by Leah Scheier
She shakes her head and pushes herself off the bed. “You get a little crazy about this subject, you know that? If I even mention his name, your hair practically stands up like you’re getting ready to pounce on me. I didn’t say that you should ‘use’ him. But if he really is the most important person in your life, it isn’t a crime to talk about him.”
I don’t answer her right away. This is the closest Hope and I have ever gotten to a real fight, and for a moment I’m tempted to take it all the way and have it out with her. How can she call me crazy? She moved to Clarkson two years ago, so she missed Ethan’s four mute years, the doctor visits, the string of therapists, the awful transition into elementary school, the difficult choice my mother and I had to make when the principal insisted we withdraw him from the school. Hope wasn’t there through any of that, so she has no right to judge me. I want to tell her that. But haven’t I just watched her flirt with him? How does she expect me to discuss this casually with her now?
“Maybe we should change the subject,” I suggest.
Hope sighs and wanders over to the window. “I’m sorry I upset you,” she says in a gentle voice. “It’s my fault for bringing it up. I know how sensitive the topic is for you.”
I want to protest, insist that I’m not being oversensitive—but I know anything I say will only prove her point. I’m trying to think of a good response when we’re interrupted by a sharp knock on the bedroom door. “Hello, Rain. Mom just came home,” my brother says, peering into my room. “It’s time for our run.”
I’m a little relieved to hear him. Recently our forty-minute run had become kind of a burden to me. It was yet another unvarying activity in our daily routine. Every afternoon, come rain, shine, or Montana blizzard, Ethan and I would tie up our running shoes and do exercise therapy together. It was originally my idea when I’d observed that my brother was calmer and happier after physical activity. Rain and Ethan’s daily run had been my solution, and now I was stuck with it. No matter what else was going on in my life, I had to be home at four o’clock for our jog. Today, however, I welcome the excuse to say goodbye to Hope. By tomorrow I’ll probably feel better about our disagreement, but right now, my unsaid words are beginning to chafe.
Hope looks disappointed. “Okay, I guess I’ll head home.” She glances hopefully at Ethan, but he turns quickly and shuts the door behind him.
“Sorry about that.” I grab my shoes and water bottle. “I have to go.”
“Maybe one day I can join you two,” she suggests brightly. “I could use the exercise. And it would shake things up a little.”
I hope she’s joking, but I decide to play along. “Sure, maybe one day.” Yeah, right, I think. When we’re a hundred years old and Ethan can’t see too well. Maybe then he won’t notice if we invite Hope along.
I call out goodbye to my mother who’s standing in the kitchen and staring in bewildered silence at the giant 3-D colon hologram. “The refrigerator is in the backyard,” I remark over my shoulder. I don’t bother to explain. Mom will put together the pieces on her own.
Cooking with Rain
SERENITY THROUGH YOUR GUT
Where I answer all your burning food-related questions!
Dear Rain: Have you always been a foodie? I’m more of a mac ‘n’ cheese guy. The kind from the box.
—Wacky Mac from Missoula
Dear Wacky: Thank you so much for writing to me! Would you like ideas for recipes, or do you want to chat about food in general? I respect all lifestyle and culinary choices, but I hope you don’t really prefer your cheese in dust form. How about trying Rain’s super easy Mac ‘n’ Cheese recipe? The almond milk and pinch of nutmeg give it a little zest. Let me know what you think!
ETHAN’S JOURNAL:
“Particularly within the past few decades, proponents of deafness as a culture have asserted that deafness is not a pathology and therefore does not need to be ‘fixed.’” (Megan A. Jones, Disability Studies Quarterly, 2002.)
My Observation:
I used to reject this. Not using modern advances seemed silly and backward.
Recent experiences have led me to reconsider. If I couldn’t hear noise, I might find it easier to leave the house. I wouldn’t need to worry about the roar of a busy restaurant, the squeal of a baby on a train, the chatter of my classmates. I could ignore my sister’s voice through the thin walls. I could forget Hope.
