Hearing people turned aggressive so quickly, at even a momentary failure to respond, so sometimes Austin gave them the kind of answer they wanted, albeit loud and slurred. “Deaf” was a mercifully easy word to say, and he pointed to his ear and said it now. The driver reddened, handed Austin back the five, and motioned for him and Charlie to sit.
It was hard to imagine what the world might be like if deaf people had as short a fuse about hearing people’s inability to sign, their neglect or refusal to caption TV, or, hell, the announcements on this bus. Of course, that was their privilege—to conflate majority with superiority. He had grown up seeing other people’s anger embedded in a thousand little chores: the disdain with which the man at the deli counter looked at them when he was forced to read his mother’s written note, exasperation at the Popeyes drive-thru when they bypassed the intercom and pulled directly to the window, his mother being skipped at the DMV when she’d missed her number called out, the bank hanging up on her over and over when she tried to call via videophone.
Sometimes the hostility remained, but usually it dropped away when they realized his mother, or he, was deaf. It was never replaced with contrition, though—it was always pity, which was worse. Now that most everyone in their corner of Colson recognized the family, they often skipped the anger phase, but the pity never faded.
Would Skylar’s implant give her the opportunity to be free of strangers’ rage? If so, maybe it wasn’t a bad thing. He managed to convince himself of this for a minute, until he remembered that in a few hours it would be next year, and next year RVSD would be gone, and there was nothing he, or his parents, or Headmistress Waters could do to stop it.
You sure you’re o-k? said Charlie after a while. You’re scaring me a little.
He nodded again and let his head drop to her shoulder.
Where are we going?
Austin didn’t want to tell her that he had no idea.
as she watched Mel lean in close to the mirror to apply her mascara, a small part of February wished she had her own cosmetics routine. Makeup would come in handy now, the ability to dampen her expression behind foundation or a thick ring of eyeliner. Chemical armor.
Other than the tube of mauve lipstick she applied religiously before meetings at which she needed to intimidate someone, her last true foray into makeup had been a dense coat of frosty blue eye shadow, which she and her best friend at the time had brushed on one another’s lids surreptitiously in the back of the car. And that had been in eighth grade; today she wouldn’t even know where to start. She considered asking Mel to make her up, but that would come with its own problems. Why, Mel would wonder, was February suddenly interested? Was it because of Wanda? Others at the party were bound to notice if she were gussied up, too, and that’d be counterproductive to her desire to fade into the background. She settled for lotion and lip balm, then sat on the end of their bed and waited for Mel to finish.
In these idle moments, a new worry sprouted. February trusted sober Wanda and Phil not to say anything about River Valley, but alcohol was always a wild card. And they would certainly assume Mel already knew—what if they tried to commiserate? February could feel her armpits getting sticky.
We can still skip out, you know, she said.
Glad to get you out of the house, said Mel.
I know Deaf parties aren’t exactly your scene.
If they have alcohol, they’re my scene.
Mel clacked over to the bathroom doorway, jutted out a hip.
You may now compliment me, she said.
February smiled, rose from the bed.
Babe, she said, running her hand down the curve of Mel’s waist, emphasized by a black dress with a hint of cling. You’re smokin’.
Mm-hmm.
I think you’re getting even sexier with time, said February.
Like a fine wine, Mel said.
Exactly. You know we could stay in tonight.
Speaking of—
Mel snapped straight and crossed out of the bedroom, leaving February alone in the wake of her perfume, that amber and warm orange scent she knew so well.
—we should bring some wine to this thing.
February could hear Mel opening the liquor cabinet and followed helplessly after her.
* * *
—
They arrived late even by Deaf standards, for which February was thankful. She hadn’t done any socializing since her mother’s funeral, and the brash celebratory air was an affront to her cloistered senses, with a slight undercurrent of betrayal. The betrayal part was nonsense—her mother would have loved a Deaf New Year’s party, so she tried to push through her discomfort. It was clear they had some catching up to do on the alcohol front. Fortunately, before they could make it out of the foyer, Beth Workman appeared with a pair of her signature cosmo shots, an offer both February and Mel downed with gusto.
Welcome to the land of the living, said Wanda when they got to the kitchen.
She says she’s happy to see us out, February said to Mel.
Mel pulled her phone from the small purse she hung on her wrist whenever she wore a dress.
That makes 2 of us, she typed. Only so much outlander a gal can watch w/out going crosseyed.
Wanda’s eyes widened.
You guys like O-u-t-l-a-n-d-e-r?
Not me, said February. I don’t do time travel.
Wanda’s gaze shifted to Mel’s screen, where she had written: not Feb. time travel offends her rational sensibilities.
The two of them laughed knowingly, and Wanda reached for Mel’s phone, typed something back. At first, February tried to look over their shoulders, but she didn’t have her reading glasses, so she could only watch as they huddled closer over the screen.
Beneath the kitchen island, February tapped Wanda on the thigh.
Quiet, she said when Wanda looked up.
Either Wanda didn’t register what February was talking about, or didn’t care. She gave February a polite smile and returned to the conversation on the screen.
Well that’s rich, February thought. She’d been telling Mel she would like Wanda if she’d just give her a chance. She cast her eye about the room, examining the rest of the party. Deaf couples, many of them her teachers, swapping resolutions and pouring one another drinks and laughing. Too much damn smiling. She waved to Willis and Lorna Workman, who were both looking a little down, but waved back and smiled when they saw her. They were sweet, but she hoped she could avoid talking to them so she didn’t have to rehash her mother’s death. She felt adrift until she peered across the room and caught the only conversation in which participants did not seem oppressively cheery, Beth Workman and River Valley’s drama teacher, Deb Fickman, signing rapidly with their brows furrowed.
So is it K-r-a-m-e-r versus K-r-a-m-e-r or what? Fickman said.
No, I mean, part of me actually agrees with him, Beth said. Does that make me a horrible person?
Of course not. Have you told Austin?
February watched as Beth hefted a handle of Tito’s from her side table and poured a few fingers into each of their glasses. They clinked and drank.
How’s it going? February interjected as the two were mid-swallow.
It was unlike her to insert herself into a conversation like this, but she couldn’t bear to make small talk with anyone who looked like they were enjoying themselves, and she wasn’t yet drunk enough to take up residence in the corner alone. Beth and Deb looked at February grimly. Deb pursed her lips and began to dab at a spot on her blouse.
Sorry. Didn’t meant to intrude.
No, no it’s fine. We were just talking about Sky.
Yes, congratulations! And bravo to you for throwing a party with an infant.
After a few months of sleep deprivation it’s all the same, Beth said, smiling weakly.
Deb was still blotting away performatively at her blouse. February was beginning to think she’d put her foot in something she shouldn’t have. Was something wrong with Sky? With Henry?
Are you o-k? Do you need anything?
I’m fine. Just a little family drama. Henry’s pushing hard for an implant, and it all kind of came out at dinner—