“You wouldn’t believe the kids in my classes,” he says. “Tattoos on their hands. That’s never going to come off. Just imagine when they’re my age with mustache tattoos on their fingers! Who will hire them?”
“I don’t know, dear,” Mom placates.
“Sleeping around, too. They’re all sleeping around! And their parents condone this, they tell me! Guess old-fashioned guest rooms are a thing of the past…”
“Guess so,” I pipe up from the backseat. “We don’t even have one.”
Dad glares at me in the rearview mirror. “We have a basement. A nice basement with a nice couch.”
We pull up to Jenni’s house and she pats my back sympathetically before exiting the car. “See you tomorrow?” she calls over her shoulder as she walks up the stairs to her front door.
“Yes! Tomorrow!”
Chapter 4
Carter
The wind whips around me as I ride the New York State back roads early Sunday evening. I get lost in the trees and the woods and the farms. There are a few good things about getting away from civilization for the summer, and this is one of them. I ride under a canopy of trees and the road turns to gravel. I take a left by the Amish church and glance inside. A boy with a bowl cut is staring out the window. I wave to him and gun the motor up the hill, and the yellow Ducati rumbles beneath me.
Past a few ramshackle houses and farms, I find what I’m looking for—the parking lot for a park. There are a couple of picnic tables, a few charcoal grills, and a little pavilion. Families sit at tables or picnic blankets. But I didn’t come for a picnic. I came for the view. I get the Nikon out of my saddlebags and start snapping pictures.
The hill I’m standing on is blanketed in green grass and white clover, overlooking the entire town and the expanse of blue that is Lake Erie. I see the steeple of the church in Westfield’s park. I see little houses, like toys. White caps dot the waves of Lake Erie in the distance, and there are boats out—sailboats, barges… I can practically see to Canada. The sky is just beginning to turn colors.
Heaven. It looks like Heaven. Or at least what I think Heaven would look like. I don’t often think about it, really. I wasn’t brought up to follow any religion, but my parents encourage us to explore and try things out.
Sometimes I think that some people are born with a religious sense. And some aren’t. You know? Like a lot of people are born with a sense of hearing. And I was not. Maybe there’s some kind of a soul-sense that some people have, and I just don’t have it.
The colors in the sky grow more intense. I take shot after shot but I need to get back before dark. Because I’m eighteen, New York State says my motorcycle license has no restrictions. In spite of the fact that I’m eighteen, my parents beg to differ.
Putting my camera away, I turn back to the bike and find a little boy, maybe six years old, and his maybe ten-year-old brother gawking over it. The little boy has reached his hand out, running it from the pommel to the back without actually touching the bike.
I walk up to them heavily. Sure enough, my footsteps turn their heads and their eyes settle on the helmet under my arm. The older one snatches the little one’s hand back and both of their mouths start moving at once.
I think I see the older one say “sorry” in his blabber, and he starts to lead his little brother away.
I hold up a hand to stop him and mouth the words, “It’s okay.”
I kneel down in front of the bike, next to them. They’re standing, frozen, with big eyes. The younger one keeps glancing over at the bike. I put my finger to my ear and shake my head mouthing, “I’m deaf. No hear.”
The older one’s eyes get even bigger, if that’s possible. The little one takes it in stride. I hold out my hand as if to shake his. He looks at me and puts his hand in mine. I take his little hand and set it gently on the bright yellow pommel of my bike, right across the word, “Ducati.” His mouth makes an “o” as he pets it reverently.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see adult legs. It’s their mother, from the looks of it. Her mouth is going a mile a minute and the look on her face is a cross between panic and apology.
I stand up and hold a hand out to stop her. She stops talking and looks at me quizzically. I put a finger to my ear and shake my head, mouthing the words, “I’m deaf.”
“What?” her mouth says.
“I’m”—I point to my chest—“deaf.” I point to my ear. “No hear,” I mouth, shaking my head.
“You’re deaf?” her mouth says. Her foot starts tapping. “And you have a motorcycle?” She points at my bike. The younger boy is still petting it like it’s an exotic animal. The older one looks up at her and shrugs.
I sigh and reach into my wallet to get my motorcycle license. I have shown it to more hearing people than I care to think about. People who really have no business in my business. I’ve never had to show them to a cop—not once. Just curious hearing people who have to know that I’m legally allowed to drive my motorcycle. She examines the card and nods, handing it back.
While I’m in my wallet, I take out my family picture. I point to everybody— my parents, my older sister, my little sister, and me.
She catches my eye. “Your family?” she asks, her lips overenunciating every syllable. One eyebrow is arched.
I nod, but I can see why she’s skepticaclass="underline" My dad is the quintessential white American male with graying hair. My mom’s brown hair is “blonding” instead of graying (with the help of some expensive salon) as she gets older. She has a beautiful smile and light skin that tans easily. My older sister is obviously Indian. We don’t really know what my origins are—probably South America, maybe Italy, maybe Greece—I guess there are DNA tests and stuff, so I could find out if I really wanted. But I’m okay—I have my culture. My little sister is blond haired and blue eyed. In short, we look nothing alike.
“Adopted,” I mouth and sign to the woman.
She nods and gives me a thumbs-up and a smile. I feel a tug on my shirt and look down to see the younger of the boys. He holds out his hand and points at the pad and pen. I dutifully hand it over and wait.
His mom settles a hand on his shoulder and reads as he writes. I zip the Nikon into my saddlebags and glance up at the darkening sky, trying not to look too impatient. The mom glances at me and holds up a finger, asking me to wait. I smile but can’t keep my foot from tapping. After a few more minutes, the mom smiles and shows me the paper. “Thanks,” wrote the kid in scrawly handwriting. “You have a nice motrsikl.” There is also a picture of what is supposed to be my bike.
My smile turns genuine. “You’re welcome,” I mouth, and sign. “And thank you.” I Instagram a picture of the paper before folding it up and shoving it in my pocket. Waving good-bye, I pull on my helmet and kick my bike into gear.
I ride out carefully. Downhill is tougher than uphill. Especially on gravel, with these turns. I finally ease out onto a paved road and gun it for home.
It’s a good half hour before I roll into the Chautauqua parking lot and park my bike, wiping it down and covering it before scanning in and walking to the house.
My sister’s playing some video game and my parents are out on a walk around the grounds. My phone buzzes. A text from Denise, my big sister who’s still in NYC: “VP?”
“Sure,” I text back. I head up to my room to chat with her on the video phone, stopping to wash the motorcycle sweat off my hands. Denise’s absence is most noticeable here in our “kids’ bathroom,” an anomaly of our summer house, as we each have our own bathroom back in New York. I guess I never realized how many shampoo bottles, eye shadow compacts, and tampons she had until this summer when they’re gone and our bathroom seems twice as big. After washing my hands, I step into my room with just enough time to answer the VP.