by Daryl Banner
His face hardens. His lips purse, causing his sexy cheeks to suck in as he considers me. Oh, crap. Did I do it all wrong? Did I just call him an asshole, or insult his mother, or accidentally tell him I’m a purple frog? Maybe I should have gotten a second opinion before practicing sign language for the first time—that I learned from a Google search—on Clayton.
Then, without relaxing any of that hard attitude on his face, he nods again, then redirects his attention to his phone, where he seems to be typing for a short moment. He shows me the screen:
I’m Clayton
I breathe a sigh of relief. “I know,” I say out loud, then find myself struck with the horror of the fact that I don’t know any more signs. I looked up how to say some other things, but they’ve gone completely out of my head.
Crap. I’m out of conversation.
It doesn’t seem to matter. Clayton, his jaw flexed, gives me another tight nod and a short, halfhearted wave before he turns and departs the building. The glass doors close behind him.
I stare after him, my pulse throbbing in my ears.
Then, all the fear and doubt is replaced yet again with unapologetic glee. I just conversed with Clayton. Wow. I just conversed with Clayton using my hands.
There’s a few other ways I’d like to communicate with Clayton using my hands.
Feeling twenty times lighter than I did before, I return to my booth and pop the last bite of sub into my mouth, a giggle wiggling its way up and down my whole body. I can’t believe what I just did. I can’t believe that actually just happened.
“Is he a friend?”
I look up at Sam, who has yet another speck of mayonnaise on her face, right by her lips. I don’t care. It’s even adorable, suddenly.
“You could say that,” I answer with a dumb grin.
“Is he deaf?”
“Yep.”
I open the bag of chips I didn’t even want. I pop one into my mouth, then scoot the bag across the table to my roommate, who doesn’t even have to be asked, helping herself to one.
“He looks like someone I knew in high school,” she says. “He could be part of a heavy metal band.”
“A sexy drummer,” I say, dreaming on. First thing I’ll do when I get back to my dorm is research every sign I possibly can. “Guitarist,” I go on, wondering how to sign the phrase: I want you to push me into the wall and stick your cock inside me. “Sexy, sexy guitarist.”
“Him being a drummer would make sense,” Sam reasons. “Vibrations and everything …”
“Vibrations,” I agree, dreaming about what sort of vibrations I want to feel between my legs tonight, if I can get some time alone. I think about what signs I’d need to learn to tell him: Bend me over the table and pound me until I forget my own name.
Imaginary signs and hand-shapes keep spinning around my mind as I share the rest of the potato chips with my roommate, lost in dreams of him … and what other kind of magic I can do with my hands.
Chapter 8
Clayton
What the fuck was that?
I can barely concentrate even when I’m backstage sorting stage weights and fucking two-by-fours, as if I’ve suddenly doubled as the set crew, too. Dick was so damn efficient with his lighting crew this morning that there’s barely anything left to do tonight or tomorrow, which leaves my body in a perpetual state of busywork and my mind trapped on that girl.
Dessie.
Not a name I’ve heard before.
I’m so distracted by her that I let a stage weight go too early and the heavy fucker drops on my foot like a brick. After a shriek of pain, I kick the damn thing fruitlessly and study my foot, thankful I wore some sturdy boots today. When I take a glance at the others who are messing with the counterweight system, I realize I might’ve shouted louder than I intended to. I give them an annoyed nod, then continue about my work, determined to keep my toes unbroken.
That Dessie girl signed to me. Great. Fucking great. It’s obvious she either never used sign language before or just learned those few signs for my benefit. I don’t know which feels worse. I hate the attention that signing in public gives me. The only person I sign with is my other roommate Dmitri, who met me in an astronomy class last year when he noticed that I had an interpreter present. He’s got a deaf sister, so he was already fluent. Fuck, he’s even more fluent than I am.
