Song of Summer (13 page)

Remembering my boring cotton underwear, I fake a laugh, just to be polite. Then realize that he can't hear it, so I start laughing for real. He looks over in time for that one and grins at me, reaching for the door handle.

His room is unspectacular. Pretty much a regular guy room, if you forget that it's his summer bedroom, and the technology is
waaaayyyy
more current than anything I've ever seen in real life. There's a big-screen TV and a high-end desktop. A digital SLR camera sits on the desk next to it. His queen-size bed is covered with neat-as-a-pin white sheets and a puffy comforter, and it matches the rest of his dark, manly furniture. The walls are light green printed wallpaper and the floor is hardwood and scattered with area rugs.

“Nice,” I sign.

“I spent all day cleaning,” he writes.

“Ya done good,” I write back, smiling up at him.

He looks down at me and I swallow hard. This is the first time we've been alone together. Ever. He takes a step closer, his eyes lingering on my lips, and runs the back of his hand up the back of my arm, sending shivers all down my spine like a piano glissando. My mouth waters.

I'm unconsciously stepping in closer and tilting my head up when a loud little voice says, “Oh my God!” from the direction of Carter's doorway. I turn. A little blond girl is standing there, hanging on the doorjamb.

“My sister,” Carter signs, sighing and pursing his lips. “T-R-I-N-A,” he spells slowly.

“Robin! Are you Robin? OMG I didn't know you were here already!” The girl dances around me. Her speech! It's nearly perfect. I thought that, even with the implant, she would sound… well… deaf. Like deaf people sound on TV. I've never heard Carter say anything, come to think of it. He doesn't even laugh out loud. At least not around me. But Trina sounds like a nine-year-old girl who's been hearing her whole life.

“Hi,” I say, signing.

“OMG, did you teach her to sign?” Trina says, and signs to Carter, who's glaring daggers at her, his knee jiggling.

“I didn't teach her,” he signs, mouthing the words.

“I learned some online,” I say. “I don't know much. Like that. I don't know how to say that.”

“OMG, I'll teach you everything!” Trina says. She slows down her signs and teaches me how to say “I don't know much,” as Carter writes something down.

When he shows me the paper, it says, “Sorry. She just got a phone. ‘OMG' is currently her favorite phrase. And she's valedictorian of the school of bad timing.”

I smile.

“What? What did you say?” Trina tries to peek around the paper, but Carter rips off the top page and stuffs it in his pocket.

He signs it to her with a satisfied look on his face and she sticks her tongue out at him. My brain does a little happy dance. Universal sibling language! No translation necessary!

The lights flicker and Carter turns to me. “Dinnertime,” he signs.

“Okay,” I sign back and take a deep breath. This shouldn't be hard. I only have his dad left to meet, right?

We've just entered the dining room when I see his dad come up from some stairs that must lead to a basement or a garage or something. He's a well-dressed, handsome man with carefully parted silver hair. He smiles, waving “Hi” and holding out his hand.

I smile and wave “Hi” and accept the handshake, feeling my face grow red. He's handsome in an old-guy way.

“Nice to meet you,” he signs, and I return his greeting.

The table is set and the dishes gleam in the bright light. The Asian food smells make my stomach growl. I haven't eaten anything since pie that afternoon.

Carter pulls a chair out and motions for me to sit down. I do, and he pushes it in for me.

“Thanks,” I say, and sign. So fancy! Trent never did that. Carter sits next to me.

“You okay?” he signs.

“Yeah,” I sign. I set my waitress notepad in between us and catch Carter's dad signing something to his mom across the table.

She looks at me and says, “Chris is saying that I should tell you about our family's tradition. We take a moment of reflection before we eat. If you're a religious person, you're welcome to pray, or you can just reflect on the day and prepare for the meal, as we do.”

“Okay,” I sign, and say.

Then the whole family bows their head and closes their eyes, folding their hands, like they're praying. Is Carter religious? I hadn't even thought about it before. I follow suit, thinking, “For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly grateful.” It's the prayer my dad says before every meal.

