by Josh Berk
Before I have a chance to try, however, a window pops up over the page.
Smiley_Man3000: How does the day find you, my good man?
HamburgerHalpin: hey aren’t u still in math?
Smiley_Man3000: Yes, sir.
HamburgerHalpin: i don’t get it
Smiley_Man3000: I’m on my handheld. It rules. It’s a Crony. You can get online easily. The weirdo sub just let us have a “free period.” I was sort of sad that we’d be missing The Dolphin today, but it has turned out OK.
I don’t really want to respond with any discernible enthusiasm, but I have to.
HamburgerHalpin: i’m jealous. cronys r awesome. oh,& thanks for before. you know for explaining me to mr tuff guy
Smiley_Man3000: No problem, my good man. No problem at all.
HamburgerHalpin: so what were u talking about b4? oh and good work learning those signs
Smiley_Man3000: Thank you! There’s some good Web sites out there. Videos and everything.
HamburgerHalpin: u r like an old pro
Smiley_Man3000: Great! I have had an interest in signing for quite some time. I taught myself the alphabet last summer–I like to challenge myself between semesters.
HamburgerHalpin: nerd alert
Smiley_Man3000: Hey!
HamburgerHalpin: sorry continue
Smiley_Man3000: What I was talking about was the DEAF CHILD AREA sign near your house. It got torn down. Did you notice?
HamburgerHalpin: no no i didn’t
Just because I am feeling a little friendlier toward Smiley_ Man3000 doesn’t mean that I want to reveal my criminal past.
Smiley_Man3000: Yeah, it did. I’m really sorry.
HamburgerHalpin: i don’t get it. i didn’t even notice it got torn down. how did u hear?
Smiley_Man3000: My father works for the police department. He told me.
HamburgerHalpin: that’s right. i knew yr dad was a cop
Smiley_Man3000: He’s not actually a cop. He used to be a patrol officer. Some wanker named Hawley had a beef with him, and now my dad, who is a great cop, gets stuck doing stuff like checking in stolen property or dispatcher work. He was on the radio on the overnight/early-morning shift last night.
HamburgerHalpin: wait, someone called in the sign being down? what is it with this lame town? what would people do if something real happened? who was it? my mom?
Smiley_Man3000: I want to say the Finkbeiners? My dad said they call a lot.
HamburgerHalpin: Finkelsteins?
Smiley_Man3000: That sounds right.
HamburgerHalpin: they r my neighbors
Smiley_Man3000: That would explain it.
HamburgerHalpin: she’s always giving nasty looks
Smiley_Man3000: Why’s that? You seem to be a perfectly likable chap.
HamburgerHalpin: we had a torrid affair and it ended badly. she’s super bitter
Smiley_Man3000: Really?!?
HamburgerHalpin: u r 2 gullible. plus you use words like chap and good man way 2 much
Smiley_Man3000: Sorry.
HamburgerHalpin: i’m just kidding around
Smiley_Man3000: I knew that.
HamburgerHalpin: right sure you did
Smiley_Man3000: I did!
HamburgerHalpin: you totally thought i had a love affair with my 800-year-old neighbor
Smiley_Man3000: Did you mean to type“80”?
HamburgerHalpin: i stand by what i said
Smiley_Man3000: She’s really 800?
HamburgerHalpin: 801 next bastille day
Smiley_Man3000: Wow, you like ‘em wrinkly.
HamburgerHalpin: smileyman r u teasing me?
Smiley_Man3000: Sorry.
HamburgerHalpin: it’s cool. funny. especially because it is actually you who loves old lady saggy boobs!
Smiley_Man3000: Do not!
HamburgerHalpin: u <3 ‖ (.) (.)
I crack myself up with this one. He doesn’t respond for a while, though. Maybe the connection has gone bad? Then the message comes back as this:
Smiley_Man3000: omg. oh i love u and i totally want to be yr boyfriend! I LOVE DUUUUDES!!!!!!!!!!
Several things about this are clear: The first is that Devon does not love dudes. The second is that somebody in class hijacked Devon’s Crony, read our chat, then added their own message. They must think this is the height of hilarity. Wait. Do they know it is me on the other end? Do they see my name on there? Are they swift enough to figure out who Hamburger-Halpin is? I scroll up and see that nowhere does it actually say my real name, so maybe I am safe. I don’t want my swim trunks, or my life, to be flushed down the toilet. Too much of a splash for Watcher Guy.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Lunch today: hot dogs, some sort of broccoli casserole thing, and … an apple? It is unnatural to eat anything green, and apples are just pointless. Seriously, what am I, a horse? A pig? Don’t answer that. While wolfing down several hot dogs, I spy with my little eye A. J. Fischels sitting angry and more or less alone on the fringes, far from his usual group. Even Gabby Myers has abandoned him and is squeezing into a seat a few tables over with Teresa Lockhart.
