by Sara Barnard
Are they all deaf?
Mete is completely deaf. Owen and Alyce both have cochlear implants. Lewis has some hearing in his left ear. But we use BSL together all the time. Ready? He puts his hand on the door handle and smiles expectantly.
I can’t think of a reason to delay him any longer, so I nod. I’m trying to remind myself that this isn’t like all the other times I’ve gone to some kind of social event. This isn’t me trying to hang out with Tem’s other friends. It’s not like that time I went to my cousin’s birthday party and ended up crying in the toilets. This is different. This is Rhys’s friends. We all speak the same language.
We head up the driveway together and then wait on the doorstep as Rhys presses the doorbell. It makes the usual noise but through the front windows I see a blue light flash three times.
The door opens and a gangly, curly-haired boy with glasses and a huge grin is standing there. Hi! He claps Rhys on the arm and steps back so we can come in. I’m Owen, he says to me. Good to meet you! He puts a hand to his chest and beams. I’m the good-looking one.
Yeah right, Rhys replies, giving him a shove.
I’m Steffi, I say. I can feel how static my signs are compared to the two of them. They move so loosely; their whole bodies a seamless part of the conversation, while I move from sign to sign carefully, thinking through each one as I go. Nice to meet you too.
Rhys is grinning from Owen to me, unmistakeable pride on his face. I smile back but my skin feels prickly. I can do this, I think. I can I can I can.
We go downstairs to the basement, which is clearly the designated Owen Space of the house. There’s a big TV and at least three games consoles, a raggedy sofa with sagging seats and a mini-fridge in the corner. Two boys are sitting on the sofa, having a rapid-fire argument about . . . I squint, trying to catch some words.
Owen leans over the sofa and cuts through their conversation with an arm swung lazily between them both. He points at us. Look! It’s the girlfriend!
The two boys turn to stare. Two heads poke over the ridge of the sofa back, eyes wide. I glance at Rhys and realize he’s looking at me too. In fact, everyone in the room is looking at me, waiting for me to say something.
Oh, hello, nightmare come to life.
Hi, I manage, and then my mind goes blank.
Before this can get any worse, there’s a clattering on the stairs and a girl is suddenly beside us. She’s small and round, with a mass of frizzy curls and a lanyard round her neck that reads ALYCE BREENE – CATERING (SS).
Hi! Sorry I’m late. Traffic was a bitch. As she signs she is unwinding her bag from where it has tangled at her waist and throwing it on to the carpet. Oh my God! Are you the girlfriend? She points at me, beaming, then swings around to Rhys. OK, she’s real. I’m sorry I doubted you, Gold.
Rhys takes a step towards me and I feel his hand curl at my elbow. It’s meant to be reassuring, I know, but in reality all it does is make me realize that the anxiety that’s building inside me must be clear in my face.
Want a drink? one of the boys on the sofa asks me.
Shit. Does he mean alcohol? Can I handle alcohol right now? Should I ask for water?
Coke? the boy prompts. He leans over to the fridge and pulls out a can.
I nod in relief and he throws it at me. Miraculously, I manage to catch it, but I’m so flustered by the throw and surprised by my catch that I fumble and drop it anyway. It bounces on the carpet and rolls under the sofa.
Nice. The second boy gives me a thumbs-up.
Rhys drops to his knees, retrieves the can and opens it for me, tapping the top first so it won’t fizz up and make this moment even more embarrassing.
After this display, they very kindly let me be for a while. Rhys takes my hand and leads me over to one of the large bean bag chairs, letting me sit between his legs so I feel guarded and secure. I sip my Coke and watch them all talk, trying to keep up but mostly failing miserably.
Here’s what I learn: that thing I told myself about us speaking the same language? Yeah, that was bullshit. Total, hearing-person oblivious bullshit. They speak this language, and I know some of it. I can understand it and even communicate using it if everyone goes a bit more slowly than usual and is willing to repeat themselves at the sight of my flummoxed face. But I speak it in the same way that someone who gets a B in GCSE French can speak French when they go to Paris on holiday. As in, can speak it to other people who also got a B in GCSE French. Actual French people? Not. So. Much.
