Chapter 17

Robin

“Jenni!” I text. “I need you! Now! I’m by the church! Where we met up with Carter!”

Jenni is there in two seconds. She’s out of breath. “Robin! Are you okay? Is everything okay?”

“Um… ,” I say. The grass seems to be spinning and the sound of Carter’s bike echoes in my ears.

“Robin!” She shakes my arms but my right hand flies up to my head, where it likes to go when I’m overwhelmed.

“Um… I’m going to his house. For dinner. With his family. I don’t know what to do! I won’t be able to talk to anyone! I’ve never been in a house at Chautauqua! I’ve only been there for All-County Concerts! All I know is the ice-cream shop!” I hold the two twenties he gave me out in front of me. “Look! This is to pay the people at the gate! Because you have to pay people to walk into his neighborhood!”

“Is that all! I thought you were in trouble!” Jenni laughs and sits on the steps, dragging me with her.

She ends the laugh in a big sigh and turns to face me on the steps. “Well,” she says, “we knew this day was coming-“

“We did?!” I explode. “Why didn’t somebody tell me this day was coming!”

“Okay I knew this day was coming,” Jenni says. “And I have thought about it for you, even if you haven’t. First things first.” She stands and helps me up. “You need to decide what to wear.”

“First things first I need to figure out what to say!” I correct her. “And how to say it!”

“No no no.” Jenni says. “First things first, you decide what to wear. Talking is just talking. But clothes speak louder than words, and his first language is seeing. So we are getting you dressed.”

I let her lead me back to my car, and we both get in, heading out to my house.

Upon walking in the door, I realize that I should probably ask my parents about this. They let me use the car if I tell them where I’m going and who I’m hanging out with. It’s not a bad system, really, but I do actually have to tell them where I’m going and who I’m hanging out with. “Just a minute Jenni,” I say, and poke my head in my mom’s office. She’s sitting at her desk, unpacking her latest order and parceling it for customers. “Hey, Mom?” I say, standing in the doorway. “You know that boy I told you about? The one I took to the craft fair today?”

“The deaf one?” she says.

I gulp. You see, I’ve given my parents… less than full disclosure about Carter. This is what she knows about him: He’s about my age, deaf, from New York City, and living at Chautauqua for the summer. I hung out with him at the overlook and we’ve been texting a lot over the past couple days.

“Yeah… ,” I say. “He invited to me to his house for dinner.”

“Oh,” she says. “Well, I don’t see any problem with that.” This is what she doesn’t know about Carter: He is gorgeous. He has a ridiculously sexy motorcycle (which I’ve ridden.) He as good as told me he was interested in me today. “Just make sure your phone’s on and that there’s gas in the car,” she continues.

“Okay,” I say, about to head for the stairs.

“But you tell him that we’d like to meet him, too!” she calls after me. “Dinner at our house! Soon!”

“Sure!” I say, glad that I’m not as transparent as Carter. “He’d love that!”

I run upstairs to find Jenni rooting through my closet.

“Go shower.” She waves me off with her free hand, her nose stuck among my clothes.

I grab my robe off the back of the door and shower off all the craft fair grime. My memory wanders and I smile as I remember the pennywhistle and the little kids dancing and the man with the spoons… That. That is music. It brings people together. It breaks them down and connects their hearts. But seeing Carter’s face… I never thought music could be exclusive. I always thought it was for everyone. If only there was a way he could someday hear it. He doesn’t even know how empty his life is without it.

I wring out my hair, towel off, and put on my robe. When I get back to my room, Jenni is rooting through my underwear drawer.

“Excuse me!” I say.

“You have nothing good in here!” she laments, holding up a pair of striped cotton undies.

“I have no reason to have anything good in there!” I say, throwing my dirty clothes in the hamper. This will be my third time seeing this guy. There is no reason for him to see my underwear. Trent never did and we dated for years.

“Just because he won’t be taking it off doesn’t mean he won’t see it!” Jenni says.