But that girl signed me her name. She obviously gave enough of a shit about me to introduce herself. I feel that horrible flutter in my chest. The girl I’ve been obsessing about … she fucking signed to me.
It makes me insane. Who the hell is she? Why did she appear out of nowhere this semester and fly right into my line of sight and pull me off my tracks?
I’m doing so well. Things are so fucking perfect.
I know the cost of my obsessions. I know what happened last year. I know how girls can ruin me.
I can’t do this again.
But I want to so fucking badly.
Someone comes up to my side and I watch his lips ask me if I’m okay. It’s some freshman I don’t know. I just ignore him, minding my duty in organizing these stupid set pieces and flats that were left for me, and I find myself thinking about signs and hands and that girl’s sexy fingers.
She had sexy, sexy fingers.
Just that small moment at the University Center with her, it revived feelings I’d long left buried since my freshman year, which was a total nightmare. I hated interpreters back then, and maybe I still do. For some reason, I wanted to prove to myself—and maybe to everyone else—that I could do this all on my own. I wasn’t any different than my hearing classmates, and I wanted to prove it. Some leftover high school arrogance had me caught in its know-it-all web.
Defiantly, I downloaded a voice-to-text app on my laptop that I used in all my classes to convert each professor’s speech into words on my screen before my eager eyes. Trouble is, the stupid thing would constantly miss key phrases, misinterpret words, or just plain fuck up. It was like living in an autocorrect nightmare. Still, I was so stubborn and determined that I sat in the front row of every class and stared at my professor’s lips, determined to read them like a hawk.
But, unbeknownst to most, lip reading is, in fact, a very flimsy and inaccurate means of communication.
After too long a time, I finally surrendered to the University’s interpreting services and got myself some school-appointed nerd named Joe, who occasionally sent a girl named Amber in his place, and either of them would interpret the lessons to me each class. I got to know their hands so intimately, they became my own. They seemed used to people who were born deaf, so I had to slow them the fuck down until they got used to a speed I was comfortable with.
As for the attention, I’d just deal with it. Soon, I stopped noticing the people in class staring.
So when this girl Dessie shows up out of nowhere, sings some song at me, grips my heart right out of my chest and then brings it back to me during lunch with a cute expression on her face and her fingers making clumsy words before my eyes, what the fuck am I supposed to do? My heart turned into a racing drum that shook my ribcage apart.
I want to tell her to stay the fuck away from me. I want to tell her that I’m bad news for her. I want to warn her the way a good friend should …
And I want to pin her to a wall and fuck her until she can’t walk.
A shadow drops over me, pulling me out of my thoughts. Standing to my side is the towering shape of Doctor Marvin Thwaite, the Director of the School of Theatre. He’s a staggeringly tall, round man whose steps I normally feel coming as he shakes the stage with each one. He has no hair, save a ring of grey that runs from one ear around the back to the other. His nose is a needle of flesh and his lips are pencil-thin.
He says he’d like to talk in his office, if I can pull myself away from what I’m doing. At least, I hope that’s what he said. I look over at Dick who stands with the others near the lip of the stage and, having heard Doc’s request, Dick lazily waves at me. I nod at
Doctor Thwaite, then follow him out of the theater.
His office is as warm as an oven, its windows facing the sun all day long. Despite the AC running at full blast, it never seems to bother him. He takes a seat at his desk and motions to a chair where I sit. Doc faces me, then asks if I’ll need an interpreter or if I can understand him without one.
I give a patient shake of my head, then type into my phone and show him the screen:
If you speak slowly, I’m good.
Doc smiles and nods amiably.
I know what this meeting is about and can hardly contain myself. He’s going to offer me to do the lighting design for the main stage show. That has to be it. Maybe the lighting designer has some conflict of interest or discovered a scheduling issue and isn’t available. It’s your time of reckoning, Clayton. My stomach turns into steel and I find my hands attached to the armrests with anticipation.
His lips start to move.
