It's pouring so hard when I get into the guy's car that my hair is dripping. It would've never been this wet in Dallas. Another reason why Dallas rules over Washington.
The guy says something as he starts the car. I can't hear him because of some stupid techno crap that blares out of the speakers.
"What?" I reply.
He turns down the music, "My name's Connor,"
"Ayden," I mutter. Like you should care, right?
"Haven't seen you around." I can barely understand him. And I don't care.
But I still scoff. "And you know everyone at the high school?"
"Well, I'm supposed to." Connor shrugs. We're out of the parking lot, cruising down the street.
"Uh…huh. Turn right."
Connor does so. Rain flecks the windshield and I watch each raindrop land on the glass until the wipers wipe them away.
"That's my house there." I point when I see it appear. Connor turns in the driveway.
"I'm sorry about your shirt," he says. "I need to make it up to you."
"No, you don't. It's fine."
"I'd like to. How about Starbucks or something sometime?"
I huff, "Whatever."
I get out and slam the door. As far as I'm concerned, I'm never gonna see Connor again.
I enter my house.
The house may be the only plus of this new location. When I walk through the front door, I feel like I'm stepping back in another century. The chandelier was supposedly custom made and it's a sight, with thousands of glass pieces shaped like diamonds and circles.
As soon as you walk in, you also notice the living room. It's directly in front of the entryway and marvelous. Whoever died in this house was strung out enough to offer the buyer a grand piano. And it's huge. Kelly fell in love with it when she saw it. She's playing some song now and singing to herself.
I enter the living room. To the right is the kitchen, where my mom is busy at work.
She smiles as she sees me, "Just in time, Ayden."
"Mmh…" I smile back at her. "What's for dinner?"
She gestures at a stack of tortillas, "Tacos. I know it's your favorite, so…what happened to your shirt?"
My face flames, my smile compressing in a grimace, "I…spilled something." Thanks for being so outspoken, Mother.
"Which was…?"
I huff and shrug, "Some drink."
Mom looks like she wants to say more, but she just shakes her head, "Go and change."
"Thanks," I hurry upstairs to my room. Last night, I stayed up until midnight organizing it. Now my favorite writings are on the walls. I've also got a kickass sound system that I was lucky enough to acquire for $20 at some garage sale.
I replace my shirt and hurry down.
Dinnertime.
Tonight it's more talk than eat. I don't join the conversation, though.
Thanks to my mom's pestering, I've sunk into a bad mood. My cut hand is stinging, too. I wince every time every time I pick up something.
I eat three tacos and two servings of tortilla chips. Then I excuse myself.
It's when I'm checking my cut to see if it is infected does my mom check up on me.
"How was school for you?" she asks.
"Good." I reply.
"Really? What happened to your hand?"
"I hurt it."
"On what?"
I glare, "I tripped."
"And stained your shirt?"
"That was different."
"Is this gonna be like freshman year, Den?"
"Stop calling me Den," I snap. "And no. I've made sure it's not."
"Okay. I just don't want you to get hurt again."
"I won't."
"Good. What happened with the shirt?"
"A guy spilled his drink on me. He drove me home."
"Oh."
"Yeah."
She leaves me alone. I'm close to screaming now and I grab my iPod, listen to my favorite alternative song on full volume.
Despite the distraction, I end up screaming in my pillow anyways.
-
Tomorrow I show up early. Interpreter June shows up late. My homeroom teacher looks peeved and I know word will get to the redhead.
Lunch I sit by myself again. Several people walk by me, but no weird looks.
I enter Study Hall. And there's Connor.
June and the redhead aren't there. There's only a teacher assistant, two blond girls, me and Connor.
The teacher assistant wants me to sit by Connor. I sit on the right of him. Then I pull out my school agenda and I check my homework. Turns out there's none. The assistant comes over and I tell her.
"Really?"
"Yes," I reply.
The assistant looks doubtful, but lets it go with a dramatic lift of her eyebrows.
Interpreter June storms in. She picks up her bag and leaves, but before she does I see—and everyone else sees—that she's in tears.
The redhead calls me out in the hallway.
"June's resigned," she told me. "She can't stick to the schedule."
"Great, so I don't have any way of getting information?"
"You do. I'll get an assistant in all your classes. That way, you're able to do all your homework."
"Why did you fire her?"
The redhead sighs sharply, "Because she was late. And she was sloppy, from what I've heard. Socializing with teachers too much. Sloppy signing. She's young. She's not used to this."
"And you fire her after two days?"
"I know what kids want. Whether they admit it or not, they want good education. And that's why I switched your free period to seventh. Because I got an e-mail from your mother. About freshman year in Dallas."
I'm starting to detest my mother right now.
My reply comes through my teeth, "And should freshman year matter? I'm a sophomore. It's all in the past. I don't care."
"I know. I'm just taking precautions. I want everything to be okay."
"Well, it's okay now. Because it doesn't matter."
-
The classroom was quiet when the redhead and I go back in.
I don't meet any of the curious stares. I just sit down and get out a piece of paper. Let them think what they like.
The redhead sits down next to me. She gestures for the piece of paper. I give it to her and watch her write. Her cursive's smooth and elegant; the pen point never leaves the page. She hands the paper back to me.
Connor is learning sign language. He is registered for a full year of ASL and ASL 2 at BCC. It would be good to fill your time if you could help him practice.
I glance up at Connor. Unbeknownst to me, Connor was studying me. But when our gazes lock, he ducks his head.
Can't he just use the internet? I reply in my scrawl.
The redhead smirks as she writes her reply, The class requires you communicate with deaf people and involve yourself in the culture. You're the closest thing we've got here.
I roll my eyes, push the paper away, "The closest thing isn't always good,"
The redhead shrugs, putting her pen down as she replies, "But it's good enough."
"I'd rather not."
"Why?"
"Just because I'm deaf doesn't mean I live like I'm deaf. I can speak. Many deaf people, who truly immerse themselves in the culture, can't. Many deaf people who know ASL as their first language, don't have as proficient English skills as I do. Deaf and hearing people are different. I'm deaf, but I might as well be a hearing person by the way I act."
The redhead has no reply. I snatch the paper back and throw it in the trash.
-
"Hey, Ayden."
I looked up when Connor says my name twenty minutes later.
"Why don't you help me?"
"Because what's the point? It's not like you're gonna become super-dedicated to it."
Connor shrugs. "I could."
I snort. "Right. And pigs will fly."
"Why do you have a hard time believing me?"
"Because usually, people who wanna 'learn' stick with the program for two weeks, maximum, and then give up."
"Well, you can always encourage me."
"Tried that. Didn't work. Find another person. I'm not gonna be your guinea pig."
"Will you guys stop talking and get to work?" the redhead pipes up.
Connor ignores her. "Look, trust me."
I shake my head, smirk, "No."
"Are you really that sure of me?"
"When there've been about twenty other jocks-slash-bad boys like you, yes."
"I'm not a jock."
"You're either one or the other. You gotta be to be in Study Hall."
"So what are you?"
I shrug, "Disabled."
"That's bull."
"Run with it, then. I'm full of shit."
"You two!" the redhead barks. "Stop talking. Stop swearing! Get to work!"
I focus on the sheet of paper. Didn't hear another peep out of Connor again. Thank God.
