by E. J. Mara
“Yeah.” Nathaniel shrugs. “But when you hear the same kinds of stories from tons of different eyewitnesses, you have to admit there’s got to be something to what everyone’s saying.”
“I know,” I agree, “I’m just saying I can understand how the idea of an invisible guy running around saving people’s lives is a little hard to believe.”
A stream of laughter erupts on the other side of the gym and I glance that way.
Esther, still at the center of the circle that the girls in my class have formed, appears to be telling some hilarious story.
“Then again, sometimes I think Unseen and I have a lot in common,” I mutter.
“What do you mean?”
“We’re both invisible.” I look at my feet. Some of Nathaniel’s chalk has fallen on them.
“You’re not invisible, Karen” Nathaniel says.
I glance up and he’s looking at me with those intense hazel eyes of his. A streak of nerves zip through me, so I avoid his eyes and let my gaze wander to Coach Peterson while he points to the base of the pommel horse, explaining something to one of the boys he’s working with.
“Yeah, I am.” I make a face and shrug. “Here, no one notices me, except to make fun of me. At school the only people who know I’m alive are you and Julia. Then there’s home where my mom …”
I gulp, my thoughts darting to the catatonic look in Mom’s eyes when I told her goodbye this morning. She didn’t even acknowledge me. It was like I wasn’t there. And if she’s still lying in bed when I get home, today will make the seventh day in a row that she hasn’t gotten out of bed.
“People at school do notice you. And your mom …she’s not herself. She’s…” Nathaniel stammers.
“She’s crazy?” I suggest.
“That’s not what I was going to say. She’s not crazy.”
“Yeah, well, whatever.” I clear my throat. “Anyway, I didn’t come over here to talk about her. I wanted to, uh, ask you, um …Coach Mendoza wants me to stay late and work on my split jumps. But he has to leave right after practice, so I was wondering if you, like, maybe, could-”
“Yeah, I’ll help you,” Nathaniel interrupts, grinning.
I return his smile, my cheeks warming. “Thanks. And I’d ask my dad to pick me up, but lately he’s been-”
“Sure, I’ll take you home too.” Nathaniel’s perfect smile widens.
I laugh and run my palms, which are beginning to sweat, across the front of my leotard. A sudden silence falling between us, Nathaniel shifts on his feet and I rack my mind for something to say.
Coach Peterson bails us out by shouting, “Nathaniel, you’re up, bud.” The older man points to the rings where all of the other boys are headed and I breathe a sigh of relief. As much as I like talking to Nathaniel, sometimes I feel like I’m drowning in a pool of my own awkwardness.
“Gotta go,” Nathaniel says, touching my elbow.
My skin tingles where he’s touched me, and barely able to find my voice, I nod. As he turns to leave, I force my gaze away, refusing to let it wander after him.
What would be the point? We’re friends, and friends don’t stare at other friends’ butts when they’re walking away.
“Girls, break is over. Come on back!” Coach Mendoza shouts.
I head in the direction of my classmate’s giggles, grit my teeth, and prepare for invisibility.
“IF I’D KNOWN you were going to work me so hard, I wouldn’t have asked you to help me,” I say, rubbing my calves.
I’m only half-joking, Nathaniel actually did kind of get me to perfect my split jump, which I will be eternally grateful for.
“Mmm ...” he replies, distracted as he turns onto my street and drives towards my house.
“Why are you so quiet tonight?” I ask. Usually, I’m the quiet one and Nathaniel’s the talker. But he’s been oddly silent during our ride home.
“When you were on the beam, I was thinking how we have the opposite problem,” Nathaniel says as he pulls into my driveway.
I glance at my house, and not only is Dad’s station wagon nowhere to be seen, but our front door is ajar. I roll my eyes. Dad does this way too much. What kind of a father disappears for hours on end, saying he’s working an “invention”? It’s annoying the way he’s always leaving me to deal with Mom and Tessa Jr. on my own.
I guess this time he came home and then left in such a hurry that he forgot to close the front door behind him. Typical.
