You're Welcome, Universe

by Whitney Gardner

  Haven’t seen a lot of graffiti, at least nothing special. Yet as soon as I do some real writing, try to get up with my new name, someone’s gonna just slash it like that? I didn’t diss anyone. I’m not painting over anyone’s work this time. I can’t imagine where around Finley is considered “turf.” I haven’t heard of beef springing up like this since I was tagging in Queens.

  Fine. If that’s how they want to play it, get ready for war.

  How am I going to buy paint? All that’s left is a few colored puffs of air hanging tentatively in my school locker. Starting a war on Empty is a shit position to be in. Looked into the P.O. box. No one will ship paint to one. I’m not old enough to open one anyway.

  Those damn bones. If they looked crappy, I could rest easy; I’d have the upper hand. But they were above and beyond—not someone I’d want to take on, normally. I don’t know what pisses me off more, that they ruined my whale or that they might have made it look cooler. Dick.

  The Internet hasn’t offered much help in my paint-acquisition research. I’m about to call it quits for the night when my inbox goes: (1). It’s a video hangout invite from YP. I throw my quilt over all the papers on my bed and take a quick glance in the mirror across the room. My hair has tangled itself into a nest on my head where a bun used to be. I yank out the hair elastic and shake out the tangles.

  I’ve made it worse. I spot my red beanie poking out from under the bed. Perfect. Hair tucked neatly underneath, I hit Accept.

  —

  “Hi!” she waves. I wave back.

  “I sign now okay?” She moves her hands slowly, but she gets it all.

  “It’s okay,” I type into the box.

  “No!” She pinches the air. “I want sign you one T H I N G.” She’s determined.

  “OKOK.”

  “Sorry I go home today. Today not good day.” I can tell she’s rehearsed. “I thank you for today, and you very nice to me, and—” I’m relieved when she catches her super-serious face on the screen, and we both start laughing.

  jjjjjulia: Aaaaaaaaanywayyyyy……..

  HeadsNHearts: Did i miss anything good?

  jjjjjulia: nah. Mr. Clarke needs trim his damn nose hairs already.

  HeadsNHearts: lol

  jjjjjulia: so…what happen????

  HeadsNHearts: Ok well. so me and Kyle went out like, all last year

  jjjjjulia: rough.

  HeadsNHearts: it wasnt. we were so good together. real cute and stuff.

  jjjjjulia: im sure you were the cute one.

  YP rolls her eyes in the video window, before returning back to the keyboard, determined.

  HeadsNHearts: i got him, i knew him. like, the REAL him. we were so REAL.

  jjjjjulia: Kyle???!!

  HeadsNHearts: I thought he was…ugh im such an idiot.

  jjjjjulia: >:(

  HeadsNHearts: okok long story short, he broke up with me when I got fat.

  I take my hands off the keys and look at her. Really look at her. I’ve never been a person to use fat as an ugly word. It’s something you either are or aren’t. Deaf people aren’t really shy about truly describing a person. It’s not an insult; it’s the way something is. I imagine Ma asking me about her, how would I describe YP? I’d probably use the words shiny and blond. She’s big and beautiful. So what the hell?

  jjjjjulia: what a dickhole.

  HeadsNHearts: He isnt!

  jjjjjulia:

  HeadsNHearts: I used to be really skinny and it turns out that was super important to him.

  She’s getting upset, her eyes tinting that wet shade of pink right before a tear squeaks its way out. Time to change the subject. I can’t handle watching her cry over KFS twice in one day. I wave at the camera to get her attention before going back to my keyboard.

  jjjjjulia: Some good news today

  HeadsNHearts: Really?!

  YP looks relieved to not have to go on.

  jjjjjulia: got in Mr. Katz class!

  HeadsNHearts: you deserve it!!! i wanna see your stuff

  jjjjjulia: why?

  HeadsNHearts: i think itd be good. Like how blind people are good at music!

  jjjjjulia: um. i gotta go.

  The still life in Room 105 has changed since my last visit. If my heart could sink any lower into my body, it would. All drapery, all the time. Couldn’t I start off with something easier? I look over to the podium and my pear drawing is still up on the wall beside it. My nerves settle a bit.

