Chapter 16

Perkins Hall was nothing like I expected. It looked like some big old house that had been turned into offices. A huge staircase led upstairs to what looked like bedrooms. Big, gold-framed portraits hung on wallpapered walls. The doors were almost twice as tall as any doors I’d ever seen before, and most were kept open by wedges of wood shoved underneath. As we walked toward the reception area, I would have bet the floors were squeaking and moaning beneath the thick carpets.

A woman behind a desk greeted us with a salute. I saw my father say something to her. The lady motioned for us to sit in the chairs lining one of the walls. A moment later, a door opened and a woman who was tall enough to play professional basketball came out of an office.

She also greeted us with a salute. Then she fingerspelled her name: Nancy Funnel. Her lips moved when she spelled. We each fingerspelled our names. I wondered if she was talking and signing at the same time. I signed: Are you deaf?

No, she signed. You sign well.

Thank you, I signed. She wore her black hair down around her shoulders and was dressed in a dark blue shirt and tan slacks. Ms. Funnel led my family to her office and closed the door. Instead of stuffy portraits in gold frames hanging on her walls, she had a bunch of paintings of people’s hands—hands in action—surrounded by lots of color. This lady had weird taste in art… I stared at one of the pictures, and suddenly understood it. I shook my head. The hands, side by side, had the first fingers pointing up, and the blurred motion made it look like the hands took turns pointing up to the sky. It was the sign for stars. At the end of each fingertip was a star. Awesome.

You like this? Ms. Funnel signed.

I nodded. “I see what it is, or what it says. It’s hard to explain.”

I know what you mean, she signed.

Marie stood next to me. She repeated the sign for stars. Cool, she signed.

I put a hand on Marie’s shoulder as Ms. Funnel motioned for us to sit in the chairs around her desk. Marie sat next to me, moving her chair closer to me. I gave her a wink. She tried to wink back, but just ended up blinking with both eyes.

Ms. Funnel looked at me as she signed. I asked her to sign the words again. Some I understood, but others I could not pick up.

She tried again more slowly: You’ll see me sign as I talk. It is polite to sign in front of deaf people so they understand that you do know how to sign.

I nodded. Okay, my hands replied.

She continued to sign and occasionally I asked her to repeat some things. Though she moved her hands carefully, she was using signs I wasn’t familiar with. I was so busy concentrating that I had no idea what she was saying.

Dad wrote for a moment and showed me the tablet. We have an appointment with Dr. Stein later this morning.

I nodded. “Who is that? Why do we have to meet with a doctor?” The static sound was back, and louder than usual. I used a fingertip to swipe around inside my ear. It did absolutely nothing to stop the hissing.

He meets with all students, she signed. You will like him.

I wasn’t sure I’d like talking with some doctor, but I wasn’t ready to jump to any conclusions.

Dad, who sat next to me, wrote something down. He turned the pad so I could see what he wrote as he asked Ms. Funnel the question. Does the school year run differently?

Though Ms. Funnel continued to sign while she spoke, it helped me to read the notes my father wrote. Her signing was lively and graceful—even more so than the teacher at the high school. I was impressed at how easy she made the language look. I guess I thought that the classes we took at the high school—and all the time I spent studying—had made me something of an expert. Watching Samantha, and now Ms. Funnel, however, made it clear what a beginner I really was. I took a deep breath and exhaled. Everyone looked over at me. Excuse me, I signed.

I looked at the tablet when Dad had finished. Same school calendar as other schools. Same class courses, Dad had written. All kids go home for summer. Summer school classes started after the 4th of July and finish by the middle of Aug. Some older students spend summers helping staff with younger students. Students move back in on the first day of school.

Mom raised her hand. She had a question. Move back in? she signed.

I tried to focus on Ms. Funnel’s hands and I caught some of her answer, but still had to read what Dad had written: 150 students. Most do not live on campus. Most are day students. A lot of students live here Monday through Friday in dorms. Go home on weekends. NY State has only 8 schools for the deaf. Our school is the closest in about an 80-mile radius. When the school first opened, students almost never went home. Students used to live here year round. More recently, kids started going home weekends, holidays, and for summer break.

