My personal feeling about the principal’s office is that it’s better not to be in it. For any reason. What could happen is that someone passes the office, sees you there, and spreads rumors about your being in big trouble, when in fact you’re just handing in a late insurance form or something.
Despite my thoughts, I had to go to the principal’s office early one Thursday afternoon. I had a note from my mother giving me permission to leave Stoneybrook Middle School an hour early that afternoon. When the school secretary read Mama’s note and saw why I was leaving early, she started gushing. “Oh, what a lovely thing to do! Why, I think that’s wonderful. Simply wonderful.” She made out a pass and handed it to me saying, “You kids today! You’re so nice and thoughtful. No one gives you enough credit.”
I had to agree with her on that one.
At 1:25 that afternoon I was waiting on the sidewalk in front of school. At 1:30, Mrs. Braddock pulled to a stop in front of me, and I climbed into the front seat.
“Ready?” she asked, smiling.
“Ready as I’ll ever be.” I began rehearsing a speech with my hands. “What’s the sign for costume?” I asked. I realized that this was not a good question to ask a person whose hands were gripping the steering wheel of the car you were riding in, but I asked anyway.
“I’ll demonstrate at the next red light,” Mrs. Braddock replied. And she did.
The ride into Stamford took awhile, and we talked and rehearsed the entire time. At last we were driving into the city. Tall buildings everywhere. I recognized the street my ballet school is on, and the street Daddy’s office building is on. Finally we pulled into a parking lot with a big sign in front that said PARKING FOR SCHOOL FOR THE DEAF. We found a space and parked, and then Mrs. Braddock led me inside an old, old building that looked like it might once have been a mansion, somebody’s home.
“It’s run pretty much like any other school,” Mrs. Braddock said as we walked slowly down a brightly lit corridor. “The kids go to art lessons and gym classes. They eat in a cafeteria. The differences are that the classes are quite small — usually not more than eight students, at least in the lower grades, and that the children start here at a very young age. Matt was two when he entered, and the teachers began lessons in signing right away. His classes were much more intense than regular nursery school classes.”
We were walking slowly because I kept trying to peek into classrooms each time we passed a doorway.
“The younger classes are on this floor,” said Mrs. Braddock. “Matt’s is at the very end of the corridor.”
We reached the last door in the hallway and paused beside it.
“This is one of the two second-grade classes,” Mrs. Braddock told me. “The children here are all seven years old, but they have different degrees of hearing difficulty. Some are profoundly deaf, like Matt. A few have some hearing. Several of them can speak. The children receive lots of individual attention. They all know how to sign, but those with speech are also given speech lessons. A few are learning lip-reading. Matt may try that when he’s older, if he wants to.”
I nodded, trying to peek into the classroom.
“Since some of the children can hear, and some are learning speech and lip-reading,” Mrs. Braddock went on, “make sure you speak — slowly and loudly — while you’re signing, okay?”
“Right,” I replied. (Mrs. Braddock had mentioned that before.)
“Well … are you ready, Jessi?”
“I hope so.”
“Don’t be too nervous. It’s just a bunch of seven-year-olds who love visitors. And Matt’s teacher and I will help you if you need it.”
“Okay.” I took a deep breath and let it out slowly, just like I do before I go onstage during a performance.
Mrs. Braddock opened the door and I entered Matt’s classroom. Eight excited little faces turned to me, and a young woman rushed over to us.
“Hello, Mrs. Braddock,” she said, shaking her hand. Then she turned to me and shook my hand. “You must be Jessi. I’m Ms. Frank, Matt’s teacher. Thank you so much for coming. I’m glad this visit could be arranged.” (This visit was what Mrs. Braddock’s mysterious phone call had been about at our club meeting.) “The children are thrilled, even though they don’t know why you’re here. All I’ve said is that you have a surprise for them. Before I introduce you, though, I just want to say that your idea is marvelous. It’ll be a great experience for the children, and I really want to thank you.”
I was beaming. Everyone, at least once in his or her life, deserves such praise.
The children were still looking at me eagerly. You might have thought that eight deaf children would make for a pretty quiet class, but no way. First of all, the talkers Mrs. Braddock had mentioned were talking — loudly. (Matt’s mother had said that since deaf children can’t always hear themselves, they don’t know how loudly they’re speaking and have to learn to modulate their voices.) Some of the others made sounds as they signed to each other. And one child, finishing up an assignment, was listening to a cassette at top volume.
