It is, unfortunately, not an exaggeration to say I spend the next week worrying. My head has an ongoing conversation that goes something like this:
Bad brain: You know that thing on Saturday? It’s going to be a disaster.
Good brain: No, it won’t. It’ll be fine.
Bad brain: You’ll say something stupid.
Good brain: No you won’t.
Bad brain: Yeah. You will.
Good brain: OK, yeah, you will. But that’s not a disaster.
Bad brain: Yeah it is. Rhys will be like, damn, I’ve made a mistake here.
Good brain: No, he won’t.
Bad brain: Yeah. He will.
Good brain: That might happen, actually.
And so on.
By the time Saturday actually comes around, I’m sure I’ve been through every possible scenario. Twice. It’s like the multiverse theory playing out in real time in my head. All the potential outcomes I’ve already lived through. It’s almost enough to persuade me not to go.
But I have to go, because I’m someone’s girlfriend now, and with that moniker comes certain responsibilities. Responsibilities like meeting his friends and not flaking out of plans at the last minute.
Rhys turns up to meet me at the end of my shift at the kennels, all smiles, holding a single daisy between his finger and his thumb.
For you, he signs gallantly, tucking it into the front pocket of my overalls. It immediately falls out. ‘Oh,’ he says, instantly mournful.
We go back to my house so we can spend some time together and I can change. After an awkward few seconds, we agree that I will change clothes in my room while he waits in the kitchen with Rita. I can’t help but think about how one day I might undress in front of him and the thought alone makes me simultaneously terrified and giddy.
After I’ve changed he comes into my bedroom and we talk for a while. I’m sitting on the bed and he’s on the floor, Rita curled up in his lap, her head on his knee.
So what do I need to know? I ask.
He laughs. What do you mean? Nothing.
Your friends. Tell me your history and stuff. How did you meet? How long have you been friends?
Rhys considers, his fingers rubbing the scruff of Rita’s neck. A long time. Do you know about how my old school worked?
I shake my head. I know you must have gone to Ives. Right?
He nods. I guess that was obvious.
Ives Academy is the integrated school in our county that is known for accepting students of all abilities and needs. People call it a special school, but the whole point is that it’s not. You’ve got your deaf kids and your hearing kids, autistic kids and non-autistic kids, kids in wheelchairs and kids who have full mobility. And all of these kids take classes together, socialize together, share the same canteen. ‘A microcosm of society,’ the head teacher said in an interview once.
The reasonable question at this point would be, ‘So, Steffi, how come you didn’t go to this amazing school?’ and the answer is that you have to be either located within a strict radius of the school or able to demonstrate that you will ‘genuinely benefit’ from the ‘resources available’. To cut a long story short, I could not demonstrate this, and that is because I was coming to the end of primary school when I met the admissions team and was in a good place, mutism-wise. I thought I was doing just fine, and so did everyone else. And then secondary school happened and it was too late.
My parents actually considered moving me to Ives after the first disastrous year, but I refused, because I couldn’t bear the thought of not being with Tem. Swings and roundabouts, you see? Everything is a choice.
My close group of friends are all deaf, Rhys begins. The deaf kids kind of stuck together at Ives – just made things easier, you know? And most of us knew each other through our local NDCS.
NDCS?
National Deaf Children’s Society. There’s a strong local group here.
What about Meg?
Meg’s different. He pauses, then gives a rueful grin. Do you want to hear the Ives story or the Meg story?
Both!
OK, fine. Meg can hear just fine, but her parents and her sister are all deaf. So she is the only hearing person in her family, and I am the only deaf person in mine. We bonded! We’re like opposites of each other. We met at an NDCS event when we were kids and our families both thought we’d be really good for each other. And we have been. She’s great.
I bet your parents wanted you both to fall in love.
He laughs, and I know immediately that I’m right. No way. Just friends.
Does she go to Ives?
Yeah, but even though we’re best friends we didn’t hang out much at school. She has her own friends, and like I said I have mine. Ives is like its own little world. It has its own rules.
Sounds weird.
He shrugs. Most things sound weird from the outside. The corners of his eyes crinkle. Like you and me.
I grin. You think we sound weird?
Yeah! The deaf boy and the mute girl.
‘Hey,’ I say, pointing a finger at him. ‘Look, this is me talking. Hear me roar.’