C-K-S-O-N TALK A LOT.
Beau frowned, shaking his head as he signed, DON’T UNDERSTAND.
I pointed to Jackson and moved my hand up by my mouth to mime someone blabbing their head off, and that time Beau understood. It looked like he was trying not to start laughing with the way he pressed his lips together tight, the corners of his eyes crinkling.
YEAH, Beau signed, nodding his head toward Jackson. THAT HIS FAVORITE THING.
Jackson hadn’t missed all the pointing we were doing and looked uncomfortable as his eyes moved back and forth between me and Beau. When he leaned toward Beau, I caught a bit of what he was saying, which was something like, “Can you not . . . me . . . right here.”
Whatever Jackson was saying, he was clearly a bit annoyed.
“Don’t worry . . . we just . . .” Beau said, but the apology was ruined by the smirk on his face.
I went palms up, doing my best not to smile too. This was the amusing bit about two people knowing a language—or at least some of a language—and using it around other people who had no idea what was being said.
Nina put a hand to my shoulder then, and I looked up as she pointed to the ceiling. The bell must’ve rung since everyone around us was getting up from the table, collecting their trash and backpacks. I realized Beau and I had just been sitting there, smiling at each other, and I didn’t know why.
I quickly averted my gaze and gathered up my things, ready to make my escape. My next period was art, a class I thankfully did not share with Beau. I wasn’t an artist by any stretch of the imagination, but it was the only time during the school day I was able to fully relax.
I waved good-bye to Nina and went off to class with Kathleen, who’d been waiting by my locker for me. Class was held in an art studio somewhat like a warehouse, with concrete floors and high ceilings, years of students’ artwork covering every inch of the walls.
Kathleen began to interpret as the te
acher, Ms. Phillips, got to her feet, walking around her desk to come to the front of the studio.
TODAY WE DO SELF PORTRAIT, Kathleen signed as Ms. Phillips spoke. DRAW WHO YOU THINK YOU ARE.
Who am I? That was not a question I could answer very easily anymore. I had ambitions for my future, but who am I right now? A Deaf girl suddenly dropped into the middle of a hearing world I was positive I didn’t belong in anymore.
I kept running the question over and over again in my mind as I collected a bunch of charcoal pencils from the supply shelf and pulled out my sketchbook. Kathleen explained that Ms. Phillips was letting us use whatever was in the art studio to complete the self-portrait. My more ambitious classmates were pulling out lumps of clay or paintbrushes and blank canvases.
I flipped open my sketchbook to a clean page, still at a loss of how I was going to do this. Ms. Phillips wanted a self-portrait. Did that mean a representation of who I saw when I looked in a mirror or something that showed who I felt like I was on the inside?
Ms. Phillips made a stop at my table as I was drawing thick, loopy lines with a charcoal pencil, getting absolutely nowhere.
She waved Kathleen over to interpret and Kathleen signed, WHAT’S WRONG?
CONFUSED? Kathleen added, pointing to me.
YES, I signed quickly. VERY CONFUSED.
Ms. Phillips’ frown deepened when Kathleen told her this, and she said, “How can . . . help?”
I thought about how to respond to this question for one long beat, and signed, I FEEL I DON’T KNOW MYSELF.
Ms. Phillips looked thoughtful as she pulled out the stool across the worktable from me and sat down. Kathleen hovered nearby.
“That’s . . . normal. A part of . . . life,” Ms. Phillips said, resting her chin in her hands. “It’s okay . . . take your time.”
Ms. Phillips leaned across the table to pick up the charcoal pencils next to my sketchbook, staring down at them, lost in thought again.
YOU SEE YOURSELF I-N BLACK AND WHITE? Kathleen signed when Ms. Phillips finally spoke.
NO, I signed in answer. DON’T KNOW.
I mean, I liked color. I loved color. That’s why I had so many reprints of Van Gogh and Picasso paintings on my bedroom walls. You don’t have to hear colors. When I looked at their artwork, I wasn’t missing anything.
