Song of Summer (9 page)

Trent watches me for a minute, then looks at Carter again, his eyes narrowing. Suddenly, the lightbulb clicks on and he turns to me with a smile.

“Are you kidding?” he asks, the smile growing wider, one eyebrow arching.

I look away for a second, forcing my expression to stay amiable. I hope I'm succeeding a little more than Carter. “No. I'm not.”

Trent looks back at Carter, the smile taking over his whole face. He starts to pump Carter's hand vigorously. “Seriously? You're seriously deaf?”

Carter nods, the forced casual look replaced by a clenched jaw and tight lips.

“Ha!” Trent laughs to the skies. Then the handshake stops abruptly and he points at Carter in a “gotcha” kind of moment. “Then how did you know what I said?”

Carter indicates his own mouth. “Lip-reading,” he mouths, unfazed.

“Oh…” Trent nods, and the smile begins to creep back across his mouth.

“All right, well, you're missing your game… ,” I try.

“Right. Frisbee,” says Trent. He looks over at me. “Just gotta say one thing.” He turns to Carter, talking clearly so Carter can catch every word. “This girl loves music more than she loves life. More than she loves chocolate. More than she'll ever love any guy. Good. Luck.” The smile is, once again, stretched across his face. “And I mean it. You're gonna need it.”

Carter's expression stays the same but his eyes turn to steel. He nods once. “Thank you,” he mouths without signing.

Trent spins and flings the Frisbee across the field back to his friends, whooping as he jogs back to them.

I turn to Carter, helpless. Finally, I sign, “I'm sorry.”

He smiles warily and starts writing. “Boyfriend?” he shows me.

“Ha! No. Ex-boyfriend.” I think it's the first time I've smiled while answering that question in the negative.

“I see,” he writes. “Sure know how to pick 'em, don't you?”

“He's not usually like that,” I scrawl.

“Yeah, sorry,” Carter writes.

I sigh. “No, I'm sorry,” I write finally. “He was being a jerk. I don't know what's up with him.”

I leave Carter with the pad and paper and walk away, arms crossed, and look out over the trees. Of course this would happen. Of course. The one time I don't want Trent to show up. Grass pricks my feet. I hear footsteps behind me, and after a second there's a light tap on my shoulder. It's Carter.

“You okay?” he signs.

I nod, then sign, “Yes.”

He holds up the notebook. “You still want to hang out with me? Even though I can't hear music?” it says.

I smile. That's silly. Of course I do. “Yes,” I sign. I sit down on the blanket, picking up the bag of Cheetos again. He remains standing for a minute and watches me until I look up at him and pat the blanket next to me.

“Okay,” he signs, taking a seat across the blanket and facing me.

“Sorry about that again,” I write. “Now what were we talking about… ?”

“I think you were showing me the signs you learned last night.”

“Ah. Well that show is over,” I write. “You've seen them all.”

“Too bad.”

“I know. I'm sorry.”

“Stop! Don't feel sorry! It's not your fault!”

But I can't help it. Trent screwed with the mood of the whole thing. He's right, after all. How could this work? Even if we worked around the music thing, he's leaving at the end of the Chautauqua season. August twenty-eighth. That's, what? Five weeks? Six? I look around the park with what I hope is a pleasant expression on my face, and Carter grabs the notebook and starts writing.

After a minute, the notebook slides across the picnic blanket, hitting me in the knee.

“Hey. Let's do something right here, right now so this place isn't ruined forever by The Ex. Here are you choices: (a) roll down the hill, despite the threat of bees in clover; (b) toss rocks into our helmets to see who's got worse aim; (c ) try to do cartwheels. Just a warning: I suck at all of these, and the only reason I suggest them is to make you laugh.”

I grin and look up to him, adding my choice to the list: “(d) all of the above.”

Five Weeks of Summer Left

Carter

“A,” says my hand.

“S,” says Barry's.

I sigh and fix his thumb.

“B,” says my hand.

“Four,” says Barry's.

I sigh and fix his fingers. This is going to be a long summer.

“C,” says my hand.

“C,” says Barry's.