“So I should tease him in front of his family with an oh-so-classy G-string sticking out from my jeans? That is exactly the message I’d like to give his family.” I throw boring underwear at Jenni and she stuffs it back in my drawer. “I want to date this guy, not torture him!”

Jenni stops rooting through my drawer and looks up at me. “You want to date this guy?”

I collapse onto my bed. “I don’t know… ,” I moan.

“Well, thankfully, you don’t have to know that now!” she says brightly. “Let me ask an easier question: Do you want to make a good first impression?”

“Yes!” I say, sitting up, leaving a wet-hair imprint on the bed.

“Then we will get you ready to make a good first impression!”

By the end of our fussing, I am dressed in jeans, flats, and a classy black tank top, so you can’t really tell if I’m dressed up or dressed down. My hair is down for the first time pretty much all summer. I’m wearing it long and parted on the side, the natural waves enhanced into curls with the help of a curling iron and a little mousse. I’m wearing black eyeliner and mascara. There is the slightest bit of rosy lipstick. Even I have to admit I look pretty good.

And that’s good, because it’s about time to leave. Jenni and I pound down the stairs and I have a mini panic attack, turning to her. “I spent the whole afternoon getting ready and none learning ASL. None. At all. I still get confused around ‘P’ and ‘Q’ in the alphabet! I don’t even know how to say, ‘Nice to meet you!’”

Jenni turns me back around and faces me toward the hall. “You’ll do fine,” she says. “I’m sure they’ve talked to hearing people before. I don’t know if you’ve noticed this, but there are a lot of us.”

I laugh weakly as we stop by my mom’s office.

“Ooh! So pretty!” my mom says. She’s just finishing up her Mary Kay parcels.

I do a turn for her and she applauds lightly. “All right,” she says. “Do you have your phone?”

“Yep.”

“Gas in the station wagon?”

“Yes ma’am.

“Then have fun! Be home by midnight!”

“Will do! Love you!”

“Bye, Mrs. Peters,” Jenni calls.

“Bye, Jenni. Come over any time!” my mom calls after her.

“Your mom is so nice,” Jenni says as we walk out the door.

“Yeah… ,” I say.

“I can’t believe she just let you go off to his house, never meeting him or his parents or anything. She’s usually really strict about stuff like that.”

“Yeah… ,” I must sound guilty.

Jenni stops. “She doesn’t know that this boy’s the sexiest thing under heaven, does she?”

“No . . .”

My guilt is replaced by laughter.

We hop in the Subaru and I take her home on my way to Carter’s house. Once I get to Chautauqua Institution (the town’s full name), I know enough to pull into the parking lot instead of the gates—cars aren’t allowed on the grounds unless they’re dropping something off. I spot a row of covered motorcycles in a far corner. One of the covers says “Ducati” in yellow writing. I smile. Before getting out of the old Subaru, I pull the mirror down and fix split ends for far too long. I check my back pocket for my waitress pad and little pen, as though there will be no pen or paper in their entire house, and before I shut the car door, I grab my All-State select choir sweatshirt. It doesn’t really go with my outfit, but it can get chilly at night by the lake. Halfway across the parking lot, I feel like I should have brought something—some kind of gift for his mom or something. Isn’t that what rich people do? It’s too late now.

Taking a deep breath, I walk up to the gate, pay my entrance fee with shaky hands, and receive my ticket. It’s time-stamped and the lady tells me to keep it with me to verify the fact that I’m allowed to be there at all. I smile and thank her. I still can’t believe this. I grab a little map and follow the signs to Carter’s house.

Carter’s house looks like most of the other houses at Chautauqua—a traditional two-story house with painted wooden siding. There’s a stone path leading up to the front door and well-manicured bushes in full bloom under the big picture window. The window is covered with a lace curtain but there’s a friendly glow coming from inside.

I raise my hand to knock, and am confronted with my first conundrum of the night—there is a doorbell and a knocker. Neither of which Carter can hear. Well crap. The second my finger hits the doorbell, I realize that I could have just texted him. Crap. Oh, well. I’m sure it won’t be my last mistake.

