by Daryl Banner
It makes me insane. Who the hell is she? Why did she appear out of nowhere this semester and fly right into my line of sight and pull me off my tracks?
I’m doing so well. Things are so fucking perfect.
I know the cost of my obsessions. I know what happened last year. I know how girls can ruin me.
I can’t do this again.
But I want to so fucking badly.
Someone comes up to my side and I watch his lips ask me if I’m okay. It’s some freshman I don’t know. I just ignore him, minding my duty in organizing these stupid set pieces and flats that were left for me, and I find myself thinking about signs and hands and that girl’s sexy fingers.
She had sexy, sexy fingers.
Just that small moment at the University Center with her, it revived feelings I’d long left buried since my freshman year, which was a total nightmare. I hated interpreters back then, and maybe I still do. For some reason, I wanted to prove to myself—and maybe to everyone else—that I could do this all on my own. I wasn’t any different than my hearing classmates, and I wanted to prove it. Some leftover high school arrogance had me caught in its know-it-all web.
Defiantly, I downloaded a voice-to-text app on my laptop that I used in all my classes to convert each professor’s speech into words on my screen before my eager eyes. Trouble is, the stupid thing would constantly miss key phrases, misinterpret words, or just plain fuck up. It was like living in an autocorrect nightmare. Still, I was so stubborn and determined that I sat in the front row of every class and stared at my professor’s lips, determined to read them like a hawk.
But, unbeknownst to most, lip reading is, in fact, a very flimsy and inaccurate means of communication.
After too long a time, I finally surrendered to the University’s interpreting services and got myself some school-appointed nerd named Joe, who occasionally sent a girl named Amber in his place, and either of them would interpret the lessons to me each class. I got to know their hands so intimately, they became my own. They seemed used to people who were born deaf, so I had to slow them the fuck down until they got used to a speed I was comfortable with.
As for the attention, I’d just deal with it. Soon, I stopped noticing the people in class staring.
So when this girl Dessie shows up out of nowhere, sings some song at me, grips my heart right out of my chest and then brings it back to me during lunch with a cute expression on her face and her fingers making clumsy words before my eyes, what the fuck am I supposed to do? My heart turned into a racing drum that shook my ribcage apart.
I want to tell her to stay the fuck away from me. I want to tell her that I’m bad news for her. I want to warn her the way a good friend should …
And I want to pin her to a wall and fuck her until she can’t walk.
A shadow drops over me, pulling me out of my thoughts. Standing to my side is the towering shape of Doctor Marvin Thwaite, the Director of the School of Theatre. He’s a staggeringly tall, round man whose steps I normally feel coming as he shakes the stage with each one. He has no hair, save a ring of grey that runs from one ear around the back to the other. His nose is a needle of flesh and his lips are pencil-thin.
He says he’d like to talk in his office, if I can pull myself away from what I’m doing. At least, I hope that’s what he said. I look over at Dick who stands with the others near the lip of the stage and, having heard Doc’s request, Dick lazily waves at me. I nod at Doctor Thwaite, then follow him out of the theater.
His office is as warm as an oven, its windows facing the sun all day long. Despite the AC running at full blast, it never seems to bother him. He takes a seat at his desk and motions to a chair where I sit. Doc faces me, then asks if I’ll need an interpreter or if I can understand him without one.
I give a patient shake of my head, then type into my phone and show him the screen:
If you speak slowly, I’m good.
Doc smiles and nods amiably.
I know what this meeting is about and can hardly contain myself. He’s going to offer me to do the lighting design for the main stage show. That has to be it. Maybe the lighting designer has some conflict of interest or discovered a scheduling issue and isn’t available. It’s your time of reckoning, Clayton. My stomach turns into steel and I find my hands attached to the armrests with anticipation.
His lips start to move.