I nod and give him a thumbs-up, which he copies. I laugh and shake my head. After a second of hesitation his forehead, which has been wrinkled in concentration, relaxes and he smiles a little, shaking his head at his own mistake. I point to the handout I gave him and show him “D,” which he copies correctly.

By the end of our first official lesson we've finished the alphabet, a few manners, the question words, and a bag of baby carrots.

The lights in my room flicker and I turn to see my mom at the door. “You guys want dinner?” she asks. As always, she signs as she talks.

The tips of Barry's ears turn pink and he shakes his head. “No thanks, Mrs. Paulson,” I see him say.

“Oh, why not?” my mom says. “I've already set your place and this would be a great way to practice your sign!”

“I think he's probably tired of practicing his sign,” I sign back to my mom. “It's been two hours.” My family is not a freak show. He doesn't need to see our silent conversation. He doesn't need to observe our redundant moment of silence.

Barry glances at me and looks back at my mom.

“Sure,” he says, to my surprise. “Smells good.”

And it does. Stir-fry always smells good.

We head down the stairs and I sit at my spot. Barry's set up next to me and Trina is eyeing him in that way little sisters have. That I-want-everything-my-older-siblings-have-including-their-friends way.

All of us, including Barry, bow our heads. Personally, I don't want to reflect or talk to an invisible god or even think about the way my summer has progressed. It's been a week since my date with Robin. I had a good time, and I thought maybe it could go somewhere. But her ex-boyfriend's probably right. She loves music more than anything else. She said so herself. I mean, she also said that she had a good time, too, but who really knows? She could have just been sparing my feelings—poor deaf kid, you know?

Suddenly I realize that, despite my best efforts, I have been reflecting. I am, once again, the last one to lift my head. All the food is piled at my elbow, waiting for me to pass it to Barry. I take some rice and give it to him.

“Sorry,” I sign.

“It's okay,” he signs back to me. It catches me off guard. I flash a surprised smile.

I catch Trina giggling, her little shoulders shaking as her hand tries to cover her mouth.

It's strange to have somebody eating with us. Of course, we have people over all the time back in New York—my school friends, my dad's work friends, my mom's yoga buddies, Trina's and Denise's friends—but it's strange to have somebody here at our Chautauqua house. It's been ages since Barry's been over.

“So how's your father doing?” my dad asks. He talks as he signs, and Barry leans in to hear, his eyes intently on my dad's mouth. They say that deaf people's voices sound different than hearing voices. I've never been able to hear a difference. My hearing aids, and the little good they did, went out the window in ninth grade.

“Good,” signs Barry. “My father's good.” His dad's in politics, and networking is the main reason that Barry's spent every summer since I can remember at Chautauqua. Wealthy people from all over the states come here to listen to lectures and seminars or attend concerts. It really is the perfect place to hobnob with donors and keep a finger on the pulse of the educated elite.

Trina giggles again.

I give her a look. “What's your problem?”

“He's cute.” She's talking only with her hands, of course.

I shake my head and smile. “You're only nine! What do you care!”

“I can still think he's cute!”

My mom gives me a look. “What?” I ask.

“Secrets don't make friends,” my mom signs back.

“Fine,” I sign. “It's not my secret!” I turn to Barry, pull a pen out of my pocket, and write “My little sister thinks you're cute” on his napkin.

He laughs and turns red and looks like he wants to say something but he can't figure out what it is or how to say it. Maybe he just wants to run.

Thankfully, he doesn't have to wallow for long because Trina pipes up. “Well, Carter has a girlfriend!” Of course it's voiced for Barry's benefit. Nine-year-old revenge is so funny. “She's cute and works at a diner!”

That may be a little too far, because Barry quirks his eyebrows and turns to me. “The waitress?” his mouth asks and I shake my head at Trina as she dissolves into giggles.

“Yes!” her little mouth says. “The waitress! Her name is Robin!”

“She's not my girlfriend,” I sign, and mouth.

“You took her on a date!” says Trina.

“Yes,” I say. “One date. Last week. That's it. She's not my girlfriend.”