Must not get caught staring at A.J. again. Then, ah, the random universe smiles on me, because, just as I begin my search, the most beautiful girl in school sits clearly in my line of sight. Leigha Pennington. I don’t get to use the word “gorgeous” very often, especially since I can’t quite remember the sign for it. (I do know the sign for “good-looking”—you just point to your own face. Our signing forerunners must have been a vain lot.) But “gorgeous” is the only word for Leigha. Words like “pretty” or “hot” just don’t cut it. I guess every school has a Leigha, and ours is Leigha.
Today, in very un-Leigha fashion, she is alone. I contemplate smiling at her or waving or even passing a note. Maybe Leigha is lonely too, at least for this one tiny moment? But, no, of course not. In less time than it takes for me to swallow a hot dog, she pulls people into her orbit without even trying. Pat Chambers comes over to her side and gives her a little kiss on the cheek that she seems disgusted by (maybe, I dare to hope, we share a mutual revulsion for the odious P.C.—wishful thinking?). They don’t exactly look like a couple in love. She pulls back from his touch and stares at the dirty floor.
Purple Phimmul slides in next to her and starts patting her hair, an oddly sweet gesture. D. JONKER hovers in the background. And then the iron anvil head of Travis Bickerstokes drops in the seat across from my Leigha, effectively turning the channel on the only good thing to watch.
I continue to stare at the back of Travis’s head, just sort of zoning out on his bristly haircut and massive ears. I feel like when you’re a kid and you drop an ice cream cone on the sidewalk and are just so completely sad, like that ice cream cone is the whole world. Then Pat notices me staring at Travis’s head. His eyes light up like he is happy to see me. “Hey, Trav,” he says. “Looks like you have a new boyfriend.” Travis whips his massive head around and is staring at me eyeball to eyeball from just a few feet away, but he still doesn’t see me. He turns back toward Pat.
“That fat deaf kid,” Pat says. “I guess (something something) his relationship with Devon Smiley isn’t exclusive.” He then starts telling all of them (yes, including Leigha) about how he caught me and Devon chatting “like two little girls in love.”
I want to point out that what he is saying doesn’t make any sense. Are we boyfriends or girlfriends? How are two little girls supposed to be in love? What’s wrong with texting someone? I am not in love with Devon Freaking Smiley! I am in love with beautiful Leigha Pennington!
But Leigha laughs too, just like all the others. And then Travis comes over to my table, picks up my broccoli casserole, and throws it at me. It only sort of grazes my shoulder, and I didn’t want to eat it anyway, but, still, having food thrown at you is rarely a pleasant experience. The one upside of the incident is that it draws the fury of Mr. Yankowski. Old Yanky-Wanky comes flying across the room, a whirling tornado o
f gleaming scalp and khaki pants.
“Bickerstokes!” he yells, the vein in his neck throbbing like a drum. I don’t see the rest of the conversation because I slip behind him, skirt the traffic circle that inevitably forms to gawk anytime something terrible happens, and disappear into the hallway. I calmly walk toward the double doors to the parking lot and am gone.
Poof!
Trees and birds. The warmth of the sun. Sweet-smelling flowers. Cars cruising by, their drivers in their own little cocoons. Maybe I’ll just stick out the old thumb. That’s one sign that everybody knows. But what then? Where do I want to go? What if I get picked up by some scurvy perv with icky intentions toward a handsome young lad such as myself? I wish I had my own car, but there’s the matter of driver’s ed, a class where you need an interpreter, and neither the public school nor the deaf one offers one.
So I just walk. Behind the school grounds, the mountains slope down an ancient, ratty road built to search for coal, always searching for more coal. Up the hill is a barbed-wire patch labeled DANGER, ABANDONED MINE SHAFT: KEEP OUT! From the party rubble (beer cans, condom wrappers, cigarette boxes) stuck in the barbed wire, it seems like maybe everyone isn’t keeping out. I think about going up there and checking it out, but I’m not exactly a fan of physical exercise, so I walk only as far as seems necessary to escape being caught. I find a patch of surprisingly soft grass on the hill’s scarred side. The midday sun filters through the trees, making a twinkling pattern all around. I decide to lie down for a little while and just stare up at the big sapphire sky. I have never skipped school before and have no idea what to do next. Lots of uneasy thoughts flutter inside my head as birds and fat, lazy bees flutter above me. Will Mr. Yankowski notice I am gone? Will Travis seek some sort of revenge? Will I get detention? Electroshock therapy? Tasered?
Who am I kidding? Only Devon Smiley will even register my absence, and he is probably too busy getting his nipples twisted in the locker room by D. JONKER. Jonker has really stepped up his harassment of Devon lately for some reason.
Right now it all seems so far away: gym class, Devon’s nipples, Pat, Leigha, Principal Kroener, Fatzy McFatpants.
Suddenly I feel a strong presence. It’s hard to explain, but deaf people definitely sense things. I don’t hear it exactly, but maybe I smell it? Smell the sound waves? Taste the presence on the air? Something is here, and it is getting closer.