Chapter 3
Ethan is already on the front porch when I finish tying my laces; he nods briefly when I join him and, without a word, bounds down the steps and takes off running.
We jog side by side in silence for a few minutes, our rubber soles thumping rhythmically against the sidewalk, the brisk October wind whistling in our ears. The road stretches quietly ahead of us, the distant hum of cars on the interstate and the silent majesty of the snowcapped Rocky Mountains are comforting and familiar. As my breathing quickens and my pulse begins to pound, I glance up and grin at my brother. I truly love these moments. I love the simple perfection of the two of us, all alone with no one around, no expectations or pressure or stress. Just the sound of running shoes, the clean mountain air, and the sweet, unspoiled smile on my brother’s face. He’s running as he always does, arms slightly akimbo, legs wide, like a toddler trying to keep his balance, but his face is peaceful and happy. His skin is flushed; the wind whips his long hair around his cheeks and open lips. We look like a strange team; no one would ever guess we were twins. Ethan is long and lanky, nearly six feet tall, with our mother’s Nordic fairness and delicate features. I’m small—almost a foot shorter than my brother—olive-skinned with long, straight, dark hair and my father’s strong, arched eyebrows and black eyes.
My breathing relaxes as my body falls into a comfortable running rhythm, and after a few minutes I call my brother’s name. He startles and stumbles forward; I reach my arm to steady him, but he regains his balance and resumes a slower jog. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to mess you up,” I say, “I just wanted to tell you that I love our running time together.”
He doesn’t say anything for a moment, and I’m not sure if he’s heard me. Sometimes you have to repeat yourself several times before it registers, especially if he’s concentrating on another task. Right now I know that he’s completely absorbed in putting one foot in front of the other and struggling to control the clumsy limbs that have troubled him since he was little. I’m not expecting a deep conversation under the circumstances. Still, there’s something I’ve been dying to ask him.
“Efan, I was just wondering—”
He turns his head to me for a second and then looks forward again. He’s listening.
“You don’t have to answer right now. I was just curious about something.”
We jog on for a few seconds and then he gasps out, “Curious about something?”
I know that it’s hard for him to run and form sentences at the same time so I press forward, pleased he’s at least registered my words. “Yeah. I was wondering what you think of Hope.”
It’s too vague a question, but I can’t think of any other way to put it. I’m suddenly self-conscious about the whole idea. Maybe I shouldn’t be; Ethan is sixteen, and it’s perfectly natural that he would think about girls. Just because he’s never spoken about it doesn’t mean the feelings aren’t there. And my mother is always telling me to relate to him as I would to a neurotypical brother. Plenty of siblings talk to each other about their crushes, so why shouldn’t we?
He says nothing for a minute, and I think that maybe he’s zoned out again when suddenly he slows his pace to a walk and turns in my direction. His eyes don’t quite meet mine, but he’s concentrating on his answer, and that’s enough. “She’s short, like you,” he tells me finally, “and also fatter. She smells like licorice most of the time.”
I suppress a sigh. Answers like that make people think that Ethan is mentally challenged even though he’s quite in
telligent. But literal responses tend to throw people off. I know I should have phrased the question differently. That’s rule number three: When talking to Ethan, be as exact, truthful, and direct as possible.
He seems uncomfortable suddenly, and he shifts back and forth beside me. We’ve paused a few feet in front of Manny’s Ice Cream Shop, which is our halfway point. He glances over his shoulder and gestures roughly with his hands. “We stopped running,” he states loudly.
“I know. I need to rest for a little bit.”
He doesn’t say anything, but his eyes dart around the street, and he bounces nervously on his heels.
“Let’s go inside, okay?” I suggest. “I could use a snack.”
He stays quiet and continues to bounce.
“You like Manny’s,” I remind him patiently. “He does the sterile scrubbing procedure, exactly like you’ve shown him. I’ve checked.”