“We have opposite problems?” I ask, turning back to Nathaniel.
“Yeah. When you’re up there, you’re…” Nathaniel frowns, searching for his words. “You’re fearless. You just go for it. But a lot of times your form is all wrong.”
“So I’m a brave idiot.” I smile. “Thanks.”
“No, your form’s not always wrong,” he quickly says. “Sometimes it needs work, but that’s no big deal. I’m just saying you’re not afraid, and I’m not like that. My form’s good, but there are these moments when I’m up there and…”
“And what?”
“Gymnastics is everything to me, you know?” Nathaniel’s tone lowers, turning more serious. “And I don’t …I don’t always fit in, like, at school.”
I have to frown at that one. Why does Nathaniel think he doesn’t fit in at school?
He’s gorgeous, so the girls adore him. He’s a star gymnast with the kind of build you see on the pages of a superhero comic book, so the guys want to be him. These two factors equal to him having tons of friends.
But I keep my mouth shut, deciding to hear him out instead of pointing any of this out.
“People just feel sorry for me,” he slowly continues. “But when it comes to gymnastics, I’m good. So good that when people see me up there, they forget to feel sorry for me. They finally see me instead of this kid whose Dad used to send him to school with a busted lip every other week.”
Nathaniel’s gaze darts down to the steering wheel, his features pushed forward into a sort of pinch, like he’s been hurt. That look sends an ache to my stomach and I wish to God I knew how to soothe his hurt. But I’m the worst at comforting people, all I know how to do is listen.
“Yeah?” I quietly say.
“Yeah,” he says, his eyes still on the steering wheel. “But sometimes, when I’m up there, especially when I’m on the high bar, sometimes I can’t forget who I really am and I get, like …frozen.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.” He nods. “I get this helpless feeling, just like when I was a kid. It’s like this overwhelming coldness that chokes me and I can’t finish the routine. I literally freeze up.”
I stare at him, processing this.
First of all, I can’t believe he’s never told me this. And secondly, I’ve never witnessed this happen to Nathaniel. His routines are always fluid and graceful. He makes everything look easy.
“It only happens on the high bar …I guess I need your fearlessness.” He offers me a weak smile and runs a hand through his hair, messing it up even more than it already is. This, however, does nothing to detract from his looks.
In fact, the messy hair somehow makes him sexier. With his leather jacket, disheveled hair, and sleepy hazel eyes, he’s gorgeous. I could spend the rest of tonight sitting here and just staring at him. Then again, it’s probably callous of me to let myself fantasize about Nathaniel while he’s trying to bare his soul about a serious problem.
I shift in my seat and attempt to resituate my thoughts.
“Nah, you don’t want to be like me.” Without thinking, I point to one of his biceps. “And thanks to these guys, when you’re quietly freaking out on the high bar, no one even notices.”
Nathaniel glances at his upper arm and then at me. “What do you mean?”
“People are too distracted by your body to notice the look on your face.”
His eyebrows go up and he turns the color of a stop sign.
I cringe. “That sounded different in my head.”
Nathaniel brea
ks into a grin and utters a low whistle. “All this time, I thought you didn’t even notice the gun show.” Still grinning, he flexes his muscles.
I wave him off. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant ...” I pause, trying to figure out how to not sound like a leering freak.
“You meant, ‘Geez Louise, Nathaniel, you’re, like, so hot,’” he says in a terrible imitation of my voice.
I give him a shove. “No, that’s so not what I meant! You know nothing I say comes out right. It’s not my fault I’m a freaking CODA.”
He narrows his eyes at me. “A what?”
“A CODA, A Child of Deaf Adults, meaning English isn’t my first language.”
“Yeah, I’m going to have to call B.S. on that,” Nathaniel snorts and, looking a little too pleased with himself, narrows his eyes. “Just because one of your parents is Deaf doesn’t mean you have no grasp of English.”
“Not one, both.” I punch him in the arm.
He laughs and says, “I took your Dad’s Biology class last year and we had spoken conversations every day, Karen. Your dad’s not Deaf.”