When my finger presses the doorbell, the front window goes dark for a second, then flashes back on. So that’s how it works. Sure enough, in seconds, Carter is at the door.

He is grinning and beautiful, wearing jeans and a white T-shirt and socks on his feet. He looks softer in socks. Huggable.

“Hi,” he signs.

“Hi,” I sign back, shyly. I peek around him, expecting a barrage of people, which is silly, but it’s what I’m expecting.

“Come in,” he signs, stepping back.

I walk into the light of their living room and I’m blown away by how modern the inside is compared with the very traditional outside. All the lines are clean and shiny. The lights are bright and warm and inviting.

“Beautiful,” I sign, and point around the room.

“Thanks,” he signs back, smiling. “Want to see my room?” He mouths the words and signs slowly so I know what he’s saying. I have to admit, it’s easier than the writing thing.

“Yeah,” I sign. I take off my shoes and line them up with the rest of the family’s. Farther into the house, I catch a whiff of Asian food.

Carter’s mom is at the stove. She, of course, looks nothing like Carter, but she’s still beautiful, like she spends her days doing Pilates and her nights wrapped in seaweed.

“You must be Robin!” she says and signs. “It’s nice to meet you!”

“Nice to meet you too,” I say, and I immediately feel bad that I don’t know how to say that in ASL. Carter’s mom looks at him and she signs while saying, “She said, ‘Nice to meet you, too.’” I watch her hands closely.

“Thanks,” I say. “I wish I knew more sign.”

She smiles, “Don’t worry,” she says and signs. “I don’t judge! I’m so glad you’ve been kind enough to hang out with Carter.”

I look over at Carter, who gives his mother a pained look. “Mom,” he signs, and then his hands move too fast for me to understand.

She laughs and turns to me. “He says, ‘I’m not a charity case.’”

I laugh. But it’s funny to see somebody understand him so easily, when it’s always such a struggle for me. Like I have any claim on him anyway—I’ve known him for just a few days, and that’s his mom! Of course she understands him better than I do! Still, I can feel it cheapening my smile.

Carter turns toward the stairs and motions for me to follow him. “We’re going to my bedroom,” he signs to his mom, who raises her eyebrows.

“Your bedroom? Dinner will be ready in ten minutes.”

He signs something too fast for me to understand.

His mom gives him a warning look and he laughs as she signs something about a door.

“What did you say?” I ask as we walk up the stairs.

“I just told her we’d see her in the morning,” he writes back. “She said to leave the door open.”

Remembering my boring cotton underwear, I fake a laugh, just to be polite. Then realize that he can’t hear it, so I start laughing for real. He looks over in time for that one and grins at me, reaching for the door handle.

His room is unspectacular. Pretty much a regular guy room, if you forget that it’s his summer bedroom, and the technology is waaaayyyy more current than anything I’ve ever seen in real life. There’s a big-screen TV and a high-end desktop. A digital SLR camera sits on the desk next to it. His queen-size bed is covered with neat-as-a-pin white sheets and a puffy comforter, and it matches the rest of his dark, manly furniture. The walls are light green printed wallpaper and the floor is hardwood and scattered with area rugs.

“Nice,” I sign.

“I spent all day cleaning,” he writes.

“Ya done good,” I write back, smiling up at him.

He looks down at me and I swallow hard. This is the first time we’ve been alone together. Ever. He takes a step closer, his eyes lingering on my lips, and runs the back of his hand up the back of my arm, sending shivers all down my spine like a piano glissando. My mouth waters.

I’m unconsciously stepping in closer and tilting my head up when a loud little voice says, “Oh my God!” from the direction of Carter’s doorway. I turn. A little blond girl is standing there, hanging on the doorjamb.

“My sister,” Carter signs, sighing and pursing his lips. “T-R-I-N-A,” he spells slowly.

“Robin! Are you Robin? OMG I didn’t know you were here already!” The girl dances around me. Her speech! It’s nearly perfect. I thought that, even with the implant, she would sound… well… deaf. Like deaf people sound on TV. I’ve never heard Carter say anything, come to think of it. He doesn’t even laugh out loud. At least not around me. But Trina sounds like a nine-year-old girl who’s been hearing her whole life.