He looks unconvinced, but after a moment he nods and follows me into the shop.
We settle down at the counter, and Manny saunters up to us to take our order. “Sweet potato cashew shake coming right up,” he declares. “I ordered the sweet potatoes especially for you, Rainey. Not much demand for those in an ice cream shop.”
“Manny, that’s awesome! You tried my recipe?”
He grins. “Yup. And I licked the glass clean.”
“It would be even better with a shot of bourbon,” I whisper.
“I’m not trying to get arrested,” he replies with a wink. “Let me guess, strawberry shake for Mr. Ethan?”
Ethan smiles, and his shoulders relax a little. This place is clean, quiet, and familiar; the smells are pleasant, and there is no one there but us. Perfect. No reason to worry, I tell myself. Ethan is breathing regularly, and the cornered rabbit look has left his eyes. Manny waddles off to fiddle with the smoothie machine, and I use the opportunity to pick up where we left off.
“Hey, Efan, can you look at me?” I suggest.
He focuses on a corner of my sleeve. Close enough.
“Back to what we were talking about—” I hesitate and take a deep breath. “I was just wondering—do you think that Hope is pretty?”
He blinks once before answering. “Yes.”
His answer is so quick and definite that my mouth drops open in surprise. “Really?” I blurt out. “You do?” I’m both shocked and pleased, and for a minute I can’t think of anything to say. It’s not that I don’t agree with him; Hope has always been pretty, and recently she’d graduated to stunning. She’d even dated Grayson, the class hottie. They’d been the “it” couple for most of sophomore year.
But none of that stuff had ever interested my brother before. So I can’t believe Ethan has noticed her.
“Really?” I persist. “Well, that’s—that’s great.”
“Why did you ask?” He looks confused. “I thought you already knew that. She’s your friend.”
“I do. It’s just—I just—” I can’t find the words to express my disbelief. “I just wanted to know how you saw her.”
“Oh. Okay.” The perplexed look vanishes. He seems to consider for a moment, then takes a deep breath. “Her eyes have thick, dark limbal rings,” he declares. “This feature has been shown in studies to influence facial attractiveness. The theory is that because the ring tends to fade with age and medical problems, a prominent limbal ring gives an honest indicator of youth and is therefore preferred by the opposite sex. The distance between the pupils of her eyes in relation to the width of her face is about forty-six percent, which is considered to be an attractive ratio. Her nostrils are not too wide or thin or long, and they don’t have hair in them. She has large, red lips, which are attractive except when she laughs, and her mouth gets very big. Her teeth are white and straight except for a chip on the left incisor. Her skin is clear but there’s a three-millimeter birthmark on her upper neck. Her hair is very curly and long with no bald patches or oiliness. So if you take all the facial features together and consider them as a whole, the good far outweighs the bad.” He takes another deep breath and clears his throat. My mouth is still hanging open, and I’m fighting the urge to laugh. But Ethan isn’t done yet.
“Her body proportions are also attractive,” he continues, picking up speed. “She isn’t bony or obese. Her waist to hip ratio is seven to ten, which are the preferred proportions in this country. Her breasts are symmetrical and the appropriate size for her height, which is—”
“Okay, okay!” I hold my hand out to stop him. “I don’t want to hear about my best friend’s boobs, thank you very much!”
He raises his eyebrows and turns his head away. “If you didn’t want to hear about it—”
“Yeah, I know, I shouldn’t have asked.” I chuckle softly to myself. “I’m sorry, I just had no idea that you liked her. Or that you’d analyzed her like that.”
He turns his head back in my direction and focuses on some point past my shoulder. “What?”
“Come on, look at me when I’m talking to you,” I urge him quietly. “What are you staring at back there?”
There’s a bothered, frustrated wrinkle between his brows, and he slowly lifts his head to meet my gaze. “I’m trying to hear what you’re saying,” he tells me softly. There’s a pained look in his eyes. “It’s easier when I don’t look at you. What did you say before?”