  Some students are already setting up their supplies, intensely staring down the grand array of cloth. Mr. Katz has suspended some of it from the ceiling with crystal-clear fishing line, purple and red ghosts drifting over the table. Underneath is a scarf draped over a sheet draped over a chair. The scarf lies inconspicuously among all the other flashy fabric, plain gray wool, nestled in like a little cat taking a nap.

  That’s where I’m starting.

  Mr. Katz appears in the doorway, tote bag over his shoulder, wavy black hair smoothed into place. There’s a one-inch pin pinned to his (blue?!) breast pocket, but he’s too far away for me to see what’s on it. He pulls a record out of his tote bag and puts it down next to the record player.

  “Start when you’re ready, guys.” He looks out over his class. Some kids, sketchbooks closed, continue on with their conversations. What are they doing in here if they’re just gonna goof off? Mr. Katz taps me on the shoulder and puts a sheet in front of me. My name is typed on top in nice bold letters:

  JULIA

  We’re starting a new still life this week, take your time with it. I suggest you start off with quick gestural drawings to get yourself familiar with the setup and build up from there. This week we will work in pencils and charcoal and next week we will move on to color.

  He stays to make sure I understand; I nod and smile. His pin has George Harrison’s face on it. Casey butts in and starts talking.

  “That was so thoughtful of you.” She points to the handout. “I’m Casey, Julia’s interpreter.”

  “Right, right! I forgot, I’m sorry.” He extends his hand and she takes it in hers. “Andy. It’s nice to meet you.” They shake hands a little too long. I have to think of something to say so I can get Casey’s hands away from him.

  “Where’s the sharpener?” I ask, and she obediently interprets for me. Ugh, I’m letting her show off. He does that thing again that none of the other teachers have grasped yet: he doesn’t tell Casey where the sharpener is. Instead he looks right at me and points over to the wall.

  When Casey is around, people don’t bother looking at me when they talk—they look at her. When I sign, people watch her and wait for her to tell them what I’m saying. It’s all I can do not to wave my arms and direct people to look at me, I’m HERE. I thank him and take my 5H pencils over to the sharpener.

  He goes back to the record player and puts the needle down on the record he took out of his tote bag. I don’t know or care what it is all that much. I zero in on the little scarf-cat nestled in the folds. This is going to be tough. Again, I look over at my pear still life, and I notice for the first time how poor the drapery looks.

  Did he pick this still life on purpose? Not everything is about you, Julia. I decide to start with a blind contour of the scarf, sheet, and chair. I put my pencil down on the bottom left-hand corner and lock eyes with the still life, trying not to peek at the drawing, not allowing my pencil to break contact with the paper. It’s one of my favorite ways to warm up, really get my eyes working.

  I feel the rough texture of the paper underneath through my superhard pencil. I try to keep my arm motions as fluid as the cloth looks. I’m in the zone, that place between here and my head. Tuning everything out except every fold and crease. Every wrinkle dangling in front of me and…

  It’s awful. I look over to the girl sitting next to me. She’s shading in a nice deep shadow, perfectly capturing the drape hanging from the ceiling. Ugh, she’s good. I squint over at the kids who were chatting earlier and even their dra
wings are in better shape than my mess. I start over.

  It’s okay. That was only my first try. I’ll do one more blind contour and I’ll be nice and warmed up. Pencil goes back down to the bottom left of the page, eyes focus once again on the mountain of folds in front of me.

  Garbage. What was I thinking, begging to be in this class? I look out the window. The snow is still falling steadily: why aren’t we drawing that?

  “Need help?” Mr. Katz points to my book while Casey stands next to him. I timidly nod.

  “Folds are all about gravity.” He points to the highest drape and lets his finger trace along the outline in the air. “Starting at the bottom will only make things more difficult for you.” Casey is mesmerized. So am I. “Try sketching out the whole shape first. Fill in the details later. Don’t be so hard on yourself—” He stops and asks, “How do you sign your name?”

  He doesn’t get it right the first time; he has trouble with the hand shape. I take his fingers in mine. His hands are rough and dry. Mine are much warmer than his—it’s either the coldness of his hands or the contact alone that sends a chill up my arm. I show him how to sign my name. Then he signs it himself, and this time, it’s effortless.