BSL is, at best, my second language. My stuttering, earnest second language, where I am trying my hardest but will need several more months – if not years – to be properly fluent. I thought I knew what that meant, given that I’ve been getting to know Rhys for a while now and have spent two evenings to date with his BSL-speaking family.
But now I understand what the difference is. All of those occasions were in the hearing world. It was BSL as subtitles; BSL as an extra tool. This is the deaf world, something I’d never really given much thought to even existing until now, when I can see it in front of me. Five BSL speakers having two different conversations across a living room at once, laughing at jokes, getting each other’s attention with taps on the table and clicks in the air. It’s seamless and intuitive and fun to watch.
It’s terrifying.
Is this how Rhys feels at school every day? In it, but not part of it? How have I not even thought about this before? I’d thought I was attuned to him. I’d thought I understood what his life was like.
Between signs he always returns his hands to me. He touches my shoulder with his chin, squeezes my fingers, kisses my hair. Every time he does this, my heart calms, just a little. It reminds me that I am with him, that we have our own tiny island of our own whatever world we’re in. That this is about an us, not a them.
After the first hour, I’ve relaxed a little. I manage to have a conversation with Alyce about Ives and what sixth form is like there. She signs carefully for me, clearly used to having to go slow, going on to tell me that she and Owen have been together since Year 9 and are planning to open a cat cafe one day. I tell her about the kennels where I work and she lights up, asking if she can visit.
Owen sets up Guitar Hero on his Xbox after we order pizza and I watch as the boys argue over what songs to play. I tap Rhys’s hand and lean round so we can talk. Can I ask a really bad question?
He grins. Yes, we can play Guitar Hero even though we can’t all hear very well.
Is it as fun?
He shrugs. I don’t know any different. I think it’s fun. You don’t need to hear the music to be able to play. You follow the notes on screen. He hesitates. I love Guitar Hero. Being able to play rock music with my friends. Feeling the rhythm.
When they start playing, Rhys squeezing my shoulder as he gets up to stand with one of the guitars as I settle back against the bean bag, I eat pizza and watch. They’re all much better at this game than I was expecting, making me think that being able to hear the music is perhaps the least important part of playing guitar, and Rhys is the best of them all.
Three slices down, they all start gesturing to get me to play.
No way, I say, alarmed, holding up my arms in front of my chest like a shield.
Come on, Rhys cajoles. He holds out the second guitar to me.
I want to carry on refusing, but I remind myself that I’m here for Rhys, not me, so I force myself to stand up and take the plastic guitar from him. It’s light in my hands. He chooses a song on the easiest setting – ‘Heart-shaped Box’ – but I still fumble with the buttons, laughing with embarrassment, missing at least half the notes.
You just need a bit more practice, Rhys tells me when we finish. He’s clearly tried to go easy on me, but he still beats me by miles. He leans over and kisses me, right in front of all of his friends. We can play at my house.
For a second I think it’s just me who’s read an innuendo into these words, but then his grin widens, he shows all his teeth. He winks at me.
>
My entire body explodes in a shower of all-singing, all-dancing sparks.
By the time we leave Owen’s house it’s 10.30 p.m. and it’s started to rain. Neither of us has an umbrella so we hurry to the car, me holding my arms over my head and Rhys ambling along behind me as if the rain doesn’t bother him at all. At the car I bounce on my feet by the locked door, pulling fruitlessly at the handle.
He grins at me from the driver-side door, taking his time with his keys.
‘You suck,’ I say.
He finally unlocks the door and I scramble in, shivering, shaking my wet hair so the droplets fly all over his car. I’m about to start complaining when his hand takes a hold of my chin, his lips open against mine and – oh hello – we’re kissing.
It’s just brief, but it’s enough for my body to heat up, my heart to start thundering, a soppy grin to appear over my face. As Rhys starts the engine and cranks up the heating, I slide my hair behind my ears and settle back against my seat.