I watch with every fiber of my being as my mind converts each lip movement into words. “…invaluable to our program…” He rubs his nose. “…and respect for your hard work and dedication…” He swallows between sentences, licking his long, thin lips. “…for someone with your capability…” His teeth are so white, they blind me with every consonant. What’s his point? Get to the point. I’m so impatient, I could break the armrests off this chair. “…lighting designer…”
I nod and mumble my consent. It’s the closest I’ve ever come to using my voice in front of any of the faculty. Yes, yes, yes. I’ll do it. The hint of a smile finds my face as I continue to watch his mouth move.
“…from New York City, and I want him to…”
My brow furrows. Something isn’t clicking. I find myself falling behind whatever it is he’s saying. Doctor Thwaite seems to notice, because he stops and asks if I’m following. I shake my head no, frustrated with the sudden break in communication.
Wait a minute. Did he just say something about a lighting designer from New York City?
He types at his computer for a second, then twists the monitor around. I’m shown the headshot of some handsome, dimpled, thirty-something douchebag. His name’s Kellen Michael Wright. Professional Lighting Designer from New York City.
Never heard of the fucker.
I glue my eyes to Doc’s lips as he goes on. “…can bring the School of Theatre some good publicity…” My heart sinks. “…as you know the department better than most, and can show him everything…” Blood pumps into my ears, into my cheeks, into my every fingertip. “…and make his transition here as comfortable as possible.”
As comfortable as possible. His transition here.
I’ve gathered everything he needs to say to me. I’m sure my face is a reflection of the turmoil inside. Not that Doctor Thwaite will care to acknowledge it, as he is known to avoid confrontations and pretend like nothing’s ever wrong. I swallow that thick pill he just popped into my mouth with an astute nod.
When he gives me the final smile, I dismiss myself. I’m sure I left imprints of my thumbs in the armrests of his lovely office chair.
Back at the auditorium, I ignore the inquiring stares from the others and return to my work, my face burning with anger. Sometimes, being deaf has its perks, like having an excuse to ignore the world when I want to shut everyone out and fume all on my own. If anyone tries to enter a conversation with me, I’m sure they won’t leave it with their head still attached.
No, he didn’t want me to do the lighting design for Our Town. No, I’m not some special flower. No, my hard work hasn’t finally been recognized. Instead, Doctor Thwaite’s flying in some big shot from New York City to design the show for us, and he wants me to show this guy the ropes.
Me, of all people. What the fuck is Doc thinking?
I’m overlooked enough as it is. Now, as if to push salt into my gaping wounds, I’ll get to experience the joy of watching someone else—who isn’t even a part of this damn school—do the work that I should be doing. I had so many ideas for Our Town, too. I’ve read the play ten times. I had a vision for the funeral scene, for the different homes, for the church …
Fuck. And there isn’t a single other person in the whole department whose sole interest is in designing lights, and Doc knows that. That’s my dream.
When I get home an hour later, the door slams so hard behind me that I feel the floor shake. I ignore the mess in the kitchen and shove through the door into my bedroom, ignoring the squinty glances from Brant and Dmitri on the couch, who seem lost in the middle of playing some first-person shooter
game I don’t recognize.
Dropping my bag under the windowsill, I fall back on my bed and shut my eyes. The AC turns on a moment later. I can feel the pull of air as it tickles my skin. Something about that sensation centers me, and I find myself looking up at the bare ceiling as my mind wanders somewhere else entirely.
Dessie. I wonder what her story is. She shows up out of nowhere this year. She’s also from New York City, if what I caught from a buddy in the lighting crew is correct. Does she know the douchebag who’s coming to steal my glory? No one knows anything about her, yet she’s on everyone’s radar. And now she’s been cast as the lead in the first play of the semester.
And she learned a sign or two and told me her name with her sexy hands. Dessie …
I feel a thrumming on my bed and twist around to find Dmitri standing there. With a squint of his eye he signs to me: What’s up? You okay?
I shrug and lazily lift my hands: Shitty day.
He sits on the edge of the bed, which makes it impossible to see him, so I sit up and turn around. He signs to me: We’re going out for a bite. Want to come with?
I shake my head: Not in the mood.
Dmitri smirks: What’s going on? Is it a girl?
In an instant, I realize I don’t want to talk about the haughty dipshit lighting designer from New York. Dessie … That’s someone I’d much rather spend time and effort in moving my hands to discuss.