  “I love the name Julia. It’s the title of my second favorite Beatles song.” He smiles.

  “You like the Beatles?” Casey interjects. “My favorite is ‘P.S. I Love You.’ ”

  “Oh, that’s -——- -—-!” Mr. Katz says, turning away from me. They’re off, chatting about the Beatles. I’m left in the dark because Casey has stopped signing.

  The Beatles ruin everything. Everyone goes on and on and on about them: how revolutionary they were, how they’ll never go out of style. People have asked me how I’ve been able to live without knowing what “Blackbird” sounds like. They give me that pity-face and say, “I don’t know what I would do if I could never hear a Beatles song.” I can tell you what you would do: you would get on with your life. I don’t see what all the fuss is about. It’s a band. Paul McCartney is old as hell. People put so much emphasis on music when I tell them I’m Deaf—like, without it, my life must not be as rich or full as theirs. Or they tell me to watch videos of people signing “Imagine.” Barf. It’s the same sort of shitty comment that YP let fly last night. It’s either pity or fascination.

  I give Mr. Katz a pass, though, because my third attempt at the still life was worlds better than my first two. That, and I didn’t know my name was in a Beatles song.

  Back at McDonald’s, I transfer the black bag into my work locker. All of the secrecy feels pointless when my bag’s empty. I’m still pissed I can’t put a message out there to whoever is bombing my art.

  I’ve decided to switch out the combo lock for one that locks with a key. Donovan asking about the paint nags at me. I don’t think he would go through my stuff, but I don’t actually know him all that well. I take out my visor, Velcro it under my ponytail, and lock everything else away. The key gets added to my key ring. I hook it to the same loop as my broken Eiffel Tower key chain. One day I’ll go and bomb the alleys of Montmartre with C215.

  From the locker room, through the kitchen, and up to my station, it gets hotter and hotter. Jordyn is standing in the drive-thru window, helping Donovan with something. He leans over and whispers into her ear.

  I’ve never really wanted to be hearing. If I had the choice, I would choose to be Deaf. There’s this sense of community. People care more, do more—at least that’s what I thought when I was at Kingston. Now, I can see why Jordyn got her implant. I’ve never had that, that whisper thing, that let-me-lean-in-and-tell-you-a-secret-in-your-ear thing. Lots of people make a big deal out of first kisses and hookups. But I want that. I don’t even need to know what the secret is, I just want to be whispered to, I want to feel breath on my ears. They aren’t dead. They can still feel.

  I don’t care what he’s saying to her; the fact that he gets to say anything to her is enough to make me upset. She probably doesn’t understand him, either: she wasn’t implanted as an infant, and it’s not the magic fix everyone thinks it is. I do know that she’s loving the attention.

  Jordyn thinks I should get CIs, too, but it’s…So. Much. Money. Even if we could afford it, I wouldn’t even want it, or the hours and hours of aural and speech therapy that go with it. I just want someone who will whisper secrets to me and not care if I hear them.

  The manager must have said something, because Jordyn leaves Donovan’s side, giggling. She pats my shoulder as she passes me, as if I’m somehow part of her shenanigans. All through the evening rush, I catch them staring at each other, smiling. I do my best to ignore them while I funnel the salt sticks into their boxes.

  At the end of my shift, I serve myself an enormous fountain Coke, a sugary prize for making it through their PDA-fest. I grab an equally huge box of fries after I see them making out in the locker room when I leave.

  —

  What’s wrong with me? I don’t give a shit about who Jordyn makes out with. Donovan and I wouldn’t work. He chose her because she’s easier—easier to get to know, easier all around. I’m not easy. Never have been. Donovan taking the easy way out says more about him than me. So why should I care?

  I don’t need anyone but Lee. Tonight should be the night. I should get my revenge up on a wall, make my move already. I work my best magic when I’m angry.

