Young Writers Society

(Author's Note: I won't post anymore up here. This is just to see what the reception is.)

I’ve always wanted to hear.

Get in line, huh? Every deaf kid does.

Any deaf person who’s told you they’re fine being deaf is either stupid or a liar. Granted, there are special cases. But I’m not one. I’m just another tired disabled piece of shit that needs to tow a person behind him to get through the day.

But I can hear with assistance. But sometimes that bothers me. That you can shut out the world with a twitch of your finger. Other days, I consider it a blessing.

But now, I don’t know whether to consider it a blessing or a curse.

I hate those days.

But I’m talking too much. And I’m talking about the wrong things. I hate self-flagellation.

Of course that makes me a hypocrite.

Talking with me can be a curse. I swear too much, I go off topic. So if you know what’s good for you, you’d better sit down. Sit down or find some support. And I’d better sit down, get settled before I start talking.

Anyways.

I just moved into this big Victorian house on Mercer Island, Washington with my mom and my older sister. Mom was offered a job at some Seattle hospital for a load of cash. And we got out of there. It was probably best for our sanity. Especially mine. I had a horrible freshman year at the high school. If anybody cares to ask, I’ll probably lie and say it was just academics. And that’s what I told the dean of students when I left. But it wasn’t.

Freshman year was a blessing and a curse.

But it’s behind me. Now I’m sixteen. My name is Ayden. My godmother named me and she was of Gaelic descent. Plus, she was a poet. So was my mother. I’m not a poet. I’m just a writer and I’m drawing a blank.

I write everything except essays. But I favor lyrics. I blame my sister, Kelly. She’s got one hell of a voice and she uses it to good measure. In that situation, I consider my deafness a blessing. I get lots of blessings because of my deafness.

But in this situation? In this new school? Call me befuddled.

Ask me at the end of the day.

“We have a new student. His name is Aiden.”

My interpreter corrects every teacher that mispronounces my name, “It’s Ayden. Ay-den.”

People stare at my hearing aid. At my interpreter, who socializes with every teacher. She’s clad in a print blouse with a turquoise necklace, something any professional interpreter would avoid. My respect for her was lost when I saw her attire. And her signing isn’t much better.

Whatever. I’ll blame her for my bad grades.

Whenever she corrects a teacher, people stare.

Depending on the class, I blush and gaze at the drawn-on gray of my desktop when I find that bothersome gawk. In my favorite classes, English and Art, I stare back. I smile—or at least try to. It probably looks more like a grimace. They look away or whisper to their neighbor. If it’s the latter, I feel something shrivel up inside.

“Ayden. Is that right?”

I always make a facial reply, regardless of whether they get it right or not.

I don’t want my name to take up space in people’s brains.

The school is wonderfully designed, with each hall applied to a specific subject. I find my classes quicker than I’ve ever had. The interpreter, however, does have trouble. She arrives two or three minutes after class starts and interrupts the teacher’s lecturing with my arrival.

I hate her already. Let’s hope she doesn’t stick with me for lunch.

She doesn’t. She veers off in the opposite direction. I stare after her for five seconds (what is her problem?), then follow the rest of the crowd to the cafeteria.

I cut the line. After a bit of placement confusion, I end up behind two girls. One’s blonde, the other’s brunette. The latter looks back at me and gives me a nod.

I skip the special, a red-hued dish that claims to be manicotti. I get popcorn chicken and a Dr. Pepper and give the lady 5 dollars. I fill a small plastic bowl—the kind you find at fast-food joints—with mustard. I walk out of the cafeteria and sit down in the cavernous entrance hall. The bench is hard, one or two wood boards chafing into the denim of my jeans. It’s better than the linoleum, which is polished so bright I can see my face in it.

I eat in silence, taking off my hearing aid so I can’t hear the echoes of laughter and talk drifting from the cafeteria. I take out my iPod and don my headphones. Turn up the volume enough to make out every detail of the music. I listen to my cousin’s favorite alternative band. People give me weird looks as they walk by.

I don’t give a shit.

My last period is my free one. I hurry out in the rain with scant acknowledgement to my interpreter.

My mother put me in Study Hall. I’m fuming right now. The teacher of the class sat down with me and basically talked about shit I don’t care about. Much less comprehend. I couldn’t understand the interpreter’s attempts, either.

All in all a shitty day.

As I pull my coat tighter around myself, driving against the rain, I nearly slip on some concrete, but I grab hold of the rough brick wall…I cut myself.

“Fuck!” I exclaim. I dabble at the cut with my shirt hem—it’s in the middle of my palm. I apply pressure to it until the hem has a dark blot of blood. I huff. It’s cold. And gray. And I injure myself on the first day of school. Washington is just fantastic.

The library is the school’s building neighbor. I hurry in and see a tissue box. I grab one and apply it on top of the cut. I know it’s supposedly not good hygiene, but whatever.

I seat myself at a computer, pay the fee for an hour’s use and pretty soon, I’m Facebooking my friends from Dallas.

My best friends have already written on my Wall, saying they miss me. I reply to every one of them:

‘Carrie, I miss you too. wish I could be in warm Dallas w/ you and your hot mama Rose. the cold is freezing my ass off.’ Carrie is my best friend. Gorgeous as a movie star. Every boy at my old high school wanted her, but she already has my second best friend, Rose.

‘Sam, miss you. already wanting a pizza all-nighter. that’s how bad Washington is.’

Sam is one of the few male friends I have. He was my first kiss. There was no chemistry though. It was an experiment for both of us. When I finally figured out I was gay, he was the first person I told.

‘Jerrod, I so wish you could come with me. I’m the only deaf at this crappy high school. kill me please.’

Jerrod was my boyfriend. But we broke up before I moved. Long-distance relationships just don’t work.

When my hour is up, I stand up and instantly bump into someone.

Something warm seeps down my shirt front. I exclaim way too loudly and step back. It’s a Starbucks drink.

The owner of that drink stares at me with wide eyes. Beautiful wide eyes. Green eyes. Green is my favorite color. Once I pry myself from his eyes, I can’t help but stare. His shirt, just as stained as mine, hangs over jeans. But his face is almost otherworldly. He’s got amazing lips. His lips are easy to read. He apologizes to me.

I’m stunned. I’ve got a cut hand, I’m five states away from home, and I’ve got a stained shirt. I try to choke back tears, to smile reassuringly.

But I reply at him, “It’s fine!” And it’s too sharp.

He sucks in a breath, takes three steps backward. He’s taller than me, maybe a year or two older. He’s definitely in high school. He’s broad.

He’s beautiful.

“Can I drive you home?” he asks.

I glance outside. Shit. It’s raining even harder. I’ve got no choice, but to say yes to him.

And I do.