Song of Summer (18 page)

I take a picture of Barry and Jenni and turn it to show them. Barry asks for a copy. “Or my friends will never believe me,” he signs.

We laugh, and he says something else without signing it, but I can't tell what it is.

I tap him on the shoulder. “What?” I sign.

He shrugs. “Never mind,” his mouth says as he shakes his head.

I nod. When I'm with my friends from home, the words “never mind” are forbidden. I change the subject. “I wonder if my sister's ever been here. I don't think so,” I say.

Robin translates for Jenni, then looks at me, confused. “Trina?” she signs.

“No,” I sign. “Denise. Remember? From New York? She and her friend are coming next week.” I haven't yet broached the whole Jolene thing, and now is not the time.

I see realization dawn on her face. “Oh!” her mouth says. “Right! Sorry! I forgot,” she signs.

Barry cuts in. “I'm lost,” he signs. “Who's coming?”

Does nobody know? “My sister is bringing a friend from New York City next week. I'm planning out their trip.”

Barry looks confused, so I sign it again and slow it down for him.

In a week, I won't have to do that.

In a week I can sign as fast as I want.

I can catch all the jokes. I don't have to see “never mind” and I don't have to see anybody translating out of the corner of my eye.

Robin gets up from the table and I tap on her arm. “Where are you going?” I sign.

She holds up the bag of bread. “To feed the ducks!” her mouth says, and she skips off to the water. By the time I join her, an army of ducks has started to amass. We feed them, watching them squabble and dive at the little bread pieces. The light reflects in little sparkles off the lake.

Finally the bread is gone.

I turn to Robin. “You ready to go?”

“One more thing,” she says, a glint in her eye.

She takes my hand and leads me back the way we came until all four of us are standing in the carousel line. I should have guessed. She smiles up at me and I take her hand, still happily surprised at the jolt of electricity that runs up my arm. I kiss her on the cheek and we wait to get on.

When they open the gate she skips around, inspecting all the different horses. Finally, she finds one that she approves of—a chestnut with white socks. She points to the saddle. “Songbird” is written in flowing gold script.

“I always ride Songbird.” She grins and I kiss her pink cheek again.

That's it. That's her name. It's perfect. She'll need one for when Denise and Jolene arrive, or if she comes to visit me in New York someday. She belongs in our world. I need to give her a name.

I get on the horse next to her— a black horse named Soldier. The carousel lurches and, as the ride starts, I bring her name to life in my head. She closes her eyes and lets go of the pole to stretch out her hands, feeling the wind in her face. I tap her hand and she opens her eyes in surprise.

“Songbird,” I sign. I point to the name of the horse. “Song.” She copies me. “Bird.” She copies me again and I smile. Then I do the same motions but with my right hand in an “R” shape.

“Robin,” I spell.

She looks confused so I point at her. “Your name,” I sign. “Robin.” And I sign the new sign-“songbird” with an “R.” The horse moves me forward in a circle and up and down, but I don't move. I've never given a sign name to a hearing person. Some of my friends have— their family members, their hearing friends—but I've never been close enough to a hearing person to give them a sign name. What if she hates it?

Slowly, a smile spreads over her face.

“Me?” she signs.

I nod. “You.”

Robin

“Good morning, good afternoon, good… night?” I sign.

“No,” Carter signs, a teasing grin on his face. He shakes his head and laughs silently.

“What?” I sign, grinning back. “What?!”

He slides his notebook across the soft, white carpet of his family's rec room and picks up the pen. “You just signed, ‘Good bread,'” he writes, still grinning. “Not ‘Good night,'”

I laugh. “Well maybe I want you to have a good morning, a good afternoon, and good bread!” I write. I glance up. His shoulders shake with silent laughter. “Show me?” I sign.

He nods and sits against the sofa, inviting me to sit in front of him.

I crawl over and sit, resting my back against his chest. Yes, it might be easier for him to show me face-to-face. Yes, I may concentrate on the sign a little more. But this is way more fun.

He leans forward, wrapping his arms around me, and gestures for me to start. His warm body in the cool of the air-conditioning sends goose bumps down my arms, and he holds me tighter.

