Song of Summer (6 page)

I nod. “Sounds good,” I write. I put a smiley face next to it and immediately regret the decision. It looks silly. Plus, I'm standing right here. If he wants to see me smile, he just has to look up.

But he laughs, and I turn into a big pile of Robin mush.

He folds the paper, pushing it into his pocket as he stands up. He slides his helmet to the edge of the table and tucks it under his arm.

He's tall, like on the “ROBIN'S PERFECT MAN” list.
My head would rest perfectly on his chest,
I think, and then I shake the thought out of my head and whisper, “Shut up, Robin,” under my breath.

He looks down at me quizzically.

Uh-oh. “Nothing,” I say clearly to him. “It was nothing.”

He nods, unsure. “Okay,” he mouths, still a little question behind his eyes.

I look at the ceiling and silently curse my whispering compulsion. Holding up a finger, I tell him to wait. He puts on his motorcycle gloves while I write, “I do this stupid thing where I sometimes mutter to myself under my breath. I am so sorry.”

I hang my head and show him the pad of paper.

He laughs again, takes the paper, and pauses for a minute before motioning for me to give him the pen.

“I didn't hear anything,” he writes, grinning.

I'm beginning a chuckle when “MISS!” cuts into our moment. I turn my head to look. The old lady from table one is holding up the empty basket of rolls. “Bottomless rolls!” she calls. “I can see the bottom!”

I turn back to Carter, jerk my head in the direction of the most inconveniently demanding table in the world, and roll my eyes. “Duty calls,” I say. “Bye.”

He waves and turns toward the register, check in hand. Elsie waits there, all her weight on one hip, tapping her toe. She self-consciously runs her ponytail through her fingers and smiles as Carter approaches.

“MISS!” I hear over my shoulder. I turn my smile on, approaching the table.

“Oh no!” I say. “I can see the bottom, can't I? I'll be right back with more.” I take the basket back to the kitchen and throw it in the pass-through window.

“Fannie? Can I please have more rolls?”

“What are these people doing? Sticking them in their pockets?” she calls back.

“Probably.” Old people are notorious for stealing rolls. And steak knives.

The door slams and Carter strides across the parking lot, fastening his helmet and sliding on his jacket. He gets on the bike and it revs to life, coasting effortlessly out of the parking lot.

“Robin!”

“Not now, Elsie. Can't you see I'm drooling? Let me bask in this moment for just a second.”

“Robin! Look!”

She's holding Carter's check and a wad of cash. “The bill was only seven bucks and he paid with a twenty! Then he just left! He gave you a thirteen-dollar tip, Robin! And look at the ticket, Robin! Look at the ticket!”

I take the ticket. “For Robin,” is written on the back. Then, “573-555-2934.”

“It's his phone number!” Elsie sounds more excited than I am, and I'm pretty excited. “He wants you to call him!” And then her eyes widen and her face drops. Her eyebrows draw together in a worried crease. “How can you call him? How can he hear you? Maybe he's not really… you know…”

“Deaf,” I say. “He's deaf, Elsie, not dying. You can say it. And we can text.”

I see it dawn on her. “Oh!” she says. “Texting. I'm such an idiot.”

“No you're not.” I reach out an arm for a half hug. “You're just excited.” I pause and give her a little squeeze. “And old.”

She pushes me away, pouty. “Robin Peters, I am not old!”

“Rolls up!” Fannie calls. I take the warm basket out of the window and back to my table, Carter's number still in my pocket.

At four o'clock precisely, I pull out my phone and text Jenni.

“Off work!”

“I'll be ready in five minutes,” I get back from her.

“Be there in six.”

I'm just cashing out my tips when calloused fingers cover my eyes, making me lose count. My heart dances to the tune of “Skip to My Lou.”

“Is this some hip new thing that all the kids are doing?” I say. “This whole eye-covering deal? Or have you just decided to completely weird out everybody you talk to?”

He laughs and uncovers my eyes and takes a step back, leaning on the counter. His stubble is there in all its two-day glory and he rubs it as I transfer all my money back into my left hand for a recount. Today, it's a baseball cap that's mashing his curls to his head. Last week it was a newsboy cap. It's his compromise so he doesn't have to wear a hairnet in the kitchen.