I watch with every fiber of my being as my mind converts each lip movement into words. “…invaluable to our program…” He rubs his nose. “…and respect for your hard work and dedication…” He swallows between sentences, licking his long, thin lips. “…for someone with your capability…” His teeth are so white, they blind me with every consonant. What’s his point? Get to the point. I’m so impatient, I could break the armrests off this chair. “…lighting designer…”
I nod and mumble my consent. It’s the closest I’ve ever come to using my voice in front of any of the faculty. Yes, yes, yes. I’ll do it. The hint of a smile finds my face as I continue to watch his mouth move.
“…from New York City, and I want him to…”
My brow furrows. Something isn’t clicking. I find myself falling behind whatever it is he’s saying. Doctor Thwaite seems to notice, because he stops and asks if I’m following. I shake my head no, frustrated with the sudden break in communication.
Wait a minute. Did he just say something about a lighting designer from New York City?
He types at his computer for a second, then twists the monitor around. I’m shown the headshot of some handsome, dimpled, thirty-something douchebag. His name’s Kellen Michael Wright. Professional Lighting Designer from New York City.
Never heard of the fucker.
I glue my eyes to Doc’s lips as he goes on. “…can bring the School of Theatre some good publicity…” My heart sinks. “…as you know the department better than most, and can show him everything…” Blood pumps into my ears, into my cheeks, into my every fingertip. “…and make his transition here as comfortable as possible.”
As comfortable as possible. His transition here.
I’ve gathered everything he needs to say to me. I’m sure my face is a reflection of the turmoil inside. Not that Doctor Thwaite will care to acknowledge it, as he is known to avoid confrontations and pretend like nothing’s ever wrong. I swallow that thick pill he just popped into my mouth with an astute nod.
When he gives me the final smile, I dismiss myself. I’m sure I left imprints of my thumbs in the armrests of his lovely office chair.
Back at the auditorium, I ignore the inquiring stares from the others and return to my work, my face burning with anger. Sometimes, being deaf has its perks, like having an excuse to ignore the world when I want to shut everyone out and fume all on my own. If anyone tries to enter a conversation with me, I’m sure they won’t leave it with their head still attached.
No, he didn’t want me to do the lighting design for Our Town. No, I’m not some special flower. No, my hard work hasn’t finally been recognized. Instead, Doctor Thwaite’s flying in some big shot from New York City to design the show for us, and he wants me to show this guy the ropes.
Me, of all people. What the fuck is Doc thinking?
I’m overlooked enough as it is. Now, as if to push salt into my gaping wounds, I’ll get to experience the joy of watching someone else—who isn’t even a part of this damn school—do the work that I should be doing. I had so many ideas for Our Town, too. I’ve read the play ten times. I had a vision for the funeral scene, for the different homes, for the church …
Fuck. And there isn’t a single other person in the whole department whose sole interest is in designing lights, and Doc knows that. That’s my dream.
When I get home an hour later, the door slams so hard behind me that I feel the floor shake. I ignore the mess in the kitchen and shove through the door into my bedroom, ignoring the squinty glances from Brant and Dmitri on the couch, who seem lost in the middle of playing some first-person shooter game I don’t recognize.
Dropping my bag under the windowsill, I fall back on my bed and shut my eyes. The AC turns on a moment later. I can feel the pull of air as it tickles my skin. Something about that sensation centers me, and I find myself looking up at the bare ceiling as my mind wanders somewhere else entirely.
Dessie. I wonder what her story is. She shows up out of nowhere this year. She’s also from New York City, if what I caught from a buddy in the lighting crew is correct. Does she know the douchebag who’s coming to steal my glory? No one knows anything about her, yet she’s on everyone’s radar. And now she’s been cast as the lead in the first play of the semester.
And she learned a sign or two and told me her name with her sexy hands. Dessie …
I feel a thrumming on my bed and twist around to find Dmitri standing there. With a squint of his eye he signs to me: What’s up? You okay?