“Hi,” I say, signing.

“OMG, did you teach her to sign?” Trina says and signs to Carter, who’s glaring daggers at her, his knee jiggling.

“I didn’t teach her,” he signs, mouthing the words.

“I learned some online,” I say. “I don’t know much. Like that. I don’t know how to say that.”

“OMG, I’ll teach you everything!” Trina says. She slows down her signs and teaches me how to say “I don’t know much,” as Carter writes something down.

When he shows me the paper, it says, “Sorry. She just got a phone. ‘OMG’ is currently her favorite phrase. And she’s valedictorian of the school of bad timing.”

I smile.

“What? What did you say?” Trina tries to peek around the paper, but Carter rips off the top page and stuffs it in his pocket.

He signs it to her with a satisfied look on his face and she sticks her tongue out at him. My brain does a little happy dance. Universal sibling language! No translation necessary!

The lights flicker and Carter turns to me. “Dinnertime,” he signs.

“Okay,” I sign back and take a deep breath. This shouldn’t be hard. I only have his dad left to meet, right?

We’ve just entered the dining room when I see his dad come up from some stairs that must lead to a basement or a garage or something. He’s a well-dressed, handsome man with carefully parted silver hair. He smiles, waving “Hi” and holding out his hand.

I smile and wave “Hi” and accept the handshake, feeling my face grow red. He’s handsome in an old-guy way.

“Nice to meet you,” he signs, and I return his greeting.

The table is set and the dishes gleam in the bright light. The Asian food smells make my stomach growl. I haven’t eaten anything since pie that afternoon.

Carter pulls a chair out and motions for me to sit down. I do, and he pushes it in for me.

“Thanks,” I say and sign. So fancy! Trent never did that. Carter sits next to me.

“You okay?” he signs.

“Yeah,” I sign. I set my waitress notepad in between us and catch Carter’s dad signing something to his mom across the table.

She looks at me and says, “Chris is saying that I should tell you about our family’s tradition. We take a moment of reflection before we eat. If you’re a religious person, you’re welcome to pray, or you can just reflect on the day and prepare for the meal, as we do.”

“Okay,” I sign and say.

Then the whole family bows their head and closes their eyes, folding their hands, like they’re praying. Is Carter religious? I hadn’t even thought about it before. I follow suit, thinking, “For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly grateful.” It’s the prayer my dad says before every meal.

I’m the first one to look up. One by one, the rest of the family joins me. Carter glances over at me and rests his left hand on my knee under the table. Warmth spreads over my entire body and up to my cheeks which threaten to stay permanently pink. I give him a smile.

“You don’t have to act like that was normal,” Trina pipes up from across the table, her hands flying as she speaks. “It’s not a Deaf thing. And it’s not normal. We’re the only family in the whole world who does it.”

I smile at her. “I like it,” I sign and say.

“Thank you,” Carter’s mom signs. She starts to pass food around the table, and the rest of dinner is just like a family dinner from a sitcom—people eating, compliments on the food, conversations about people’s days. Carter’s mom is the unofficial translator and Carter writes me a few private notes, but if anybody asks what they say, he tells them. We all laugh as people tell stories—funny stories of the day or embarrassing stories of Carter’s childhood. Their faces and bodies are all involved and after I give it to her she writes,. I can see why Carter is such a bad liar: his face is a receptor to the conversation around him, open, unselfconscious. He relies on it to share the tone of his conversation, the same way tempo and dynamic convey the message of a song better than the lyrics do.

Carter’s dad continues to offer me food long after I’m done. “You need to eat!” he signs as I laugh and refuse.

“I really am full!” I write. “My skinny jeans are feeling skinnier and skinnier!” and Carter laughs. For real.