“You're lucky I knew it was you. Anybody else would get an elbow in the gut.” I smile sweetly up at him then start to count again.

“Whoa…” He picks up Carter's ten-dollar bill. “What'd you have to do to get that? Private lap dance?”

I snatch it out of his hand. “Ha-ha. Shut up.”

“You should see him!” Fannie calls from the kitchen, taking off her apron and her hairnet.

“I didn't notice you there, Beautiful,” Trent calls to her, winking at me. I shake my head. He always calls Fannie “Beautiful,” and makes her blush. He was an excellent server before he became a cook: flirted his way into five-dollar tips all the time. “Who should I see?”

“The boy who left her the tip,” Fannie says.

“And it wasn't just ten dollars,” Elsie cuts in. “It was thirteen.”

Trent's posture stiffens and he looks down at me, the glint in his eyes a little sharper now. “A boy? Thirteen, eh? Maybe even more than a lap dance?” He pokes me in the ribs and I wiggle out of the way.

Fannie smacks him across the back of the head before getting her purse from the cubby. “Shut your filthy mouth, Trenton McGovern. That's our Robin you're talking about.”

“Thank you, Fannie,” I say. I turn to Trent after trading my ten and ones for a twenty. “And for your information, there was no lap dancing involved.”

“Just a phone number,” Elsie pipes up. Geez, Elsie can you keep your mouth shut once in a while?

He turns his gaze back to me. “A phone number, eh?”

“Yup!” I grab my purse and keys.

“You gonna call him?”

“Probably not.”

He smiles smugly.

“But I might text him.”

His expression turns harder and he opens his mouth to talk.

“See ya!” I bolt out the door before I hear what he has to say. Not like I should care. Not like he should care either.

I stuff the twenty in my wallet. Twenty more toward the Dread Pirate Martin.

I hop in my beautiful green Subaru station wagon. Technically, it's my parents' car, but I'm the one who drives it the most. I slam the door behind me and the old boat coughs and sputters as it starts. “Come on, sweet baby,” I say, rubbing the dashboard. It works. The engine roars to life and the radio blares Nickel Creek. Mandolins and violins fill the air and I roll the windows down, singing the tenor part up an octave at the top of my lungs.

I'm at Jenni's house in less than three minutes. Traffic-less travel is just one of the many perks of living in a town whose population is one-twentieth that of the seating capacity of a professional football stadium.

“Going to Robin's! I'll be back tomorrow sometime!” Jenni calls over her shoulder as she leaves. Her long red hair ripples down her back in waves and her giraffe legs trip gracefully down the stairs.

“Okay!” I hear her mom call from inside.

She folds herself into the car and throws her bag in the backseat.

“How goes the final summer of fun?” I ask, and pull away before she can shut the door. She wrestles with the door handle and clicks her seat belt on.

“Wonderful,” she says. “Lovely. Perfect. I'm getting into macramé.”

“Ha! Macramé? When did this happen?”

“Yesterday. After the church thing.” She holds a knotted bracelet out for me to examine. I glance down. It's a little rough around the edges, but great for a first try.

“Cute!” You know who was cute? That guy. Carter.

“Thanks. I think I'm going to start selling them online or at our Arts Festival weekend yard sale or something.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! What about the final summer of fun?”

“It can be fun and moneymaking, right?”

I burst out laughing. “I wouldn't know. I tend to think the two are mutually exclusive. I'm the one who smells like a deep fryer here.”

She inhales. “I love the way you smell,” she purrs, acting all fake seductive. “It makes me want… cheese sticks.”

“No. No no no! It doesn't matter how hard you try. There will be no cheese sticks for you.” She is lactose intolerant and loves cheese. It's a bad combination for those within a ten-foot radius.

“Fine, fine. Can't blame a girl for trying.” I drive down the country roads to my house, my mind replaying the conversation with Carter. Jenni stares out the window.

“Something up?” she asks after a couple of minutes.

“No,” I say. Nothing's up. I just love the way his whole face responded when I wrote something or said something, like I had all of his attention and he'd rather it was with me than anywhere else.