I shrug, playing up my nonchalance: Someone new at the theater, I sign. Yes.
Dmitri laughs, then signs back: A girl wants your nuts? Instead of the actual sign for nuts, he just grabs his junk and smirks leeringly at me.
I shake my head and snort too hard, the vibration going up my skull, then say: Verdict’s still out on that.
His hands are oddly long, which makes him extra expressive when he signs. It’s almost the equivalent of shouting in sign language. But that’s the only thing about him that’s long. Dmitri is otherwise a short guy, barely five-three, with a boyish face, rosy cheeks, and jet black hair. He has a red and blue tribal tattoo running down his forearm, a sunburst tattooed to the back of his neck, and a diamond stud in either ear. He’s bisexual, but he doesn’t ever bring anyone home and, more or less, seems completely uninterested in sex, despite chiming in whenever Brant and I check out girls. It’s really nice having someone around who I can easily communicate with, even if I refuse to sign much at all in public; I hate the attention.
He signs to me: Don’t let a girl ruin your day. She isn’t worth it, no matter how pretty.
It’s so much more than how pretty she is. Fuck, I wish I could’ve heard her music. I sign: She’s a singer and actress from New York City. And she signed to me.
Dmitri’s eyes go wide. Oh, he signs. You’re fucked.
Fucked, I agree.
He slaps my shoulder, then moves his hands: Come out with us. We’re getting tacos. It’s Brant’s treat.
I smirk knowingly: Does he know he’s treating us?
Dmitri grins: He will when he gets the check.
I think the company of my buddies is just what I needed. The whole way there, I sign to Dmitri, telling him about Dessie, how she sang to me, how she ran into me at the food court and fucking signed to me. Dmitri relays a lot of it to Brant, then keeps signing: You’re fucked. Brant agrees by mimicking his signs, except it keeps looking like the signs for: You fell.
When the three of us arrive at the diner, we take our usual booth in the back. Brant tells us about this new girl he met in the psychology building and how he’s got this fantasy about her hypnotizing him to do things. When he makes a face to imitate how she’ll look when he’s diving between her legs, I laugh so hard that I spill my sweet tea across the table, soaking Dmitri’s pants and causing him to curse loudly, drawing the attention of nearby tables. In the midst of his tantrum, I sign to him: Would you mind signing all that? I can’t quite make out what curse words you’re shouting. That makes Dmitri mouth the very distinct words of “Fuck you” before he laughs and throws a tea-soaked wad of napkins at Brant.
When Dmitri excuses himself to the bathroom to dry up, Brant leans over the table and asks me about the girl. I shrug, mumbling and looking away. He taps my hand to draw my attention back to him, then asks what I’m going to do about it.
I frown. What the hell does he expect me to do?
His eyes turn serious—something I don’t see in Brant very often. His lips move slowly: “I don’t want you to be alone forever. I care about you. You have to do something about this girl.”
I shake my head, dismissing him again. There’s no use pursuing her, no matter the signs she learns. She won’t be able to handle me. They all run away.
He smacks me over the head. I catch his hand, threatening to crush it if he does that again, but he only responds with a superior smirk, leaning across the table. He reminds me that she signed to me, then mimics her by making dumb motions with his hand, ending randomly with his favorite sign: fart.
I snort and shake my head, the humor not hitting me. The more I think about her, the more frustrated I get. I punch my thumbs into the phone, then show it:
What’s ur point???
I’m too much work.
I’m fucked up dude.....
she’ll run off the second she gets close.
Brant nods. “Yeah,” he says slowly, “she will run off because you gave up.”
I glare at him. I start typing again, but Brant’s hand covers mine. He says something else.
Then, I get so fed up that I do something I almost never do: “It won’t work out,” I tell him.
The sound of my voice takes him aback.
My face flushes, angry. I can’t stand talking. I can’t stand not knowing what I sound like. I feel so fucking insecure about it. I remember hearing and making fun of the slurred S’s and the weird vowel sounds that other deaf people made when I was a kid, and here I am, having become the butt of my own childhood jokes. I was such a little shit when I was a kid … when I could hear …
Sometimes, I wonder if this is my punishment.