I give Trina a warning look and, thankfully, she drops the subject.

The rest of dinner is uneventful. We find out a little more about what Barry's family is up to—his dad is managing some campaign and his mom is holding some charity event. His brother started West Point last year and Barry's applied to a bunch of different schools.

After the dinner dishes are cleared, Barry heads to the living room and starts texting somebody as he plops down on the sofa.

My phone buzzes. “So what happened with the waitress?” I guess he's texting me.

I sit in the seat across from him. With his shoes off and a soy sauce stain on his chinos, he's a little easier to handle.

“I dunno,” I text back. “Had a good time. But I don't really think I fit in her world.”

He gives me a confused look. “What do u mean?” appears on my phone.

I shrug. “She ‘loves music more than anything,' which is a direct quote.”

“Oh,” he types. “I guess if she had a bad time…”

“She didn't have a bad time,” I type. In fact, she texted me that night to tell me she had a great time. I didn't answer, and I haven't heard from her since.

“Then u had a bad time?” he asks.

“No.”

“Then y aren't u seeing her again?”

The image of that guy, Trent, with the ripped shirt flashes through my mind—tall and laughing and glinting with an, “I-know-something-you-don't-know,” look. He is the reason I stay away from hearing people. I'm sick of people knowing more than me, or thinking that they do. I look up to see Barry staring at me. His head is tilted and his eyebrows are raised.

I shrug.

“Why?” he signs, and I laugh as he gestures to his hand, showing off the sign he just made. He stares at me for another minute, waiting for an answer. When I don't give one, he rolls his eyes, looks away, and shakes his head.

“What?” I sign to him.

He shakes his head again.

“What?” I text him.

“Why u gotta be such a jerk?” he texts back.

Whoa. What?

“What?” I text again.

“Like, she's not good enough for you? Just because she's a townie? I know ur probably used to dating supermodels or whatever but come on. She's probably a nice girl.”

I have no idea what to say.

“Supermodels?” I text back. “What makes you think that?”

He gives me a look. “Looking the way u do. Always acting like ur better than everybody else. All quiet. And all the girls can't stop talking about u. Don't act like u don't know.”

What?

“I don't know!” I text.

“Christina Beasley? Margot Kingston? Alicia Melanowski?” he types back.

The names tug at my memory—girls from a few summers ago. I saw them hanging out with Barry when their families would come up for a week or so. I wasn't really part of their group, though. The last time I remember hanging out with them was the summer after eighth grade. Barry and I were having ice cream with them at the Refectory. I had my hearing aids in, trying to catch everything that was going on, but there was too much chatter. Too much eating while they were talking to read lips. The conversation jumped from person to person and I didn't catch any of it. I left with a headache and made excuses for the rest of summer.

“I couldn't talk to them!” I text. “How did you feel at dinner, when Trina and I were talking without you? That's how I felt around them.”

“Well can u talk to this girl?” he texts back.

I shrug. The notebook seemed to be working pretty well. She learned a few letters on her own. Her mouth is a lip-reader's dream.

“I guess so,” I text.

“Then if u both had a good time and u can talk to her, y stop?”

I look up at him and laugh.

“Why are you so nosy?” I write.

“Maybe she has a cute friend.”

Didn't she write something about that during our date? “Actually, I think she does.”

Robin

“Shave and a haircut, two bits!” plays my phone in the middle of church music practice. Everybody looks at me. I turn red and fumble to put down good-enough Bender, wiggling off the stool.

“Sorry!” I say, holding up a hand and running to my stuff. “I totally forgot to turn it off!”

“We can hear that,” Pastor Mark says, and somebody snickers.

I take a peek at the screen before shutting it off, just in case it's an emergency. It's not. It's a text: “Had a great time too. Sorry I've been quiet. Wanna hang out?”

It's from Carter.

I fumble to turn off the ringer and make my way back to my spot, head spinning. Why now? It's been an entire week! I thought everything went really well, except for that blip with Trent, but we recovered! It was the best date I'd ever been on. And then he disappeared behind the quaint brick walls of Chautauqua.