Ms. Phillips got up and crossed the studio to the massive industrial shelves where she kept every kind of art supply known to man. She rummaged around for a bit before she came back with two trays of bold-colored paints.
“Try . . . these,” she said, tapping the trays.
OK, I replied hesitantly.
I was decent enough at sketching, but I’d never attempted painting before. This was just supposed to be a basic art class, so I hoped Ms. Phillips wasn’t expecting the next “The Starry Night” out of me for this.
Ms. Phillips gave me a reassuring smile and drifted off to the next worktable to see how things were going.
I sat there staring at the tray of paints in front of me, full of bright reds, greens, and blues, and finally I got up and went to grab the last easel resting in the corner of the studio beside a pile of canvases. The least I could do was try.
CHAPTER 10
There was a breakfast of chocolate chip pancakes on the table when I trudged downstairs Saturday morning still half asleep. Connor was chowing down on his pancakes and gave a happy wave when I plopped into the chair beside him.
Mom gave a dramatic start when she saw me, a hand at her heart, and signed, YOU AWAKE BEFORE NOON. WOW.
FUNNY, I signed with an eye roll.
COFFEE? KITCHEN, Mom signed back.
She’d put a stack of pancakes and syrup at my spot on the table when I came back from the kitchen with a steaming mug of coffee and my favorite hazelnut creamer.
BUSY DAY TODAY? I asked Mom.
She shook her head, cutting into her own stack of pancakes. CONNOR WANT MOVIE DAY, she signed, nodding toward my little brother, who was still stuffing his face. I TRY WORK FROM HOME. YOU BUSY?
I was nervous to tell her about Nina’s invitation to work on our midterm project for Mr. Wells’ class at her house. Mom and I hadn’t really talked much about me making hearing friends, and I didn’t know if she’d be excited or nervous for me.
BORROW CAR? I signed to Mom in a rush.
Mom looked taken aback by my question and signed, WHY?
FRIEND ASK IF I WORK WITH HER TODAY FOR M-I-D-T-E-R-M, I explained. WE PARTNERS.
A wide smile broke out across Mom’s face as she signed, FRIEND? SAME FRIEND FROM BEFORE?
YES, I signed with a huff. WE HAVE CLASS TOGETHER.
Mom was firing off rapid questions now, like WHO SHE? and NAME? and WHAT SHE LIKE?
N-I-N-A, I told her. YOU MET HER. SHE MY STUDENT MENTOR WHEN I START SCHOOL.
I SEE, Mom signed with the same enthusiastic smile. WONDERFUL. YOU GIVE HER SIGN NAME? Mom asked curiously.
I shook my head, signing, NO. I hadn’t planned on getting close enough to anyone to give them a sign name, but Nina had proved to be a pretty stand-up friend. She could probably do with one.
YOU SHOULD, Mom signed.
I shrugged. MAYBE.
HAPPY YOU MAKE FRIEND, Mom signed, and now a rather interesting expression was taking over her face as she smiled. WHAT ABOUT BOY?
The bite of pancake I’d just taken stuck in my throat, and I nearly choked. I stole Connor’s milk and took a big gulp to wash it down.
DON’T UNDERSTAND, I signed once I could breathe properly again. NO BOY.
Mom’s smile was slowly morphing into a smirk. BOY SIGNED SEE YOU LATER THAT DAY YOU WAIT OUTSIDE FOR ME AFTER SCHOOL ALL DONE.
I did not want to mention Beau’s name to her because I would never see the end of it. Mom never directly came out and said she was worried I was going to be eighteen at the end of next January and I’d never been on a date, but I had a strong suspicion that thought floated around her brain every so often. This was a conversation I wanted to avoid at all costs.
TALL BOY, Mom signed to me while I started shoving bite after bite of pancake in my mouth. CUTE.
