I swallow down the bubble of panic that the expectation of conversation always produces in me – even, apparently, silent ones – and force myself to smile. He is not inside your head, I remind myself. He doesn’t know you’re such a mess. Little slower? I ask. I roll my eyes, gesturing to myself. I’m rusty.
He grins. Hello, rusty.
I laugh, so spontaneously and easily it surprises me. Dad joke.
Rhys shrugs, still grinning, looking absurdly pleased that he’s made me laugh. His hands start to move again, careful and slower this time. I watch, trying to follow what he’s saying. This time, I at least catch more of it, but it’s still not anywhere near enough to carry a proper conversation.
Sorry. I feel tight with frustration. It’s been a long time.
He flicks his hand in the universal ‘no worries’ gesture, then digs into his bag and retrieves a notepad. Flipping it open, he scribbles for a few seconds, then spins it around to me. He writes in quick, brisk capital letters. It is the clearest boy handwriting I’ve ever seen.
I THINK ALL SCHOOLS ARE THE SAME REALLY. DO YOU KNOW THE COMPUTING TEACHER? THE BALD ONE. HE’S MY FORM TUTOR TOO – HE KNOWS BSL! SO THAT’S ANOTHER PERSON I CAN TALK TO ?
Nothing about tennis. I must be even rustier at BSL than I thought if I invented ‘tennis’ and missed ‘person’. I hesitate, trying to formulate a proper reply. It feels like when I had to sit my French oral exam at GCSE and I had to just throw the right individual words together and hope they made some kind of sense as a sentence.
Here is what I mean: What school did you go to before? Yes, Mr Green was my IT teacher for years. He’s probably easier to talk to than me!
Here is what I sign. Probably. School earlier? Yes, Mr Green teacher computer ages. He signs better. Pause. Sorry, I am crap.
Rhys is patient and if he’s amused or frustrated by me he doesn’t show it. He signs slowly, returning to his notepad when it is clear I can’t understand him. The two of us make a patchwork conversation, knitting together sentences with our hands and his pen. I am concentrating so hard I don’t even notice the silence, usually so heavy around me. At no point does he say, This would be easier if you would just speak.
We establish the basics. Rhys wants to be a games developer and so plans to go to university to study computer science. You don’t have to have a degree to be a games developer, he tells me – practical experience is more important – but his parents are insisting. They don’t think I’ll actually make it in the games industry, he explains, and though he rolls his eyes I can see that he’s too fond of them to be irritated. They want me to have a degree as a back-up.
We have just one subject in common – maths – and I tell him that I want to study animal behaviour. If I make it to university.
Why wouldn’t you? he asks, confused.
I hesitate, then attempt to explain with my limited skills. My parents don’t want me to go. They don’t think I can . . . manage.
Manage what?
Thankfully, that’s when the bell rings. Even if I could talk normally or we were communicating at the same ability, I’m still not sure I could explain the whole thing about my parents and university and me. How it seems like they disagree about everything except my future, which, I’m sorry, shouldn’t really be anything to do with them. How they seem to think that because I don’t talk much I won’t be able to deal with university. How this is the year I have to prove to them I’ll be able to handle it.
Rhys stands, gathering his books and crumpling up his empty sandwich wrapper. With one hand, he waves a goodbye.
I smile and mouth, bye, and it makes me feel nice to think that, as far as he knows, I said the word out loud.
‘Bye, Stefanie,’ he says out loud, his voice husky, the words like confetti, light and soft in the wind between us.
‘It’s Steffi,’ I say, surprising myself.
He pretends to doff an imaginary cap at me, which makes me laugh. ‘Steffi,’ he repeats. He has the friendliest smile I’ve ever seen. He waves again, then turns to jog away.
My favourite sound in the world is the bell ringing at the end of the school day. I may be a sixth former now, but that hasn’t changed. I am out of my seat and heading to the door before the bell has even finished ringing.
‘Did you get the chapters, Steffi?’ Mrs Baxter calls to me. She’s been my teacher three times since we first met in Year 7, so I give her a thumbs-up rather than reply, knowing she won’t mind.
As soon as I walk out of the school gates, I feel my shoulders untense, my muscles loosen, my bones relax. Oh, hello, freedom. Sweet, sweet, freedom.
And, best of all, ‘Hello there!’
Tem. My favourite person in the world, standing just outside the gates, balancing two Starbucks cups in one hand and holding a paper bag in the other. September Samatar, best of the best.