I practise my apology in front of the mirror, mouthing ‘sorry’ to my reflection and circling my fist over and over again. One of the things I both hate and love about BSL is how it forces you to be genuine. Half-hearted apologies just don’t work when you’re communicating with your eyes and your hands. You have to mean it, or it is meaningless.
And I do want to be genuine with Rhys. I don’t even really understand why I got as defensive as I did, and so quickly. He was being so sweet with me, so patient with my faltering BSL, so encouraging of my clumsy attempts to communicate in his language. And then I flew off the handle for really no reason at all. What will he think of me now?
The first surprise is that Rhys can drive.
Seeing the expression on my face, Rhys laughs. You didn’t know I could drive?
No! We are facing each other on either side of his car. He is leaning over the roof, elbows on the metal, a light grin on his face.
I passed my test in the summer.
How old are you? If we were talking, I would have worried about trying to ask this question in a way that wouldn’t come out rude – in fact, I would probably have worked myself up into a panic attack about it – but the constraints of my limited BSL take the choice away, so I just ask.
He holds up his thumb and forefinger, like a gun, and moves his hand up and down. Seventeen.
I think about this, my hands waiting in front of me, but I can’t think what to say. Finally, I have many questions.
He laughs. Let’s go. You can ask me them later.
I get into the car, which is a battered green Skoda with an air freshener shaped like a jelly bean bouncing from the rear-view mirror, and wait while Rhys wriggles in his seat and checks the mirrors. He seems a little nervous, though he’s trying to hide it, and he smiles overconfidently at me as he reverses out of his space before quickly looking back at the windscreen.
Rhys’s house is on the other side of town from our school, not closer to my mum’s or dad’s house but making a kind of triangle between them. It’s smaller than Mum’s house but bigger than Dad’s, with a slightly overgrown front garden and a very overgrown cat lying on its back in the centre of it.
Rhys turns off the engine and holds his hands out in front of him. Home! he says, exaggerating the sign in the same way a hearing person would put on a jovial voice.
We get out of the car and head up the driveway. The cat ignores us until Rhys pushes his key into the lock, at which point he jumps to his feet and waddles up to the door, pushing me out of the way to walk in first.
Rhys rolls his eyes, points to the cat and then signs to me, King of the castle.
What’s his name?
Javert.
I hesitate. Like, from the . . . musical? I have seen the stage version of Les Misérables once and the film about six times – overwrought and depressingly tragic musicals are my favourite – but it surprises me that Rhys’s family would name a cat after a character in it. I’d always considered hearing kind of important when it came to musicals, so wouldn’t Rhys feel left out?
He nods. Mum is a big musical buff. As if on cue, a white woman with silver-streaked brown hair comes out of the kitchen, beaming. And here she is, he adds. Hi.
‘Hello,’ the woman says. ‘You must be Steffi.’ Like Rhys’s interpreter at school, she talks with her hands and her mouth. ‘I’m Sandra.’
Hi, I sign.
We’re going to watch a film, Rhys says. So, we’ll see you later, OK?
‘Come and have a cup of tea first,’ Sandra says. She is still smiling at me. ‘I want to find out more about the famous Steffi.’
I feel my face flame and I turn, horrified, to Rhys, who has reacted in exactly the same way.
‘It’s so wonderful that he’s been able to meet someone who speaks BSL,’ Sandra adds. ‘You’re a gift, Steffi.’
I seriously consider running away.
OK, bye. Rhys takes my elbow and starts steering me towards the stairs.
‘Um, excuse me,’ Sandra says, eyebrows raised. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’
Rhys gives her a look. My bedroom.
‘Not today, mister.’ Sandra looks torn between stern and amused. ‘The living room is right through there.’
Rhys lets out a loud huff of frustration through his nose. He makes a sign I don’t recognize, following it with always go in my bedroom.
‘Steffi is not Meg,’ Sandra says patiently, and though her hands are fingerspelling like an expert they may as well be punching me in the stomach with four simple words. ‘Living room.’
Rhys sighs loudly, but obeys. Sorry, he says to me and I blink at him, unsure how to reply. Should I express sadness that we can’t watch a film together in the privacy of his bedroom? On the comfort of his . . . um, bed? And should I do this in front of his mother?
‘Steffi,’ Sandra says to me when Rhys’s back is turned. ‘Cup of tea?’
I freeze. I can feel the old familiar fight happening inside of me. What will win? Politeness or social anxiety? Or will this be the moment my muteness rears its ugly head and shouts (silently) HI STEFFI, DID YOU THINK I’D –
‘OK,’ I say. I imagine pushing against a straining cupboard door and locking the beast inside. Gotcha. This time.