DON’T KNOW, I signed again.
Mom slumped back in her chair, and I knew she was giving a huff of exasperation. NOT HURT YOU IF YOU TRY MEET BOY, she signed, her expression moving from curious to serious.
FINE WITHOUT BOY, I told her honestly.
Mom threw up her hands and signed, FINE. BUT ONE DATE NOT HURT YOU.
I returned my attention to my pancakes, ready to be done with this whole thing. Besides, Mom knew as well as I did I would prefer to date a Deaf boy—hearing, or lack of hearing, was a huge thing to have in common with someone—and as far as I knew, there weren’t any of those at Engelmann.
Mom tapped the table in front of my plate again, and when I looked up she signed, IF YOU DATE HEARING BOY, THAT NOT BAD.
I shook my head, now viciously stabbing at my pancakes with my fork. MY FOCUS SCHOOL, I signed after I stuffed a huge bite of pancake in my mouth. HOMEWORK, COLLEGE. NO TIME FOR BOY.
She finally let it go, signing, FINE IF YOU BORROW CAR.
THANK YOU, I signed, relieved to have tabled the subject.
Knowing my mother, she would bring it back around eventually, especially if she ever saw Beau when she picked me up from school again. But for now I was going to refuse to think about it.
I helped Mom clean up the breakfast dishes and went upstairs to shower and dress while I finished the rest of my coffee. Nina had told me it was fine to come over whenever, but the sooner we got to work on this midterm, the better. Mr. Wells was a bit of an airhead, but there were rumors about him being a harsh grader, and a low grade on a midterm was the last thing I needed mucking up my transcript.
COME HOME AFTERNOON, I signed to Mom as I swiped the keys from her purse on the kitchen counter.
Mom was on the couch watching a movie with Connor, who already looked like he was falling asleep. Looking at him I felt a pang of sadness zip through me.
He was having a really tough go of it. I’m sure the thought had already occurred to Mom, but maybe it was time to reach out for some help and get another home health care provider for Connor worked into our schedule.
WE GO T-O PARK LATER, Mom signed to me as I put on my jacket.
FUN, I signed, forcing a smile. It was supposed to be another crisp autumn day, but it would be good for Connor to get out of the house for some fresh air.
SEE YOU LATER, I signed, and bent down to plant a kiss on Connor’s forehead. He waved halfheartedly, torn between his movie and rest.
It was a ten-minute drive to Nina’s. The majority of houses in her neighborhood seemed upscale, the lawns well-kept and cars in the driveways that cost more than a year’s college tuition. Nina’s house was at the end of a cul-de-sac, a brown, two-story home with a porch swing and a row of potted plants leading up to the front door.
The door swung open while I was on my way up the walkway to the porch and Nina stepped outside, dressed as nicely as she always was at school.
She ushered me inside as she signed, HELLO.
NICE HOME, I signed, inspecting my surroundings.
The décor was made up of soft cream colors, with leather furniture in the living room and an impressive flat screen TV mounted on the wall above their fireplace. Nina had never mentioned what her parents’ jobs were, but I was willing to bet those jobs paid very well.
“Go ahead . . . shoes,” Nina said, gesturing to the neat shoe rack beside the front door.
I was embarrassed about my mismatched cartoon socks when I took my shoes off, but Nina didn’t seem to notice. I followed after her as she rounded the corner, away from the living room.
I assumed we were going to set up camp at the massive bar in the kitchen where Nina’s history textbook and notebook were, so I set my backpack down on one of the barstools. Nina got us some water bottles from the fridge, and I saw her say, “Hey,” when she swung the fridge door shut.
I looked over my shoulder and saw a woman who was obviously Nina’s mother, dressed in brightly-colored exercise clothes, walk into the kitchen. Her hair was the same color as Nina’s, pulled back into a high ponytail, and she had similar square-framed glasses.
The Silence Between Us Page 6