“Good… morning,” I sign.

“Yes,” he signs, his face nuzzling between my neck and my tank top strap. The barest beginnings of stubble graze against me and a shiver runs through my body, causing my breath to catch. A prelude.

“Good… afternoon,” I sign.

“Yes,” he signs, and I feel his lips against my shoulder. Soft. Firm. As they travel up my neck and his breath tickles my ear, somehow I don't think either of us really cares whether I wish him a good night or a good bread. I soldier on.

“Good… night/bread?” I sign, smiling.

Face still buried in my neck, his hand lifts to face me. “No,” he signs.

Leaving my ear tingling, he slides his face against mine, cheek to cheek, and runs his hands down my arms. He turns my flat left hand parallel to the floor and my right hand so it's over top of the left, not to the side. “Night,” I sign.

He nods and wraps his right arm around to the left side of my face, turning me back over my shoulder and kissing the hell out of me. I turn so I'm facing him, my knees on either side of his hips, and slide my hands up his shoulders, to his neck, to the soft underside of his jaw. Heat radiates off him as he slips his hands under the edge of my cami, running his cool fingers along the waistband of my jeans, feeling the lacy edge just under it. His fingers slide up along my rib cage, dallying. Taking their time. Tracing patterns. God, it's like… it's like an extra bridge in a song. That bridge I love so much but just want to end because I have to, need to get to the chorus.

He toys with the edge of my tank top, pulling it up, letting it go. God! Why is he teasing like this? I lean into him, willing him just to keep going, ready to rip it off myself just to get to the goddamn chorus.

Just then, “King of the World” by First Aid Kit blasts from my phone. Jenni's ringtone. The song is stopped. The spell is broken. I kiss him once, twice, three times more, each one leaking passion until I finally pull away. His eyes are dazed, unfocused, unsure. His hair is tousled and tempting. He searches my look and goes back in for another kiss. I return it half-heartedly and reach for my phone, silencing it. I sit back on my heels, recovering my senses, letting my heart slow from its driving beat to one more under control.

“Sorry,” I sign, flustered. Did I lead him on? Let him down? I almost feel that way myself—like I led myself on and let myself down. But it was too much, too fast. His mouth is open and his chest heaves, the breath coming in short huffs. I extricate myself from his arms and legs, reaching instead for his notebook. He looks away, tugging at his T-shirt collar, as though settling it back in place.

“Sorry,” I sign again. I hold the pen for a moment, trying to get the words together. “I… can't. I… shouldn't,” I write. I show it to him.

He nods, swallowing hard, wiping the corners of his lips. He rubs his hand over his face and through his hair.

“Okay,” he signs. “Okay.” He signs something else.

“What?”

He takes up the pen. “Give me a minute,” he writes.

“Okay,” I sign.

He leaves the room, then pokes his head back in. “You hungry?” he signs.

I shrug, half nodding and he signs, “Okay,” and heads out again.

I turn to my phone. Jenni's given up calling and texted me instead. “Can you take me home from work when you leave Carter's house? I'll be at Barry's.”

“Sure,” I text back. “I'll let you know when I leave.” Hearing a noise, I look up. Carter has a bag of chips and is settling himself on the couch. He leans against the arm and kicks his legs up. I pat the other end of the couch, asking if I can sit there. He nods and gestures grandly to it, a smile in his eyes.

“Sorry,” I sign again, settling myself into the white furniture. Our legs meet in the middle and my bare foot finds his socked foot. They push and pull against each other.

“It's okay,” he signs back, waving off my apology, shrugging a sad smile. He writes something for a moment and I study the top of his curly head. After a minute, he tosses the notebook at me.

“It just feels like we're closer than we are, you know?” it says. “It's only been, what? A month? Seems like forever. I can't imagine my life without you.”

My throat catches and I lean toward him.

“Oh no no no!” he signs. “You stay there! And I stay here. For now.”

I must look confused because he motions for the notebook. I toss it his way.