I saw Mom put her hand was on Dad’s leg like she was surprised. I could tell from my mother’s expression that she didn’t like what she was hearing. Dad wrote something down and showed me. It was what Mom had asked. What about our son? Would he have to live here?

Dad wrote down Ms. Funnel’s answer: Have to? No. We encourage family unity, as long as it’s possible for a child to live at home. You drove from Batavia. That’s a long drive. Campus closes at 6 p.m. on Fridays. Kids go home for the weekend and campus reopens Mondays. Classes start at 8:30 a.m. Could you manage driving your son and picking him up each day?

I looked at Dad. He shrugged, but I knew the answer. It wasn’t possible. Dad worked closer to Buffalo, which was in the opposite direction of Rochester. Besides, Mom needed to be home in the morning to put Marie on the bus and home at the end of the day to get her off the bus.

Why send Marco here, rather than to a school back home? Dad showed me the question he’d asked.

Ms. Funnel signed for a while. Her hands and her lips kept moving. Dad wrote quick points while she spoke: Marco should be around other deaf people. A mainstream school is great for those who can hear. RSD has sports like soccer and basketball, clubs like chess and photography. There’s a recreation center, student government, you name it. All of it is geared toward deaf and hard-of-hearing students.

Mom and Dad nodded their heads. Ms. Funnel continued while Dad wrote: Marco will work with a sign language specialist. One-on-one and class lessons. He will learn sign language from other students. Students teach each other better than instructors do. Marco will not be in the minority.

Dad wrote: What about class sizes?

Ms. Funnel smiled. Class sizes range from four to twelve students. Any more questions?

I looked at Mom. I suspected she had more worries, but might wait to get Ms. Funnel alone before addressing them. I remembered the first time I slept over at Patrick’s house—I was, like, five years old. Mom drove me over and chatted forever with Patrick’s mother while Patrick and I stood in the living room. Finally we went off to play, but I could still hear my mother talking from Patrick’s bedroom. Mom asked so many questions and said so many embarrassing things. Make sure he goes to the bathroom before falling asleep. What did she think? I was going to wet the bed? If he wants to come home, call me, I’ll come pick him up—it doesn’t matter what time it is. Did she think I was going to have some nightmare and need to go home in the middle of the night?

That had been a long time ago, but suddenly I found myself wondering if I would ever sleep over at Patrick’s again.

Ms. Funnel tapped me on the shoulder. Any questions?

“What is a sign name?” I asked.

She shook her head. You sign to me.

I didn’t make eye contact with her, instead, I concentrated on the way I shaped my hands when signing. What is a sign name? I felt my face heat up. She was so good at signing. What if she couldn’t understand me?

Ms. Funnel smiled. I guess she was pleased with my question. A nickname, she fingerspelled her reply.

I met a Samantha, I signed then demonstrated to Ms. Funnel the sign name Samantha had shown me.

Exactly. See, it is easier to use a sign name than to fingerspell someone’s name. Ms. Funnel signed. Samantha, yes. She takes extra art classes during the summer. Ms. Funnel used a combination of signing and fingerspelling.

What’s my sign name?

That’s up to your friends, Ms. Funnel signed. You wouldn’t give yourself a nickname, would you?

I might have, but I didn’t say anything.

Dad pointed a finger in the air, as if saying he had a question. Back to business. He fumbled with signing then shook his head, discouraged. He wrote: If we decide to enroll Marco, what do we need to do?

How silly and clumsy did we look to her, I wondered, with the way we goofed at signing and fingerspelling? I could see the hint of a smile in Ms. Funnel’s expression. I didn’t think she was laughing at us, though. It wasn’t a mocking smile. It resembled something maybe more like pride—like maybe she was pleased to see us working with what we’d learned, even if we were stumbling. She signed: There is a lot of paperwork. We’ll need to work with your school district to get approval for Marco to attend classes here.

Ms. Funnel must have seen a defeated look on my mom’s face. She continued signing: Relax. That’s my job. What we should do is get started on filling out forms before you leave today. It sometimes takes a while before the state sends approval. And if Marco decides not to attend, that is okay, too.

My parents both looked at me. I saw it. They might not think I did, but I saw how horrified they were as they sank exasperatedly into their chairs.