While Ms. Frank gathered the children into a circle on the floor, I took a quick look around. Matt’s classroom seemed pretty much like a classroom in any elementary school, except that I felt bombarded by all the things there were to see. I guessed that Ms. Frank’s idea was that if her kids couldn’t learn by hearing, they’d learn by seeing. Every inch of wall space and table space was covered — with displays about the months of the year, telling time, using money, colors and shapes, insects and animals, you name it. Across the top of the blackboard was a long chart showing the alphabet. Underneath it was the finger spelling alphabet, a hand demonstrating each letter.
The other difference between Matt’s room and most second-grade classrooms was the audio equipment — tons of headphones and tapes for the kids who could hear and talk.
Mrs. Braddock took a seat in the back of the room, and Ms. Frank led me to the front of the room.
“Why don’t you sit on the floor with the kids?” she suggested. “You’ll all feel more at ease.”
(Good thing I was wearing jeans.)
Ms. Frank, also wearing pants, sat right down on the floor next to me. (Now that’s my kind of teacher.)
“Boys and girls,” Ms. Frank said, speaking loudly and clearly, and always facing the kids (so the lip-readers could watch her mouth), “this is Jessi Ramsey.” She signed as she spoke, and of course spelled out my name, J-E-S-S-I R-A-M-S-E-Y.
Matt took his eyes off Ms. Frank’s hands long enough to grin at me. I smiled back.
“Jessi is here,” Ms. Frank went on, “because she knows Matt Braddock and has a very special surprise for you. Jessi?”
“Thanks,” I said. Then I began speaking and signing. Ms. Frank stayed where she was, in case I needed help. “I am a dancer,” I began. Then I finger spelled the word ballet, for which I hadn’t been able to find a sign. “I like dancing because I can tell a story with my body. I don’t need to talk.”
A few faces perked up at this idea.
“A ballet,” I went on, “tells a story without any words — just dance and music. I know some of you can’t hear music, but did you know that you can feel it?”
The children nodded.
“We’ve talked about that,” Ms. Frank told me. “We’ve been experimenting with vibrations — with rhythm and drumbeats and the piano.”
“Oh, good.” I began signing and talking again. “My dance school,” I said, “is going to perform a ballet called Coppélia.” (More finger spelling.) “I’ll be dancing in it. It’s about a toymaker and a big doll that he creates. Everyone will wear costumes —” (luckily I remembered the sign for that word that Mrs. Braddock had shown me in the car) “— and the stage will look like a village.”
The children were hanging on my every word and sign.
“I would very much like for you to come see Coppélia, to come to the theater.” (The invitation was for opening night, but I decided not to try to explain what that meant.) “I know you might not be able to hear the music, but you can watch the dancers tell their story. Do you want to come?”
“Yes! Yes!” cried the kids who could speak. The others nodded eagerly. Matt was so excited he looked like he might explode.
Ms. Frank spoke up then. “The story of Coppélia is a little complicated,” she told Matt and his classmates, “so I’ll tell it to you before you go to the show. Some of you might want to read about the story, too.”
The boy sitting next to Matt raised his hand. “When is the show?” he signed.
“Next Friday,” I told him with Ms. Frank’s help. “Eight days from now.”
“What should we wear?” signed another boy, and everyone laughed.
“Whatever you want,” I told him, “but it might be fun to get dressed up.”
The school bell rang for the end of the day, and I noticed that a big light flashed next to the door. I guessed that was the signal for the kids who couldn’t hear the bell.
Even though school was over, none of the kids got up. Two more had questions. Finally Ms. Frank had to send them on their way. Soon the classroom was empty except for Ms. Frank, Mrs. Braddock, Matt, and me. While the adults were having some important-looking conversation, Matt showed me his desk and cubby and something (I wasn’t sure what) that he’d made in art class.
I oohed and ahhed. And smiled a lot.
Then — quite suddenly — Matt threw his arms around me and gave me a big hug. He leaned back and signed, “I love you. I can’t wait to see a ballet. Thank you. You’re my best grown-up friend.”
At first I wasn’t sure what to react to — Matt’s enthusiasm or being called a grown-up. It didn’t take long to decide. I signed back, “I love you, too.”