I woke up at four a.m., realizing that I never texted him.
For a minute, I was afraid he wasn’t coming. But, as he dismounts the bike, taking off his helmet and unzipping that leather jacket, all my fear is replaced by breath-shaking, nose-sweating nervousness.
I push my hair behind my ear and look too hard at the silverware in my bucket. I hear him walk in so I look up, trying to look like this is my first time noticing him. I smile too big, I think. And my eyes are too wide. His helmet is tucked under his arm and he’s wearing jeans and a button-down with the sleeves rolled up. He looks like an Abercrombie ad. But with clothes on.
“Hi,” I sign, hoping that the lady on the video was right.
I guess she was.
His eyebrows raise as he signs “Hi” back to me and smiles.
I pat a seat at the counter, one away from Violet. I pull out my order pad. “I’ll be ready in a minute,” I write, as he sits down. “Gotta finish this bucket.”
He nods and leans forward on the counter, looking around the restaurant. Violet gives him a side-long glance and smiles, catching my eye. “Prize pig,” she mouths. She nods and indicates him with her head.
Good job, Vi. Because he can’t hear, but he can read lips. Good one.
He gives me a strange look. I pretend nothing happened.
I wrap silverware in silence for the next few minutes. There is a commercial on the radio, and some guy yelling about a mattress sale makes the seconds seem like hours. I glance at Carter. He’ll never know about that mattress sale. After rolling the last piece, I slide my full silverware bucket into the cubby under the counter and take off my apron. He stops jiggling his foot and starts to stand up, but I catch his attention and shake my head.
“I’m gonna change really quick,” I write.
He settles back onto the stool. “Okay,” he mouths, his right hand forming the two letters. I’m proud of myself for recognizing them. As I grab the tote bag that holds my clothes, he runs his hand through his hair and looks around the restaurant again, sighing.
I fake a happy skip into the dingy little bathroom and creak the door closed, leaning against it.
What was I thinking? What are we going to do? Go to frickin’ McDonalds? Trent and I just went to each other’s houses and pretended to practice, but actually made out! I’ve only known Carter for two days! He could be an ax murderer for all I know! I don’t even know his last name! He probably doesn’t know a thing about Westfield. Can two people even fit on his motorcycle? Maybe he wants me to drive! I can’t put that beautiful person in my crappy car!
I grasp both sides of the sink and look into the dilapidated mirror. “Get a grip, Robin,” I command my reflection, forgoing the usual whisper. Who the heck cares? He can’t hear me anyway. I pull the band out of my hair and grab a brush from my bag, tugging the dark waves back into a neater ponytail. Once my hair has been ponytailed, there is no way to let it down without a nasty ponytail bump.
I pull off my diner clothes and slip into jeans and a loose-fitting white lace-back tank top layered over a bright-blue tank, fixing my boobs so the push-up bra does its darn job. I untie my Vans and exchange them for sandals, exposing my newly painted coral-colored toenails. And voila! The greasy diner waitress has been replaced by a somewhat cute (admittedly very pale) girl!
I do one last check (panty line, bra line, tags in), take a deep breath, and creak open the door. Carter is thumbing through his phone. I wipe my hands on my jeans, fix a smile on my face, and tap him on the shoulder.
He looks casually over his shoulder until he catches my eye. Then he spins the stool to face me, one eyebrow shoots up to his hairline, and his perfect lips part slightly. He stares and I smile for a second. Even though he’s sitting on a diner stool, he’s still taller than I am. He smells like oranges and motorcycle exhaust and light boy-sweat. It is divine. Finally, I reach past him for the paper.
“It’s a girl!” I write.
“I can see that,” he writes back. Music pipes over the radio: “One Fine Day.” The mattress sale is long gone.
“I’m ready,” I write. “You?”
“Yeah,” he writes. “You hungry?”
I must look surprised. Most people think that if you work at a restaurant, you eat all the time. The total opposite is true. I work when everybody else is eating. Because of that, I have a bizarre eating schedule. And I’m starving.
“Or maybe you’re not… ,” he writes.