I like your friends, I tell him.
He looks pleased. Really?
Yeah. They’re very friendly.
I told them to be nice. You’ll know they really like you when they start giving you a hard time. He rests the side of his forehead against the headrest, his eyes on me. Was it OK? I could tell you were a bit nervous.
I pause, trying to decide how best to respond. I thought I’d find it easier. The BSL.
He nods. Did we go a bit too fast? Sorry.
No, you were at normal speed. I’m just slower than I realized.
You’re brilliant.
I roll my eyes. No, seriously.
You are. You hear perfectly. Why would you need to speak BSL as well as us? They all think it’s awesome that you know as much as you do.
I want to say, I want to be part of your ‘us’, but how can I? Won’t it sound ridiculous? Do you think I’ll be as good as you one day?
He smiles at me, reaching out a finger and wiping a drop of water from my cheekbone. Depends how long you stick with me.
This time, I kiss him. And this time, it lasts a little longer. His hand travels down my back, curls around my waist, hesitates. His thumb eases under my shirt and touches bare skin. Electrical tendrils jolt into my bloodstream and dance through my veins.
The engine is still running and eventually we break apart so Rhys can drive me home. We spend the journey in silence, him paying extra careful attention to the dark, wet roads, me watching the rain running down the windows.
I wait until he’s pulled up outside my house to begin talking again. Do you miss Ives?
I can tell by the time he takes to respond that his answer is more complicated than a simple yes or no. Finally, he gives a slow half-nod. I miss my friends, but I’m not sad I left.
Why did you leave?
The rain drums down on the roof, steady and comforting. I wonder what sense of it Rhys gets, whether he can feel the drumming, or if it’s all dependent on sound.
I wanted a challenge. Rhys makes a face. No, not a challenge. I needed to push myself. I want to go to university but I worried that I’d got so used to Ives that I’d find it too hard. They make everything as easy as they can at Ives – which is great, of course. But they won’t do that at uni. At least, not in the same way. So I decided to go to a new sixth form, in a totally hearing school, to see how I dealt with it.
I wait, but he doesn’t say anything. I prompt, And?
And it’s been hard. He looks away from me, his face twisting slightly. His usual cheer has gone. I thought I’d handle it so much better.
I’m surprised. But you are handling it, I say. You’re handling it amazingly.
He shakes his head. No. I’m just really good at not showing when I’m not keeping up.
I’m sure they’d help if they knew you were struggling . . .
His head shakes again. No, I’m not struggling. It’s just harder than I thought. I think I took it for granted how deaf-aware everyone was at Ives. The staff and the students. It’s about more than just having someone interpreting the teacher during lessons.
Could you ask for more support?
They’re already doing as much as they can. They’ve run deaf-awareness training for the teachers and it’s helped a bit, but a lot of the time they just forget. It’s habit, you know? I can’t blame them. I wish . . . He stops himself, frowns and then shakes his head, looking away from me and out of the window at the rain.
I touch his hand so his gaze returns to me. What do you wish?
I wish I could do this on my own. That I didn’t need anything extra. I wish I could do it all by myself.
You are doing it yourself.
But even as I say this I know what he means, at least in a way. Maybe for me the equivalent is medication; I still can’t quite get over the feeling that it’s some kind of leg-up to get me where I want to be. A kickstart that I should feel lucky to have. It feels like a kind of cheating, almost, despite what my therapist says, which is that there is no such thing as cheating when you are trying to navigate a difficult world with the body and the tools we’ve been given. That we all have our methods, and life isn’t a video game. There are no cheats. ‘If there were,’ she added once, ‘I’d be out of a job, for one thing.’
I think you’re amazing, I say finally. Because I do, and also because everything I’ve just thought feels far too complicated to translate into sign language at this time of the evening.
He smiles. I think you’re amazing.
The rain continues to drum down. He takes my hand and kisses my fingers, his eyes on mine. I think about how him holding my hand like this is the BSL equivalent of putting a hand over someone’s mouth, but because we are us we are still communicating. It’s in the crinkle at the corner of his eyes, the softness of his touch. The question in the parting of his lips.
