“Okay?” I sign.
“Yes,” she signs back, into my chest, her right hand pressing into my button-down. I guess she doesn’t want to let go. I smile behind the wind visor.
When I was first allowed to carry passengers, I gave rides to each of my friends. I’ve taken a couple of girls out from my school this way, too. But dating is tough. Most of us grew up together. The Deaf community is a pretty small one, even in New York. The teen Deaf community? Even smaller. I can remember every embarrassing thing that all of them ever did. Every now and again, we get a new kid. Then it’s like a feeding frenzy and pretty soon they’re either hooked up or they just become part of the family.
This girl? She’s practically a stranger. It’s… thrilling. To say the least.
Her hands change their grip, opening so they hold on to my rib cage instead of curling into tight fists on my chest. Her fingers stretch and relax and my skin is suddenly extra-sensitive, tingling wherever she touches. She’s against my back, my legs, and around my ribs.
I’m driving.
I shouldn’t be this distractible.
I turn by the Amish school and then into the long driveway to the parking lot. After rolling to a stop I take off my helmet and look back at Robin. She takes her hands off my ribs and the shirt is sweaty and wrinkled where she was holding on. She sits up straight and takes her helmet off, like me.
Her cheeks flush and her eyes shine. Her hair is sticking out all over—little fuzzy curls all around her head like a dark halo. “Thank you,” she signs. “Thank you!” She shakes her head, grinning. “So much fun,” her mouth says clearly. “So much fun. Thank you,” she signs again.
I grin. “You’re welcome,” I sign back.
I feel her hands, small and warm, on my shoulders as she leans to swing her leg over and slide off the bike onto the gravel. Both feet on the ground now, she smiles and looks away, down the hill, over the town.
“Beautiful,” she says without remembering that I can’t hear her. But since I can’t take my eyes off her lips, I have a pretty good idea what she’s saying. She looks back at me.
I look out over the town, down the hill. “Beautiful,” I mouth, and sign. I look at her and she imitates my movement.
“Beautiful,” she signs, grinning.
I unhook the saddlebags and she looks at them, as though seeing them for the first time. There’s not much in them—just a picnic blanket and some food. Although plenty of tables are available, Robin finds a spot on the ground in the middle of the close-cut grass, and I approve. Eating on the grass is the whole point of a picnic, after all. I pick up one of the saddlebags and unbuckle it, pulling out the picnic blanket, tossing it to her. It billows like a photo-shoot fan is on, and she lays it gently on the grass as I pull out a few of cans of soda (sorry, “pop”) to weigh down the corners. Pulling off my boots and socks, I sit on the blanket and pour everything else out. There is a veritable smorgasbord of food—sandwiches, Cheetos, cheese, apples, chips, granola, crackers, cookies, chocolate… and there are gluten-free, nut-free, and meat-free options. A full-size notebook and two pens are mixed into everything.
She laughs and sprawls across the blanket to grab a pen. Still lying down, she writes, “This looks awesome.” She opens the bag of Cheetos and munches happily, looking out at the view. “Tell me about yourself,” she scrawls.
I take the pen and let her look over the whitecaps of Lake Erie as I write, “My name is Carter Paulson. I’m profoundly deaf, which basically means I can’t hear anything. Yes, that’s rare. In fact, my entire family (except my mom) is deaf. Yes, that’s rare, too. My dad’s an architect, my mom’s a stay-at-home and ASL interpreter. My older sister is twenty—she’s a live representative. Like you would chat with online for technical help. My little sister is nine. She has a CI (cochlear implant), so she’s practically hearing. Yes, this is a weird family in the Deaf community, too. My parents adopted us intentionally because they wanted to give us a good family. It worked. I have a great family.” I take the picture of my family out of my wallet to show her. I look up—she’s sitting with her legs to one side, eating an apple and watching some little kids play tag. I start a new paragraph.
“I play soccer and baseball. I like art. Especially photography. And I love steak. And lattes. And movies. I live in Manhattan but go to school in Queens. I’ve stayed at Chautauqua every summer as long as I can remember. I’m eighteen. I’ll be a senior at Lexington School for the Deaf. Go Blue Jays.”
I slide the notebook over to her, picture on top. She looks it all over, smiling. She picks up the pen as I spread peanut butter on an apple and enjoy at the view. And by “the view,” I mean the pretty girl who’s actually here to hang out with me. She is lying on her stomach, propped up on her elbows as she writes. Her Vans and socks are in a pile in the grass, and her toes wiggle among the clover, off the blanket. She glances up and I look away, pretending to watch trees or something. I’m such a sucky liar. Finally, she slides the notebook across to me.
“My name is Robin Peters. I am 100 percent hearing.” I laugh, and continue reading. “My dad is an English professor at the college in Fredonia. My mom is a Mary Kay rep. I am an only child. I have a great family, too. Even if they’re more boring than yours. Hehe.
“My favorite thing in my world is music. I play piano, pennywhistle, guitar, harmonica, and dabble in fiddle, harp, and hammered dulcimer. In the school band I rock out the marimba and other piano-looking things. I think I like art but I don’t get to see it much. I’ve lived in Westfield my whole life. My best friend is Jenni and she’s prettier than I am. I can carry six milkshakes on a tray and not spill a drop. Even harder—I can carry eight cups of black coffee. I like movies, too! I’m sixteen—I know, I know, young for my grade. I’ll be a senior at Westfield Academy and Central School.
“Your family sounds awesome. Your life sounds interesting and exotic.
“PS—I learned how to spell my name. Wanna see?”
I look at her. She’s waiting, right hand ready. As soon as she sees me looking, her hand forms a tentative “R,” then “O” “B” “I” “N.” I laugh and shake my hands in applause. She tilts her head. “Deaf applause,” I write.
She imitates my motion, smiling. The sun bounces off her shining dark hair. Her blue eyes are sparkling.
I want to kiss her more than I want to breathe.
But I don’t.
Chapter 11
Robin
Over the next hour, I replace the study of fingerpicking patterns with the study of Carter Paulson. He is, in fact, perfect. I ask him to list his flaws for me and he writes, I quote, “I have none.” Of course, then he laughs, scratches it out, and writes, “Just kidding. I am stubborn and opinionated. I don’t like parties. I am a terrible liar. I can be antisocial.”
“I don’t believe it,” I write.
“You are the first friend I’ve made here,” he writes, “and I’ve been coming here my whole life. That is, if we are friends…”
“Of course we’re friends. What about strawberry blond guy?” I write.
“Barry. Childhood friend. He… hasn’t aged well,” he writes. “They pay me to hang out with him. Not joking.”