I'm the first one to look up. One by one, the rest of the family joins me. Carter glances over at me and rests his left hand on my knee under the table. Warmth spreads over my entire body and up to my cheeks which threaten to stay permanently pink. I give him a smile.

“You don't have to act like that was normal,” Trina pipes up from across the table, her hands flying as she speaks. “It's not a Deaf thing. And it's not normal. We're the only family in the whole world who does it.”

I smile at her. “I like it,” I sign, and say.

“Thank you,” Carter's mom signs. She starts to pass food around the table, and the rest of dinner is just like a family dinner from a sitcom—people eating, compliments on the food, conversations about people's days. Carter's mom is the unofficial translator and Carter writes me a few private notes, but if anybody asks what they say, he tells them. We all laugh as people tell stories—funny stories of the day or embarrassing stories of Carter's childhood. Their faces and bodies are all involved; it's like a dance. I can see why Carter is such a bad liar: his face is a receptor to the conversation around him, open, unselfconscious. He relies on it to share the tone of his conversation, the same way tempo and dynamic convey the message of a song better than the lyrics do.

Carter's dad continues to offer me food long after I'm done. “You need to eat!” he signs as I laugh and refuse.

“I really am full!” I write. “My skinny jeans are feeling skinnier and skinnier!” and Carter laughs. For real.

I've never heard him laugh before. He's always done this thing where he looks like he's laughing—his eyes are shining and his mouth is open and his chest even bounces—but he's never made noise. I don't know how to describe his real laugh. I guess it just sounds like laughter. Not like the “ha-ha” laughter of somebody who's spent their whole life listening to laugh tracks. It sounds… pure. Like music. I look at him, surprised. He puts a hand up to his throat and turns red.

He translates for his family and smiles politely while doing it, but then studies his stir-fry remnants like they hold the secret to the meaning of life.

“It's okay!” I write. “I like to hear you laugh!” but I tear it up before he reads it. This is the first time I've seen him embarrassed, too, even after the park and the craft fair. I just want it to end as soon as possible.

“Too bad!” his mom says. “I really think you need more lo mein!” She passes the noodles and smiles at me like I'm the president or something. The conversation starts up again, but Carter doesn't laugh. Not with his voice anyway.

He's so alive here, and I love being a part of it. After seeing him handle awkward social situations with grace but no pleasure, it's fun to see him in his element. Dishes sit half-empty on the table as conversation lasts far beyond the end of the meal.

Finally, dishes empty and conversation petering, Carter writes, “Wanna go for a walk?” on the paper.

I look up at him and look away. His eyes… gorgeous. I write, “Yeah,” and smile. Carter signs something about the walk to his parents, who nod their assent.

We tie on our shoes and are outside in minutes. Everything smells like summer and flowers and light humidity. Notes from a concert bounce down the hill from the amphitheater in the middle of the little village. Something classical. Baroque maybe? An opera? Baroque operas are so interesting in the execution—all these complicated, showy runs that threaten to overshadow the emotion of the scene. Not like I love opera, but I'd much rather listen to a modern or even Romantic opera—something that ditches the rules and leads from the heart. I look over at Carter to ask him which concert was scheduled, but he probably doesn't pay attention to the concerts here at Chautauqua. Plus, he's writing on his pad of paper, so I wait.

“You ever been here before?” he shows me.

I nod. “For a music festival,” I write back. The All-County music festival, to be exact. Where the best student musicians in the county perform.

“So you know the amphitheater?”

“And the ice-cream store. And the bookstore. But that's about it.”

He smiles. “Then let me show you the lake.”

I've seen the lake, too. But I've never seen Carter Paulson show me the lake. I take his hand.

It's not dark yet; the sun is low in the sky and casting long shadows all down the road. Yards are impeccable, with little tiny parks and arches and benches. Sidewalks are well lit and people walk boldly in the middle of the road. I don't see a single car. It's chilly, but I left my sweatshirt at his house. I shiver and he puts his arm around me, snuggling me into his side.