“I said that I had no idea that you liked Hope.”
“I don’t like her.” His response is sharp and automatic and feels like a slap in the face.
“Oh.”
I turn away from him to hide my disappointment and focus on Manny, who’s just walked up and set our drinks down on the counter. He places two napkins and straws in front of us, wheezes loudly for a moment, and then shuffles off. I run my fingers over the cool droplets on my glass and draw a sad face in the film of condensation. The doodle reminds me of a game I used to play with Ethan years ago, when we were trying to teach him what facial expressions meant. “Look at my mouth, Efan,” I would say. “See how it’s open and my eyes are all narrow? That means that my feelings are hurt.”
I wonder if he remembers that now and if he can interpret the hurt look on my face. It seems like a lot to expect from him. My feelings don’t even make sense to me at the moment. I don’t understand why his abrupt rejection of my friend has upset me so much. It’s not like I want them to be together. An hour ago, I was actively trying to discourage Hope from doing just that. So why does it bother me that he’s rejected her?
“Why don’t you like her?” I ask him after a moment.
He seems to consider the question. His forehead is furrowed and his long fingers pick nervously at the napkin in front of him. “I don’t know what she wants from me,” he murmurs finally, his tone unusually quiet and hesitant.
“That’s it?” I ask. “Well, I don’t think you should worry about that. I bet if you relax you’ll actually enjoy talking to her. I’m pretty sure that she just wants to be friends with you. For now.”
He shakes his head emphatically. “That’s not what I meant,” he says, his voice edged with frustration. “When she’s near me I feel like I did at school. Remember how you wanted me to try to make friends? And I did. I kept trying. And I kept getting it wrong.”
He’s right about that. I remember watching Ethan walk up to a new classmate and introduce himself, a touch too loudly. I’d usually be a few paces behind him, smiling my encouragement and holding my breath. But then, before the kid had an opportunity to reply, Ethan would rattle off a slew of random questions. “What’s your favorite color? Do you like dogs? Did you see the Learning Channel’s program about heart transplants?” The person would step back a pace, their eyebrows would go up—and Ethan just wouldn’t take the cue.
The nicer people would simply answer politely and walk away as quickly as possible. The less-nice people—well, they’re the reason Ethan is being homeschool
ed now.
“But you know Hope already,” I reassure him. “She’s been over a bunch of times. So it shouldn’t be worse than meeting someone new—”
“It’s much worse,” he counters. “I get dizzy when I look at her. She tries to stand too close to me. And talk to me. And I have no idea what she’s thinking. With you and Mom I can sometimes guess. But I don’t have any idea about her.”
I can’t help smiling at this. “Everyone feels like that around someone they like.”
“But I don’t like her!” he bursts out, his voice echoing harshly around the small shop. “I like you and Mom. I know what you expect from me. When Hope comes over she changes everything. She makes me feel sick. How can you like someone who makes you feel like you can’t breathe?”
His fair skin is flushed to the roots of his hair, and he’s drumming his fingers in agitation. My instinct is to say something calming and move on to another topic, but I know I can’t. I feel like a scientist on the verge of a breakthrough. Ethan talks to me a lot, but never about his feelings. Maybe that’s why I was so disappointed earlier. I didn’t want them to get together. I was just hoping for a glimpse of my brother’s heart.
“But I feel like that too sometimes!” I tell him. “There’s this guy at school that makes me nervous just like that—” I pause uncertainly and glance self-consciously at Ethan. Talking about Liam was definitely not part of my plan. I clear my throat and start again. “What I meant was that girls are nervous around guys too. So I know exactly what you’re going through.”
“I know you have a crush on Liam,” he informs me. His voice is flat, emotionless. “But you don’t know what I’m going through.”
I blink stupidly at him and make a helpless sputtering noise before I find my words. “How—how did—how do you…”