  Lee has really warmed up—she’s almost hot. Which is how I prefer the temperature. If I could, I’d keep the heat at home cranked to eighty-five degrees all the time. I’m tired of the lectures and arguments over the dial, so I layer up the sweaters. The sky threatens snow again, but it feels like Miami in here. Not that I’ve ever been to Miami. One day I’ll do a huge piece on the Wynwood Walls with Kazilla.

  I pull over in front of YP’s house, bright white with a green door and little Japanese maple trees under the windows. The lights are on; it’s not too late. I haven’t made plans with her, but I decide to get out and knock anyway.

  Wait. What if someone else opens the door? Do they know YP has a deaf friend? Do I ask if YP is home? Oh, God. They won’t even know who YP is. Why didn’t I take more speech therapy? Oh, right…hated it. I reach for my phone so I can write out some sort of greeting, but I’ve left it in the passenger seat. Craaaap.

  “Good evening.” One of the biggest men I have ever seen cracks the door open. Imagine if the Brawny paper-towel guy and that Bunyan guy had a baby that grew up, grew a mustache, and moved to Greenlawn. I wave hello, point to my ear, then to my mouth. I form the word deaf with my lips.

  “Oh!——-Julia! Come——!” He opens the front door wide and firmly ushers me into the living room with a slap on the back. He turns and calls for YP, I assume, having a brief conversation with the ceiling. The whole house smells like cinnamon and apples.

  “You——-—-———from—-——-slice rye?” He raises his eyebrows. I have no idea what he asked. Mustaches are the bane of my lip-reading existence. I give him one of my “Huh?” faces and he tries again. This time he gestures a bit. He makes a slicing motion across his palm and then points to his mouth.

  Oh! He’s offering me pie. If it’s as good as it smells, I’ll eat the whole thing. I nod my head enthusiastically. His smile’s so wide it’s a little frightening. I follow him into the kitchen.

  He serves me up an enormous slice and produces a can of whipped cream from the fridge. He holds it aloft and raises his eyebrows. Yes yes yes. I nod my head again, and he piles it on.

  This pie. This pie…this pie is no ordinary apple pie. With apple pie, I usually expect something tart, with nutmeg, sugar, and cinnamon. Basic stuff, still delicious. But this pie, this pie tastes like vanilla, and instead of nutmeg, it’s laced with oozing, gooey caramel. The top of the crust is sprinkled with sugar and…salt, of all things. It is art.

  YP bounds into the kitchen in these knitted slippers with little pom-poms dangling from the top.

  “You——more pie?” She playfully punches Mr. Brawny on the
arm.

  I sign to her, “Best best best pie!” Then I realize she asked him about it. I look ten feet up at him and mime: “You made this?” I thought it would be YP’s mom, maybe even YP herself. This lumberjack of a man making beautiful delicate pies never would have crossed my mind. Ever. He smiles and gives YP her own slice. When he smiles, I see the resemblance, he looks just like YP. An unmissable personality.

  “New recipe,—-gotta—-—least a bite.” He pushes the plate in front of her before pulling down three glasses from a cabinet.

  He fills each glass with milk, ruffles YP’s hair, and takes off down the hall. I can feel each footfall.

  “He’s always——————-——new flavors.” YP dips her finger in some of what’s dripped onto her plate and licks it off.

  “Is it his J O B?”

  “—started——summer. So what’s up?”

  Good question. Her dad and his dessert melted down my fury like ice cream under the heat lamp at work. I almost didn’t care why I drove here in the first place.

  “Are you OKOK?” she asks, after waiting nearly a minute for an answer. She tilts her head with genuine concern.

  I down my glass of milk. It’s thick and creamy, so much better than the skim that Mee makes us buy.

  “Go out with me for a minute?” I point to her, then me, then the door. I pinch the air, point to my wrist. And hope she understands.

  “Lemme ask.” She skips off in the same direction as her dad, her blond bun dancing behind her. I rinse my dishes in the sink. She comes back holding her brown sheepskin boots and trades her slippers for them.

  “He———back in thirty. That work?”

  “Perfect.”

  —

  “You told me a S E C R E T. Can I tell you one?” She’s nervous about me signing (more like pointing) while driving. I don’t watch my hands when I sign, and I keep one hand on the wheel. Don’t worry so much, YP. You’re all right.