We keep heading downhill and we're at the lake in under ten minutes. It is gorgeous—the boats, the sun setting, a huge old-fashioned hotel looming over the water. I look across the expanse of lawn in front of the giant wooden hotel, which is elaborately and intricately painted. Carter turns toward me, licks his lips, and opens his mouth like he's about to say something, but, of course, says nothing. Instead, he takes my hand. He's drawing it slowly up to his heart when, looking past me, his eyes widen and he yanks my hand, hard, tumbling me into him. Two bicycles zoom through the space where I was just standing, and little bicycle bells
ching-ching
into the distance as the bikes speed away.

My free hand is braced against his chest and my heart is racing. As the adrenaline releases my body from shock, I realize that my cheek is resting against him so I feel his heartbeat. It's fast, like mine. The scents of flowers and the lake are replaced by his scent: spiced oranges and dinner and boy sweat. One of his hands still holds mine and the other one cradles my head. He lays his cheek against my forehead, and we stand like that for not long enough. Finally, his hand slides from the back of my head to just under my chin. The gentlest pressure tilts my chin up to him and his eyes tell me his concern.

“You okay?” he signs.

I nod, managing a small smile.

He nods and his hand strokes from my ear to the tip of my chin once more. The crook of his finger draws my face to his. His long eyelashes brush against his cheeks and his perfect mouth reaches for mine and we're kissing.

It feels like breathing.

Carter

She is impossibly soft.

She is impossibly beautiful.

I have had first kisses before. They are awkward and fumbling and over before they start.

This is like a movie. There's a camera spinning around us, showing the world every angle of this kiss as my hand moves across her neck to the back of her head, tangling in her hair; as her hand pushes flat against my chest and up to my collarbone; as our clasped hands intertwine and hold tight, afraid that if they let go, the moment will be over and gone.

I never want to stop. I want to stay like this, here in this place, forever. I want to take her home with me.

I pull away to see her face. Her hair is loose around her shoulders and her cheeks are flushed. Her lips are parted slightly and her big blue eyes stare into mine like she's never seen anything so magnificent. I don't know what to do, so I untangle my hand from her hair and sign once more, “You okay?”

She takes a huge, shuddering breath and nods. She points to me. Her perfect lips say, “You?”

I nod and run my hand back over her face. It is still impossibly soft. Looking up, I realize that we're still in the middle of a sidewalk. Still in between the Athenaeum and the lake. An old man catches my stunned gaze and looks away, a gleam in his eye. Maybe he's remembering his young life, or his young love.

I kiss the back of the hand I'm already holding, and walk Robin over to a bench by the lake. The wind blows her hair as she runs her fingers through it and follows me, facing the sunset. I sit sideways against the arm of the bench, one leg crooked up along its back, one still on the ground. I wave her over and she sits in the space I've created for her, resting her back against my chest and sending bolts of lightning through my veins. I take a deep breath and run baseball stats through my head to keep calm as I pull the notepad and pen out of my pocket, wrapping my arms around her and writing, “You okay?” She must think it's the only question I know.

She laughs, sending little jolts of pleasure through my body. She signs yes and turns her face to look at mine. I kiss her on the cheek and she turns back out to watch the sunset.

And it's perfect.

There is no reason for this to be perfect. We are in high school. First love should be messy and awkward and sloppy. But it's not. She fits just right, her head on my chest, staring out at the water and the pinks and blues and oranges. My arms fit perfectly around her waist, resting on her hips. The bench is not comfortable, but I don't care. Because her hair smells like some kind of flower and her arms are bare and beautiful and the tiniest bit of lace peeks out from under her tank top. I hold her until the sun goes down. We don't need to talk. We don't need to fill any silence. Finally, she turns to me.

“Beautiful,” she signs.

I nod.

A streetlight and the lingering sunlight cast a glow across our bench. I can't resist—I kiss her again. And again. And again. Finally, I take the pad of paper and pen out of my back pocket. “So what now?” I write by the light of the streetlamp.