“No! I am!” I take the pen before he can change his mind.
“Good,” he writes. “You ever ride a motorcycle before?”
Chapter 10
Carter
God, she’s beautiful.
I keep glancing over my shoulder as she follows me to the bike. She takes one little detour to toss her bag in an old Subaru station wagon.
When she joins me at the bike, she reaches out a tentative hand to touch the shiny metal and leather. Just before she touches it, she looks up at me.
“Can I?” her mouth says.
I nod and cover her delicate hand with my sweaty one. After making sure the metal isn’t too hot, I run her hand along the matte black and yellow. Her pulse beats under my hand, and I stifle a surprise impulse to turn her wrist over and kiss the soft underside. At that moment, she looks up at me and smiles. The impulse grows stronger. I swallow and let go of her hand, unhooking my leather jacket from the handgrips. I hold the jacket open for her and she gives me a look, so I pull out my notepad and write, “To protect your arms from all the bugs.” And road rash. But she doesn’t need to think about that.
She laughs and shrugs into it, letting the cuffs hang over those white wrists. I love it.
I look down at her feet and over at the foot pegs on the back of my bike. They’re right next to the tailpipe. Sandals, like the tank top, are another no-no. Maybe she’s just not meant to ride the bike. What was I thinking, that every girl would kill to be on this bike just because I like it? Too late now. I swallow and pick up the pen again.
“You have sneakers?” I write. “Or boots?”
She makes a face but I keep writing, “Your feet are by the tailpipe. Don’t want you to get burned.”
She goes back to her Subaru and digs the black Vans out of her backpack, lacing them up. As she ties her shoes, I write a few instructions:
“I’ll let you know when to get on the bike. Hang on to me around my chest. You’ll be perched up pretty high and leaning forward in order to hang on. Lean with me on the turns, but not too much. Keep your feet on the pegs. I’ll let you know when I’m about to go and when I’m about to make turns or stop. Don’t worry, I’ve carried passengers before. I’m a really safe driver.”
I look up and hand her the notepad, kind of digging the tank top/leather jacket/jeans/Vans look. It suits her. Her blue eyes grow steadily bigger as she reads the instructions. Finally, she looks up at me and gulps. I take the paper back from her limp hand.
“You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to!” I write hastily. “Your car will take us places just as well as my bike.”
“No!” she writes. “I want to do this!”
“You sure you’re okay?” I write. I sign it, too, when I show her the paper.
She nods confidently, then her whole face lightens and she signs yes with her right hand. She points at it with her left hand and I golf clap, impressed. She takes a deep breath and smiles as she lets it out through pursed lips.
I unhook her helmet from the back of the bike and give it to her. She slides it on, but I buckle it to make sure it’s snug. She puts her hands on her hips and cocks her head at me, then holds her hand out for the pad of paper.
“Hot stuff?” she writes, then strikes a pose.
I laugh and dig my phone out of my pocket to take a picture, flipping it around so she can see it—the full-coverage helmet (can’t mess up your face if something goes wrong) and the too-big jacket on her little body. As I’m holding my phone up, I notice two figures in the diner windows
: the older waitress and the cook. I wave. They scurry away like they were never there.
I turn back to Robin. She’s shooing them away. She shakes her helmeted head and shrugs at me, holding out her hand for the pen and paper. I pass it over and she writes, “Let’s do this!”
I smile and pull on my own helmet and motorcycle gloves, then flip down the passenger foot pegs.
Swinging my leg over the bike, I start the engine. A little motion catches my eye—she’s jumped back a bit. “You okay?” I sign.
“Yes,” she signs back.
I do a half turn and pat the passenger’s seat behind me, if you can call it that. It’s perched way above the rear wheel. I point to my foot, then the foot peg. She shakes out her hands and puts them on the seat like she’s about to mount a horse. One, two, three bounces and she’s up in the seat, her feet firmly on the pegs. The bike settles a little under her weight. She leans forward in the seat and wraps her arms around me, loosely at first. I put my hand up and make a motion like I’m going to rev the bike. She tightens her grip and I kick off from the ground to glide out of the parking lot.