Brant flicks me in the chin, nabbing my attention. He tells me: “You’ll never know unless you …”
He thinks for a moment, brow wrinkled. Then, he creates fists with the thumbs poking out between his fingers and twists them in the air.
It’s the sign for “try”.
“I want you to fuck me. Fuck the doubt out of me. Fuck the ex-boyfriend out of my head. Fuck me until there’s nothing in my mouth but your name, over and over again, in screams.”
Her name is Ariel. Yes, like the stupid mermaid. And she’s beautiful. And all the guys stare at her and she bats her stupid eyelashes and she’s the perfect actress. And even when she says a word like “fuck”, she makes it sound like poetry. Her hair is a golden, wavy waterfall of wonder and her face is oh-so angelic.
And apparently she and Clayton had a thing a year ago or so. Yeah. That mermaid up there is his type, and that’s a type I will never be.
“Great,” says Nina, the acting professor who never calls anything great or good or lovely, ever. She sits in the audience seats among us, observing Ariel who stands proudly in the acting area awaiting critique. Miss Nina Parisi adds, “You gave just the right amount of care, and just the right amount of nothing to each ‘fuck’. Great.”
If there’s one thing I don’t regret about college acting compared to high school, it’s the sudden permission to read and act from scripts that have an overabundance of the word “fuck” in them. Hell, it’s encouraged. Fuck this. Fuck that. Fuck me and you.
And Fuck Ariel. I’ll never look like that. She has the same pretentious glassy-eyed face as my sister Cece, the one that never seems to change when she steps off the stage. Whether standing before an audience or all by herself, the actress acts, the face lights up, and every word that vomits out of those lips is seasoned with pretense and packaged with the pristine care of three weeks’ meticulous rehearsal.
And Clayton wants that? I r
oll my eyes and chew grindingly on my thoughts—which may or may not be my teeth—embarrassed that I ever gave that man the time of day. That beautiful, striking, incredible man. That heart-stopping, slab-of-beef, gorgeous-eyed solid demigod of a man.
That beautiful man I signed my name to.
I’m fooling myself, aren’t I?
Nina rises from the seats and crosses half the length of the black box theater we have our acting class in, the heels she wears stabbing the stage floor and echoing off the rafters and the four plain walls. Quietly, she says, “I want you to do that piece again. Bravo.” She faces us, her eyes alight. “Pay attention to the little things she does in this monologue. What she does with her hands. Her eyes, just the story in her eyes alone. The focus she gives to an acting partner who doesn’t even exist. Take notes, people.”
Ariel lifts her tiny chin, stares up at an imaginary beam of heaven-light, then recites her line: “I want you to fuck me.”
Go fuck yourself, Ariel.
When class is dismissed, I gather up my bag as fast as I can and hurry across the black box, only to find Ariel’s tiny figure stopping me at the exit doors. “Desdemona, right?”
My heart races. I blink. What does this bitch want? “Yes, that’s me.”
“Oh, awesome.” Her eyes sparkle. She extends a tiny hand. “Ariel Robbins. I’m the T.A., as you know, and I just wanted to say that I am really enjoying your work in this class. You’re going to blossom with your role in Our Town when rehearsals start next week. You give such remarkable attention to nuance!”
Oh, this is just lovely. The bitch turns out to be all nice and crap after I spent the class despising her. “Thanks.”
“No, really. I don’t say this about many freshmen,” she insists, batting her eyelashes, “but you’ve got a special something, Desdemona. I know real talent when I see it.”
“It’s Dessie, and I’m not a freshman,” I murmur quietly, unable to process her annoying compliments. Really, it’s Chloe’s fault I feel like this; she’s the one who spilled all about the mermaid here. It was Chloe and I in the lobby surrounded by cafeteria snacks and scripts while discussing Clayton’s supposedly long history of girlfriends and flings. I believed about ten percent of what she said, tossing the rest into the rumors-and-embellishment bin.