We kiss between the two front seats and it’s like a whole conversation of its own. His hands on my face and my back ask questions; I reply with the way I nod my head as we kiss. I feel so safe in this car, hidden from the world under the blanket of rain, Rhys in my head and my hands and my mouth. At one point his hand slides up under my shirt and I find myself arching my back in response. His fingers feel warm and perfect against my skin.
Some time later – who knows exactly how long – I walk into my house in a bubble of heat and joy. I barely notice Dad’s jocular attempts to ask me how my evening went, I just wave happily at him, pour myself a glass of water and go to my room. When I climb into bed, I think about everything that comes after kissing, all the places we have to go together. I wonder if he’s thinking about this too. I think about him thinking about me until my cheeks burn and my toes curl.
Before I fall asleep I check my phone and see a message waiting for me. The first two words make my heart leap into my throat.
Steffi:
I love kissing you. You taste like stars. xxx
I hug my phone to my chest, roll on to my back and beam at the ceiling.
The ten best things about having a boyfriend
1) Kissing. (It’s pretty great.)
2) Getting to learn sign language. (Note: may only apply to Rhys Gold.)
3) Sharing private jokes.
4) Coming up with your ship name together. (Rheffi )
5) . . . And your superhero/outlaws/explorers/pop duo name (Bronze & Gold, natch).
6) Learning silly little things about him that most people will never know. (Rhys still sometimes has nightmares about the Groke from the Moomins trying to eat him. Adorable.)
7) Frequent compliments, usually accompanied by 1) – Kissing.
8) Holding hands.
9) Having someone duty-bound to listen to your complaints/rants/rambling stories.
10) Kissing.
At work the following Saturday, Rhys’s mother Sandra arrives at the kennels near the end of my shift. I’m on litter-tray duty in the cattery – my least favourite job – and so it’s Ivan who comes to find me to tell me she’s there.
‘There’s a woman here to see you,’ he says. ‘She says she’d like to have a look at the rescue dogs? Sandra Gold.’
‘Oh!’ I say. I pause, looking down at the pile of litter trays I still have to clean.
‘It’s fine,’ Ivan says. ‘You’re off the hook this time. I’ve asked Michael to take over.’ As he speaks, Michael appears behind him, looking sulky.
‘Thanks!’ I say, peeling off my gloves, beaming at Michael. ‘I owe you.’
Michael mutters something that I ignore as I leave the cattery and follow the path round to the front office. Sandra is standing in the reception area, reading a leaflet.
‘Hi, Sandra,’ I say, pausing by the desk and then hovering a little awkwardly.
‘Hello, Steffi!’ she says, her smile warm. She puts the leaflet back on the pile and taps her hands together. ‘I’ve come to meet Lily.’
‘Who?’ I ask stupidly, then remember. ‘Oh!’ She means Lily the three-legged beagle that I’d mentioned way back at Rhys’s birthday dinner. ‘Lily’s already been adopted.’ Lily got scooped up within about a week of her arriving at St Francis. She was adorable.
Her face falls. ‘Oh. Oh dear.’
‘We have others,’ I say quickly. I try to gesture grandly with my hands, but it doesn’t quite work. ‘Let me give you the tour.’
We have twenty-five rescue dogs currently staying at St Francis, and I already know which of them will eventually be adopted and which won’t. It’s the kind of thing you pick up quite quickly if you work at a rescue centre like this, whether a dog is adoptable or not. It’s a combination of breed, age and temperament. An old, quiet Labrador is almost guaranteed a new family. A boisterous Staffie is not, much as it breaks my heart.
I lead Sandra down through the kennels, stopping at each run to introduce the dog within. I leave the biters and the growlers behind their gates, but for the friendlier ones I unlock the door for a proper greeting. Sandra is hesitant around the dogs, standing slightly behind me and only reaching a hand to the dogs when I assure her they’re safe.