The bike and I take a little time to get used to having a passenger. By the time I’m out of town and on the winding country roads, though, the three of us are a well-oiled machine.
Once I’ve found our rhythm, I’m very aware of how tight she is against my back. Her thighs are pressing into my sides. I breathe in and out, once, and glance down. If I were to lean back, I could rest my arm on her leg like an armrest. It’s right there. Her hands tighten as we bank a corner and I feel her helmet against the back of mine. I glance in the mirrors and see that she’s watching the road.
“Okay?” I sign.
“Yes,” she signs back, into my chest, her right hand pressing into my button-down. I guess she doesn’t want to let go. I smile behind the wind visor.
When I was first allowed to carry passengers, I gave rides to each of my friends. I’ve taken a couple of girls out from my school this way, too. But dating is tough. Most of us grew up together. The Deaf community is a pretty small one, even in New York. The teen Deaf community? Even smaller. I can remember every embarrassing thing that all of them ever did. Every now and again, we get a new kid. Then it’s like a feeding frenzy and pretty soon they’re either hooked up or they just become part of the family.
This girl? She’s practically a stranger. It’s… thrilling. To say the least.
Her hands change their grip, opening so they hold on to my rib cage instead of curling into tight fists on my chest. Her fingers stretch and relax and my skin is suddenly extra-sensitive, tingling wherever she touches. She’s against my back, my legs, and around my ribs.
I’m driving.
I shouldn’t be this distractible.
I turn by the Amish school and then into the long driveway to the parking lot. After rolling to a stop I take off my helmet and look back at Robin. She takes her hands off my ribs and the shirt is sweaty and wrinkled where she was holding on. She sits up straight and takes her helmet off, like me.
Her cheeks flush and her eyes shine. Her hair is sticking out all over—little fuzzy curls all around her head like a dark halo. “Thank you,” she signs. “Thank you!” She shakes her head, grinning. “So much fun,” her mouth says clearly. “So much fun. Thank you,” she signs again.
I grin. “You’re welcome,” I sign back.
I feel her hands, small and warm, on my shoulders as she leans to swing her leg over and slide off the bike onto the gravel. Both feet on the ground now, she smiles and looks away, down the hill, over the town.
“Beautiful,” she says without remembering that I can’t hear her. But since I can’t take my eyes off her lips, I have a pretty good idea what she’s saying. She looks back at me.
I look out over the town, down the hill. “Beautiful,” I mouth, and sign. I look at her and she imitates my movement.
“Beautiful,” she signs, grinning.
I unhook the saddlebags and she looks at them, as though seeing them for the first time. There’s not much in them—just a picnic blanket and some food. Although plenty of tables are available, Robin finds a spot on the ground in the middle of the close-cut grass, and I approve. Eating on the grass is the whole point of a picnic, after all. I pick up one of the saddlebags and unbuckle it, pulling out the picnic blanket, tossing it to her. It billows like a photo-shoot fan is on, and she lays it gently on the grass as I pull out a few of cans of soda (sorry, “pop”) to weigh down the corners. Pulling off my boots and socks, I sit on the blanket and pour everything else out. There is a veritable smorgasbord of food—sandwiches, Cheetos, cheese, apples, chips, granola, crackers, cookies, chocolate… and there are gluten-free, nut-free, and meat-free options. A full-size notebook and two pens are mixed into everything.
She laughs and sprawls across the blanket to grab a pen. Still lying down, she writes, “This looks awesome.” She opens the bag of Cheetos and munches happily, looking out at the view. “Tell me about yourself,” she scrawls.
I take the pen and let her look over the whitecaps of Lake Erie as I write, “My name is Carter Paulson. I’m profoundly deaf, which basically means I can’t hear anything. Yes, that’s rare. In fact, my entire family (except my mom) is deaf. Yes, that’s rare, too. My dad’s an architect, my mom’s a stay-at-home and ASL interpreter. My older sister is twenty—she’s a live representative. Like you would chat with online for technical help. My little sister is nine. She has a CI (cochlear implant), so she’s practically hearing. Yes, this is a weird family in the Deaf community, too. My parents adopted us intentionally because they wanted to give us a good family. It worked. I have a great family.” I take the picture of my family out of my wallet to show her. I look up—she’s sitting with her legs to one side, eating an apple and watching some little kids play tag. I start a new paragraph.