In the split second before I jump up and open my eyes, I have several thoughts: Is it Yankowski tracking me down? Or Travis Bickerstokes? Is he going to beat me senseless for getting him in trouble? Or maybe—and this seems the most likely option, even here in my moment of Walden-like peace—I am to be bothered by Devon Freaking Smiley. Odd thing is, I am quite happy at that thought. Just not in a romantic way.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
When I open my eyes, it’s like when you think that thing on your plate is a cube of cheese and then you bite it and you find out it’s actually zucchini. At first your tongue is just totally baffled, and it takes a while for your brain to adjust its preconception to the new reality.
It is a dog—a goofy black-and-white long-haired mutt with a mouth that turns upward into a floppy smile. He ambles over to me like we are old friends. Like it is the most natural thing in the world. And this is so kind that it almost makes me want to cry.
I want to take him home and give him a bath and a great name (maybe FFD, for Friendly Forest Dog, or just Ace because that’s a cool cani-name). I’d let him sleep in my room and lick my face, and we’d be best friends. I immediately feel sad, though, even as Ace (he is definitely an Ace) happily wags his tail and stares at me like there is no one else in the world so perfect. I can’t keep him. Mom hates dogs. She isn’t crazy about cats either. I guess it’s the fur or the whole “I don’t need another mouth to feed” thing. The only pets I ever had were goldfish, which aren’t that fun and also have a bad habit of dying from neglect.
“Well, at least you can keep me company on the walk home,” I tell Ace, realizing as I do that it is maybe sort of weird to sign to a dog. I have to get home before Mom and Dad but not too early, what with our neighborhood spy (and my love interest), eight-hundred-year-old Mrs. Finkelstein, keeping watch. Ace follows me. The walk home is bleak and strange. Most of our city is as bland and modern as anywhere else in America, filled with Taco Bells and chemical plants (note: coincidence?), but the walking route I take from school to home shows slices of the past. Half-falling-down buildings—relics of the coal-mining era—are still visible. They hang incongruously in the shadows above the shining new construction, receding into the background. Like ghosts.
I walk past a rusty bridge that retreats into the woods for a few hundred yards, then gets swallowed up by trees and the side of the mountain. A bridge to nowhere is probably symbolic of something in this town, of my life maybe. I read the graffiti that marks the bridge’s underbelly. Mostly old band names: Pantera, Metallica, Fugazi, Black Sabbath. I feel very damn sad. There are also declarations of love: “MS + SA.” “Kelly is hot.” “PC + LP.” I feel even sadder. I walk slower and slower, past the old abandoned buildings and slightly surreal constructions sticking out of the scarred earth. FFD follows alongside, stopping from time to time to whiz on the curb or chew on a stick.
“Do not do that in the basement,” I sign, realizing that I have made some sort of decision about this dog. He perks his head in that angle dogs do when they are trying to understand. One ear standing straight up and the other flopped over. Then I swear he gives me a little nod. Does this dog know sign language? Or, more importantly, can I convince people that he knows sign language? I can pretend that he’s my service dog and use it as an excuse to bring him everywhere. He can come to class with me and alert me to when the bell rings. Maybe he can give me a secret signal if one of my farts is audible or I’m chewing too loud in the caf.
I smack my leg, telling him to hurry up. It’s getting late, and he’s taking another whiz. “Come see your new home,” I sign.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I make it home before the parents. At our happy Halpin dinner, I’m a little sweaty and quite a bit nervous, what with having just smuggled a dog into the basement. My biggest concern? Fear that he’s going to start barking. I gave Ace a leftover pork chop I found in the fridge (now, that’s love), hoping it would keep him busy. I also brushed all the hair off me and look pretty spiffy. So far, so good. Mom is sitting at the table, not noticing anything. Dad, it seems, isn’t joining us. I start wondering: If they get a divorce, who would I live with? Will we sell the house? Who will take me to my Little League games and dance recitals? Will one of them feel guilty enough to buy me a car?
Dad is in the garage, apparently intent on spending the entire night out there. He never tinkers with cars or builds shelves like some dads do. As far as I know, he just stares at the wall and listens to his old radio—not exactly a hobby rife with father-son bonding opportunities. Fine with me—I like a quiet meal. That’s a joke. I do like meals, though. No joke. Mom is a master in the kitchen. Maybe if she wasn’t so gifted, I’d be a thin and dashing young swimming star or something? Perhaps not. But, oh boy, she sure can cook: pies on a nightly basis, Polish delicacies like pierogi and halupki. (Halpin is a British name, I think, but she was a Kowalski before she got hitched to Ken.) On this night, however, the meal is frozen pizza, frozen peas, and frozen garlic bread. It’s like a school lunch. I half expect Purple Phimmul to plop in the seat across the dining room table and start yelling about credit limits and shopping, dammit.
“How was school today?” Mom asks like always, a simple, friendly question that has surprisingly complicated answers. Like every kid throughout the history of the world, I answer, “Fine.” A total lie.
“Our math teacher was out,” I decide to tell her, thinking it is a safe topic. “We did not have to do any math. That was nice.”
“Why do you hate math all of a sudden?” she asks. “You used to be very good at it. Remember when you won
that math challenge at Camp Arrowhead? Are you going to keep up your streak of getting A’s?”
I should have known better.
“We haven’t even had a test yet. But I’ll probably fail.”