“Technically he is because he can barely hear without his hearing aids, and more importantly he’s a huge supporter of Deaf culture.” I thrust a finger in Nathaniel’s face. “So you don’t know what you’re talking about. Oh, and when I was a baby I signed in ASL before I learned how to talk. So English is not my first language. Ha!”
Nathaniel arches an eyebrow at me. “And all of that has what to do with you calling me hot?”
My face is now burning, but I play it cool by rolling my eyes and opening the passenger door as if I couldn’t care less. “I didn’t call you hot.”
“You inferred it.”
“You wish. Or maybe you don’t, because then Julia would kill us both.” I jokingly reply as I slide out of his Jeep. “Hey, uh seriously though, thanks for the ride and everything.” I glance back at Nathaniel and his grin has vanished.
A serious look returning to his eyes, he nods. “Yeah, no problem. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
His sobriety stops me cold and I realize what I’ve said wrong.
Julia. I shouldn’t have mentioned her.
When your two best friends decide to go out with each other and then decide to break up, apparently it’s bad form to mention them to each other. It’s especially bad form to mention them to each other when you, the one who’s caught in the middle, have an obvious crush on one of the said best friends. Sighing, I start towards my house and Nathaniel pulls away, his tires crunching the bits of gravel on our driveway.
I approach our opened front door, where I’m greeted by sound of my little sister’s incredibly loud crying.
“Geez Louise, why’d he leave her here with just Mom home?” I mutter, my annoyance with myself shifting into annoyance with my absent-minded father. He’s overprotective and yet he seems to constantly forget that we exist. It’d be nice if he’d pull it together at least every once in a while.
My little sister’s cries become screams.
I dash into the house, my gaze going to a red stain on the carpet near our front door. It looks like blood. My heart racing, I run in the direction of my little sister’s screams…
March 18, 1997
The first word my mom taught me to spell was “Deaf.” I remember her gently guiding my pencil strokes and explaining that “Deaf” should always be written with a capital D because this important word defines our culture, our entire identity.
Even though I’m hearing, Mom went on to explain, I come from two Deaf parents and this means that culturally, I’m Deaf.
Now, this familiar word is what I stumble over as Reverend Miller says, “For many years, Tessa Lyles was an active member of her community, outspokenly fighting for the rights of the Deaf here in Peake, Alabama…”
Grass crunching under my shoes, I shift on my feet, embarrassed, as I meet the frowning faces of some of the Deaf in the audience. I’ve made a rookie mistake and accidently signed ‘Native American’ instead of ‘Deaf’.
I glance at Dad to see if he’s noticed my screw up.
His dark eyes, red and watery, are downcast. Nope, he hasn’t noticed. He’s not even watching me interpret.
While Reverend Miller pauses to clear his throat, I drop my hands to my sides and study my father.
As usual, Dad’s a hot mess. His salt-and-pepper hair is unruly, and he wears an ill-fitting three piece suit that he borrowed from an incredibly thin friend.
For once, however, his disheveled appearance is appropriate. The widower attending his wife’s funeral is supposed to look tragically unkempt.
In fact, if there’s an oddity among us, it’s me. My eyes and cheeks are tear free, my hair is brushed, and my brand new Walmart dress is neatly pressed. I even volunteered to interpret when, in the midst of this afternoon’s chaos, it was discovered that we’d forgotten to hire an interpreter for the gravesite sermon. So yeah, I’m not exactly the picture of a heartbroken daughter.
It’s not that I didn’t love Mom. It’s more like the stranger who overdosed last week wasn’t my mother. I don’t mean this literally. What I mean is that something bizarre happened to Mom’s mind. For most of my life, I knew her as the woman who was intelligent enough to talk biochemistry with Dad, gentle enough to calmly ride out Tessa Jr.’s inexplicable fits, and brave enough to stand up for what she believed in. As a matter of fact, that’s why she named my little sister ‘Tessa Jr.’ “Why,” Mom signed, “is it that only boys can be juniors? Why can’t a daughter carry on her mother’s name? Are we insinuating that men’s names are more important than women’s?”