“I play soccer and baseball. I like art. Especially photography. And I love steak. And lattes. And movies. I live in Manhattan but go to school in Queens. I’ve stayed at Chautauqua every summer as long as I can remember. I’m eighteen. I’ll be a senior at Lexington School for the Deaf. Go Blue Jays.”
I slide the notebook over to her, picture on top. She looks it all over, smiling. She picks up the pen as I spread peanut butter on an apple and enjoy at the view. And by “the view,” I mean the pretty girl who’s actually here to hang out with me. She is lying on her stomach, propped up on her elbows as she writes. Her Vans and socks are in a pile in the grass, and her toes wiggle among the clover, off the blanket. She glances up and I look away, pretending to watch trees or something. I’m such a sucky liar. Finally, she slides the notebook across to me.
“My name is Robin Peters. I am 100 percent hearing.” I laugh, and continue reading. “My dad is an English professor at the college in Fredonia. My mom is a Mary Kay rep. I am an only child. I have a great family, too. Even if they’re more boring than yours. Hehe.
“My favorite thing in my world is music. I play piano, pennywhistle, guitar, harmonica, and dabble in fiddle, harp, and hammered dulcimer. In the school band I rock out the marimba and other piano-looking things. I think I like art but I don’t get to see it much. I’ve lived in Westfield my whole life. My best friend is Jenni and she’s prettier than I am. I can carry six milkshakes on a tray and not spill a drop. Even harder—I can carry eight cups of black coffee. I like movies, too! I’m sixteen—I know, I know, young for my grade. I’ll be a senior at Westfield Academy and Central School.
“Your family sounds awesome. Your life sounds interesting and exotic.
“PS—I learned how to spell my name. Wanna see?”
I look at her. She’s waiting, right hand ready. As soon as she sees me looking, her hand forms a tentative “R,” then “O” “B” “I” “N.” I laugh and shake my hands in applause. She tilts her head. “Deaf applause,” I write.
She imitates my motion, smiling. The sun bounces off her shining dark hair. Her blue eyes are sparkling.
I want
to kiss her more than I want to breathe.
But I don’t.
Chapter 11
Robin
Over the next hour, I replace the study of fingerpicking patterns with the study of Carter Paulson. He is, in fact, perfect. I ask him to list his flaws for me and he writes, I quote, “I have none.” Of course, then he laughs, scratches it out, and writes, “Just kidding. I am stubborn and opinionated. I don’t like parties. I am a terrible liar. I can be antisocial.”
“I don’t believe it,” I write.
“You are the first friend I’ve made here,” he writes, “and I’ve been coming here my whole life. That is, if we are friends…”
“Of course we’re friends. What about strawberry blond guy?” I write.
“Barry. Childhood friend. He… hasn’t aged well,” he writes. “They pay me to hang out with him. Not joking.”
“Ah yes,” I write. “Well, we’ll have to fix the friend situation.”
He gives me a look. “We will?”
I nod. “There’s a craft fair at the end of next week…”
He shrugs. “If you take me.”
“Of course I’ll take you! Like I would let anybody else take you.”
He smiles at me, then takes the pen and writes slowly, “Why didn’t you text me? When you had my number last night?”
I facepalm and give him a pained look. “I was busy.”
“With…” he starts to write, then scratches it out and writes, “Okay.”
“It’s embarrassing,” I write, “because I’m still so bad at it. But I had my friend over. And I was learning this.” And I show him: “Please,” I sign. “Sorry,” “You’re welcome,” and then I end with spelling his name, “C-A-R-T-E-R.” I look up at him and he’s smiling.
His left hand reaches and takes my spelling hand out of the air. His right hand says, “Thank you.” His left fingers interlock with my right fingers and our sweaty palms meet.
Song of Summer Page 6