Hi! Sorry I’m late. Traffic was a bitch. As she signs she is unwinding her bag from where it has tangled at her waist and throwing it on to the carpet. Oh my God! Are you the girlfriend? She points at me, beaming, then swings around to Rhys. OK, she’s real. I’m sorry I doubted you, Gold.
Rhys takes a step towards me and I feel his hand curl at my elbow. It’s meant to be reassuring, I know, but in reality all it does is make me realize that the anxiety that’s building inside me must be clear in my face.
Want a drink? one of the boys on the sofa asks me.
Shit. Does he mean alcohol? Can I handle alcohol right now? Should I ask for water?
Coke? the boy prompts. He leans over to the fridge and pulls out a can.
I nod in relief and he throws it at me. Miraculously, I manage to catch it, but I’m so flustered by the throw and surprised by my catch that I fumble and drop it anyway. It bounces on the carpet and rolls under the sofa.
Nice. The second boy gives me a thumbs-up.
Rhys drops to his knees, retrieves the can and opens it for me, tapping the top first so it won’t fizz up and make this moment even more embarrassing.
After this display, they very kindly let me be for a while. Rhys takes my hand and leads me over to one of the large bean bag chairs, letting me sit between his legs so I feel guarded and secure. I sip my Coke and watch them all talk, trying to keep up but mostly failing miserably.
Here’s what I learn: that thing I told myself about us speaking the same language? Yeah, that was bullshit. Total, hearing-person oblivious bullshit. They speak this language, and I know some of it. I can understand it and even communicate using it if everyone goes a bit more slowly than usual and is willing to repeat themselves at the sight of my flummoxed face. But I speak it in the same way that someone who gets a B in GCSE French can speak French when they go to Paris on holiday. As in, can speak it to other people who also got a B in GCSE French. Actual French people? Not. So. Much.
BSL is, at best, my second language. My stuttering, earnest second language, where I am trying my hardest but will need several more months – if not years – to be properly fluent. I thought I knew what that meant, given that I’ve been getting to know Rhys for a while now and have spent two evenings to date with his BSL-speaking family.
But now I understand what the difference is. All of those occasions were in the hearing world. It was BSL as subtitles; BSL as an extra tool. This is the deaf world, something I’d never really given much thought to even existing until now, when I can see it in front of me. Five BSL speakers having two different conversations across a living room at once, laughing at jokes, getting each other’s attention with taps on the table and clicks in the air. It’s seamless and intuitive and fun to watch.
It’s terrifying.
Is this how Rhys feels at school every day? In it, but not part of it? How have I not even thought about this before? I’d thought I was attuned to him. I’d thought I understood what his life was like.
Between signs he always returns his hands to me. He touches my shoulder with his chin, squeezes my fingers, kisses my hair. Every time he does this, my heart calms, just a little. It reminds me that I am with him, that we have our own tiny island of our own whatever world we’re in. That this is about an us, not a them.
After the first hour, I’ve relaxed a little. I manage to have a conversation with Alyce about Ives and what sixth form is like there. She signs carefully for me, clearly used to having to go slow, going on to tell me that she and Owen have been together since Year 9 and are planning to open a cat cafe one day. I tell her about the kennels where I work and she lights up, asking if she can visit.
Owen sets up Guitar Hero on his Xbox after we order pizza and I watch as the boys argue over what songs to play. I tap Rhys’s hand and lean round so we can talk. Can I ask a really bad question?
He grins. Yes, we can play Guitar Hero even though we can’t all hear very well.
Is it as fun?
He shrugs. I don’t know any different. I think it’s fun. You don’t need to hear the music to be able to play. You follow the notes on screen. He hesitates. I love Guitar Hero. Being able to play rock music with my friends. Feeling the rhythm.
When they start playing, Rhys squeezing my shoulder as he gets up to stand with one of the guitars as I settle back against the bean bag, I eat pizza and watch. They’re all much better at this game than I was expecting, making me think that being able to hear the music is perhaps the least important part of playing guitar, and Rhys is the best of them all.
Three slices down, they all start gesturing to get me to play.
No way, I say, alarmed, holding up my arms in front of my chest like a shield.
Come on, Rhys cajoles. He holds out the second guitar to me.