“If you want to keep your clothes on, you need to stay at least three feet away from me right now! If you hugged me or, God forbid, kissed me right now, I think I'd explode for wanting you.”

Well if there was anything he could say to make me want him more…

But no, this is important. I think. I nod. “Okay. I'll stay here,” I sign. We sit and munch chips. I drum the school's marching band cadence on my leg with two fingers.

I catch his eye. He's grinning at me. “What are you doing?” he signs.

“What?” I sign back.

He points to my leg and does an imitation, drumming his own fingers. I laugh. “Nothing,” I sign. “It's nothing.” No way I'm going to be like, “drumming the marching band cadence on my leg.” Who does that? Not normal girls with hot boyfriends.

“Okay,” he signs back, the smile fading from his eyes.

I have to save this. “So, is this the way your lessons with Barry go?” I write, tossing the notebook at him.

He reads it and laughs. Mission accomplished. He writes. I wait. He tosses the notebook. “Just like this,” it says.

“I knew it,” I sign.

He gives me some semi-impressed applause and I take a pretend bow. He's just starting to drift off into space again when I sign, “Favorites!”

He shrugs. “Okay.”

“What's your favorite… thought… of Chautauqua?” I sign haltingly, spelling the last word. Ironically, I can't remember how to say “memory,” but Carter seems to catch my drift because he waves me off halfway through my spelling and answers me.

“Going fishing with my dad,” he signs slowly, mouthing the words and looking me straight in the eye.

“I didn't know you… go fishing,” I sign, trying to copy his sign for my last one.

He shrugs. “I'm pretty bad at it,” he signs. “But he takes me on the lake every year.”

“Your turn,” I sign. We've played this game enough that I know how to say that.

He thinks for a minute. “What's your favorite… ice cream?”

“Moose Tracks,” I spell. This earns me a nod of approval.

“Me too,” he signs. He hesitates, then signs slowly, “Have you ever had mint Moose Tracks?”

“OMG, yes!” I sign. I don't know why it had slipped my mind! “I love it!”

“The best!” he signs, his face beaming. Then he signs something really fast.

“Sorry, what?”

“I can never find it,” he signs, back to his slow, overenunciating ways. He perks up. “Do you know anywhere… ?”

I shake my head. “Sorry,” I sign. It seems to be the one I use the most.

“We should fix that,” he signs, a grin on his face. “My sister is coming to town next week. She needs mint Moose Tracks ice cream.”

“Needs?” I sign.

“Needs,” he confirms.

He gets up and folds the top of the bag of chips down with one hand, typing something into his phone with the other hand. Taking the bag of chips back up to the kitchen, he puts the phone in my hand. There are eight ice cream shops within fifteen or twenty miles of Chautauqua. He comes back down and I hand him the phone, grinning.

“Let's go!” he beams down at me.

I copy his movements. “Let's go!”

Carter

I reach out with my tongue to catch a drip of ice cream that's speeding toward the bottom of the cone. When I look up, Robin's smiling at me between licks of her own ice cream battle. We are both losing.

With sticky hands I sign, “Good, but no mint Moose Tracks.”

She grins at me, pulls her waitressing pad out of her back pocket, and writes, “This, my friend, is mint-ting-a-ling. Even better than mint Moose Tracks. And you know, there are about a billion grocery stores that probably carry mint Moose Tracks. Even in this county.”

“Not the same thing and you know it!” I sign back.

She nods and crunches the bottom of her cone before walking into the grass. Finding a spot, she sits, leaning back on her hands, throwing her head back, her face to the sun. I snap a picture and wipe the fingerprints from my phone before shoving it back in my pocket and joining her on the grass.

She squints at me, then shades her eyes with a hand and sits up straight, cross-legged.

“No mint Moose Tracks in NYC?” she signs. Even in the blazing sun a shadow covers her smile. I resist the urge to take out my camera to show the difference just two minutes can make.

I nod. “We have mint Moose Tracks,” I sign.

“So what's the big deal?” she writes.

I nudge her with my shoulder. “We don't have roadside ice-cream stands where you can sit on the grass and talk to pretty girls,” I write.