“Okay.” I take a breath. “So there's this boy…”

“I knew it! I knew you were acting weird! Tell me it's not Trent!”

“It's not Trent.”

She throws her hands up, hitting the roof of my Subaru. “Ow! Hallelujah. It's summer! You're single! What are you waiting for? Go after him!”

“I dunno, Jenni. He's very perfect.”

Her tone turns serious. “Like my mom's lasagna?”

“Exactly,” I say, my mood matching hers. “He is the guy version of your mom's lasagna. And he has a motorcycle. Like a gorgeous bright-yellow and black motorcycle.”

She whistles low under her breath.

“But,” I say. “I can't talk to him.”

“Honey, we've discussed this,” she says. “Just relax! Just because he is lasagna-level very perfect it doesn't mean he doesn't want to talk to you! Look him in the eye and say, ‘Hey, I'm Robin! I like your bike and your sexy, sexy ways.' Try it!”

“Ha-ha. It's not like I'm scared to talk to him, I literally cannot speak his language.”

She drops her hands and changes her tone. “You mean he's perfect AND foreign! Does he have an accent? That is… ! That is… !”

I cut her off before she can decide what ‘that is…'. “No, he's not foreign. He's deaf.”

“What?”

“Not funny, Jenni. Acting like you can't hear me. Not. Appreciated.”

“No! I seriously didn't understand! He's deaf?”

“Yes! And he speaks in sign language! So we've been writing notes.” I pull into my driveway and park in the little gravel space for my car, turning off the car, the music ending midmeasure. “He gave me his phone number…” I fish it out of my pocket and hand it to her as we walk into my house.

She takes it in careful concentration. “But how can he… ?”

“Texting, Jenni,” I call over my shoulder on my way up to my room. “It's this thing where you type words to people…”

“Text-ing?” she says slowly, following me up the stairs. “What kind of magic is this?”

I laugh. “I don't know. But there must be some kind of magic involved, because he's picking me up after work tomorrow for a date.”

“A date?” Her squeal invites another laugh.

“A date!” I reply. “But enough about me! Tell me more about macramé.”

Carter

I glide into the parking lot, wiping down and covering my bike before heading across the street to the gatehouse, where I scan in and walk to the house. Even though I have a key (and nobody really locks things around here anyway), I ring the doorbell to flick the lights and let everyone know I'm home. My mom peeks her head around as I take my boots off at the door.

“Carter!” she signs. “Glad you're back. Dinner's almost ready. Fresh tomatoes from the farm stand down the road!”

She is too excited about those tomatoes. “Got it,” I sign with a smile. She's got a love-hate relationship with our summers in the country. On one side of her mouth, she laments the lack of specialty food stores whereas on the other side she's praising the size of our kitchen and the cheap, fresh produce. Sadly (for her), we leave before Labor Day, when harvest kicks into full gear.

I head up to my room and check my phone as I change into shorts. No text from Robin. I have a couple from my friends back home. Subway issues, Daniel's house, Jolene… I read and reread every word, trying to imagine that I'm back in New York.

The lights flicker and I turn to the doorway. Trina's there. “Dinner's ready,” she signs and turns to skip back down the stairs.

Dinner smells like stir-fry. My mom's been on this Asian kick lately. Evidently the combination of ginger and soy is supposed to slow the hands of time or something. I don't know—she saw it on Doctor Something-or-Other's TV show.

By the time I arrive, everyone else is sitting at the table. I slide into my seat and clasp my hands together like the rest of my family. It's not really a prayer. It's more of a moment of silence. A kind of signal that the meal has started. My parents are incredibly intentional people, as you can tell by our family—three deaf kids, all adopted far enough apart that each had time for a ton of attention while we were learning the important stuff. You know, like reading and writing and living with one foot in the hearing world and one in the Deaf world. So meals, like everything else, are intentional.

The moment of silence is supposed to be a moment to gather ourselves and reflect on the day, but we could use it to pray if we want, I guess. I don't. I think about the overlook. Maybe I'll take Robin there tomorrow. The overlook makes me think of the sunset, the pictures I took, the soul sense. What happens to those of us who don't have a soul sense? Can we get a fake one? Like my sister's fake sense of hearing? Or are we just fine without it? Like me.