I’ve never heard him laugh before. He’s always done this thing where he looks like he’s laughing—his eyes are shining and his mouth is open and his chest even bounces—but he’s never made noise. I don’t know how to describe his real laugh. I guess it just sounds like laughter. Not like the “ha-ha” laughter of somebody who’s spent their whole life listening to laugh tracks. It sounds… pure. Like music. I look at him, surprised. He puts a hand up to his throat and turns red.

He translates for his family and smiles politely while doing it, but then studies his stir-fry remnants like they hold the secret to the meaning of life.

“It’s okay!” I write. “I like to hear you laugh!” but I tear it up before he reads it. This is the first time I’ve seen him embarrassed, too, even after the park and the craft fair. I just want it to end as soon as possible.

“Too bad!” his mom says. “I really think you need more lo mein!” She passes the noodles and smiles at me like I’m the president or something. The conversation starts up again, but Carter doesn’t laugh. Not with his voice anyway.

He’s so alive here, and I love being a part of it. After seeing him handle awkward social situations with grace but no pleasure, it’s fun to see him in his element. Dishes sit half-empty on the table as conversation lasts far beyond the end of the meal.

Finally, dishes empty and conversation petering, Carter writes, “Wanna go for a walk?” on the paper.

I look up at him and look away. His eyes… gorgeous. I write, “Yeah,” and smile. Carter signs something about the walk to his parents, who nod their assent.

We tie on our shoes and are outside in minutes. Everything smells like summer and flowers and light humidity. Notes from a concert bounce down the hill from the amphitheater in the middle of the little village. Something classical. Baroque maybe? An opera? Baroque operas are so interesting in the execution—all these complicated, showy runs that threaten to overshadow the emotion of the scene. Not like I love opera, but I’d much rather listen to a modern or even Romantic opera—something that ditches the rules and leads from the heart. I look over at Carter to ask him which concert was scheduled, but he probably doesn’t pay attention to the concerts here at Chautauqua. Plus, he’s writing on his pad of paper, so I wait.

“You ever been here before?” he shows me.

I nod. “For a music festival,” I write back. The All-County music festival, to be exact. Where the best student musicians in the county perform.

“So you know the amphitheater?”

“And the ice-cream store. And the bookstore. But that’s about it.”

He smiles. “Then let me show you the lake.”

I’ve seen the lake, too. But I’ve never seen Carter Paulson show me the lake. I take his hand.

It’s not dark yet; the sun is low in the sky and casting long shadows all down the road. Yards are impeccable, with little tiny parks and arches and benches. Sidewalks are well lit and people walk boldly in the middle of the road. I don’t see a single car. It’s chilly, but I left my sweatshirt at his house. I shiver and he puts his arm around me, snuggling me into his side.

We keep heading downhill and we’re at the lake in under ten minutes. It is gorgeous—the boats, the sun setting, a huge old-fashioned hotel looming over the water. I look across the expanse of lawn in front of the giant wooden hotel, which is elaborately and intricately painted. Carter turns toward me, licks his lips, and opens his mouth like he’s about to say something, but, of course, says nothing. Instead, he takes my hand. He’s drawing it slowly up to his heart when, looking past me, his eyes widen and he yanks my hand, hard, tumbling me into him. Two bicycles zoom through the space where I was just standing, and little bicycle bells ching-ching into the distance as the bikes speed away.

My free hand is braced against his chest and my heart is racing. As the adrenaline releases my body from shock, I realize that my cheek is resting against him so I feel his heartbeat. It’s fast, like mine. The scents of flowers and the lake are replaced by his scent: spiced oranges and dinner and boy sweat. One of his hands still holds mine and the other one cradles my head. He lays his cheek against my forehead, and we stand like that for not long enough. Finally, his hand slides from the back of my head to just under my chin. The gentlest pressure tilts my chin up to him and his eyes tell me his concern.

“You okay?” he signs.

I nod, managing a small smile.

He nods and his hand strokes from my ear to the tip of my chin once more. The crook of his finger draws my face to his. His long eyelashes brush against his cheeks and his perfect mouth reaches for mine and we’re kissing.

It feels like breathing.