My mother was amazing. But two years ago something like invasion of the freaking body snatchers went down. Mom woke up one morning with no memory of me or my sister, and her personality had completely changed. That’s when I lost her; two years ago, not last week.
I still don’t understand what triggered Mom’s breakdown. Maybe it was stress or ...actually, I don’t know and to be honest, I’m not up for trying to figure it out right now.
I take a deep breath, my nostrils filling with the scents of fresh rain and earth as I refocus on Reverend Miller’s sermon.
“Tessa was also a devoted mother, a beloved wife, and a friend who will be deeply missed…”
Interpreting his words as succinctly as possible, I glance at my little sister and wonder how much of this she understands. She was the one who found Mom. Only God knows how long she was with the body by the time I found the two of them.
I know Tessa Jr. understands that Mom’s dead (actually, I guess I can stop calling her Tessa Jr. Now that Mom’s gone, there’s only one Tessa in our family). But she’s never been to a funeral before now, and I can’t begin to imagine how odd this must all be from the perspective of a fourteen-year-old with limited mental capacity. What’s she thinking as we stand in this graveyard, preparing to lower the coffin containing Mom’s body into the ground?
I shift on my feet and meet Tessa’s bright blue eyes. As pretty as can be, she looks back at me, blinking quickly while she follows my every sign. Despite the intelligence in her eyes, her mouth hangs open and a pool of drool collects in the right corner of her lips.
I sign, “Excuse me for one second,” to the audience before signing to Tessa that she needs to wipe her mouth.
She returns my gaze, her expression blank.
One of Mom and Dad’s friends, a short Deaf lady named Judy, who’s standing right behind Tessa, touches Tessa’s shoulder and helps her wipe her mouth.
Thank God for my parents’ friends. The Deaf don’t wait for you to ask for help. They just help. Hearing people never do that. Well, except for maybe Nathaniel.
I pick up where I left off in interpreting and peer into the crowd of black-clad mourners. There are, like, a ton of people here. The crowd is comprised of our neighbors, acquaintances from church, Dad’s fellow teachers from school, and to my surprise, a good amount of our classmates have shown up. But dispersed
among the familiar faces are people I don’t recognize.
For example, just behind Ms. Nancy Greenich, our school guidance counselor, are an unfamiliar man and woman, both of them wearing expensive-looking dark suits and sunglasses. They stand with their arms folded and vague, expressionless faces. Thanks to their sunglasses, I can’t tell if they’re watching me or the Reverend.
Movement from my little sister catches my eye. She leans over, picking her raggedy brown diary up from the grass.
I roll my eyes at the diary Tessa just has to have with her wherever she goes.
It’s a habit she picked up from Dad. But his notebook fetish is understandable. With his background in biology, engineering and some other sciences that I don’t bother trying to remember, Dad’s a wannabe inventor (wannabe because he has a lot of ideas and no clue as to how to bring them to fruition) and “inspiration” hits at the oddest moments.
My little sister’s notebook, on the other hand, is not filled with supposedly inspired formulas. Instead, it’s a collection of random, and slightly unsettling information. For example, she once stared at me for a solid fifteen minutes and then asked, “How much does your head weigh?” before jotting my answer down.
I’m not sure why this information was important to her, but I was concerned when I noticed that the next page of her notebook contained a shoddily-drawn sketch of my head separated from my body. I know it’s silly of me to let things like that get to me. It’s not like Tessa knew what she was drawing. After all, she’s not violent, she’s just slow.
Now Tessa opens the worn book and grabs the pen that was stuffed between its pages. With that, she looks at me, arches one of her blonde eyebrows and signs, “Sad?” She’s asking me if I’m sad.
A twinge of pain erupting in my stomach, I consider lying and saying, “Yes”.
But I hate lying.
After signing, “Excuse me,” to the audience, I look at my little sister and reply, “I’m confused.” Tessa nods and I watch her jot this down in her diary.
Our family’s so weird, and now that Mom’s gone, I have a feeling we’re going to get even weirder.