I shrug and lazily lift my hands: Shitty day.
He sits on the edge of the bed, which makes it impossible to see him, so I sit up and turn around. He signs to me: We’re going out for a bite. Want to come with?
I shake my head: Not in the mood.
Dmitri smirks: What’s going on? Is it a girl?
In an instant, I realize I don’t want to talk about the haughty dipshit lighting designer from New York. Dessie … That’s someone I’d much rather spend time and effort in moving my hands to discuss.
I shrug, playing up my nonchalance: Someone new at the theater, I sign. Yes.
Dmitri laughs, then signs back: A girl wants your nuts? Instead of the actual sign for nuts, he just grabs his junk and smirks leeringly at me.
I shake my head and snort too hard, the vibration going up my skull, then say: Verdict’s still out on that.
His hands are oddly long, which makes him extra expressive when he signs. It’s almost the equivalent of shouting in sign language. But that’s the only thing about him that’s long. Dmitri is otherwise a short guy, barely five-three, with a boyish face, rosy cheeks, and jet black hair. He has a red and blue tribal tattoo running down his forearm, a sunburst tattooed to the back of his neck, and a diamond stud in either ear. He’s bisexual, but he doesn’t ever bring anyone home and, more or less, seems completely uninterested in sex, despite chiming in whenever Brant and I check out girls. It’s really nice having someone around who I can easily communicate with, even if I refuse to sign much at all in public; I hate the attention.
He signs to me: Don’t let a girl ruin your day. She isn’t worth it, no matter how pretty.
It’s so much more than how pretty she is. Fuck, I wish I could’ve heard her music. I sign: She’s a singer and actress from New York City. And she signed to me.
Dmitri’s eyes go wide. Oh, he signs. You’re fucked.
Fucked, I agree.
He slaps my shoulder, then moves his hands: Come out with us. We’re getting tacos. It’s Brant’s treat.
I smirk knowingly: Does he know he’s treating us?
Dmitri grins: He will when he gets the check.
I think the company of my buddies is just what I needed. The whole way there, I sign to Dmitri, telling him about Dessie, how she sang to me, how she ran into me at the food court and fucking signed to me. Dmitri relays a lot of it to Brant, then keeps signing: You’re fucked. Brant agrees by mimicking his signs, except it keeps looking like the signs for: You fell.
When the three of us arrive at the diner, we take ou
r usual booth in the back. Brant tells us about this new girl he met in the psychology building and how he’s got this fantasy about her hypnotizing him to do things. When he makes a face to imitate how she’ll look when he’s diving between her legs, I laugh so hard that I spill my sweet tea across the table, soaking Dmitri’s pants and causing him to curse loudly, drawing the attention of nearby tables. In the midst of his tantrum, I sign to him: Would you mind signing all that? I can’t quite make out what curse words you’re shouting. That makes Dmitri mouth the very distinct words of “Fuck you” before he laughs and throws a tea-soaked wad of napkins at Brant.
When Dmitri excuses himself to the bathroom to dry up, Brant leans over the table and asks me about the girl. I shrug, mumbling and looking away. He taps my hand to draw my attention back to him, then asks what I’m going to do about it.
I frown. What the hell does he expect me to do?
His eyes turn serious—something I don’t see in Brant very often. His lips move slowly: “I don’t want you to be alone forever. I care about you. You have to do something about this girl.”
I shake my head, dismissing him again. There’s no use pursuing her, no matter the signs she learns. She won’t be able to handle me. They all run away.
He smacks me over the head. I catch his hand, threatening to crush it if he does that again, but he only responds with a superior smirk, leaning across the table. He reminds me that she signed to me, then mimics her by making dumb motions with his hand, ending randomly with his favorite sign: fart.
I snort and shake my head, the humor not hitting me. The more I think about her, the more frustrated I get. I punch my thumbs into the phone, then show it:
What’s ur point???
I’m too much work.
I’m fucked up dude.....