Quiescence

The cream paper lies limp in my moist palm, shaking imperceptibly. Peering out the foot-wide window next to our beige front door I see the obnoxiously bright school bus come to a screeching halt at the adjacent corner. Through the tinted back window of the bus I can see wrappers flying through the air, arms being thrown up in either disgust or excitement, and of course the sign some smart-alec plastered against the mud-speckled window reading, “F**k you :)”

Druce rounds the corner of our box-shaped kitchen and negligently signs, “One second, okay?” I necessitate a warm grin and try my best to say,
“You sure you don’t want to ride on that party-bus?” I extend my arm out dramatically to gesture towards the bus, offering it up pleasantly.
“I’m sure”, he signs, except he lowers his hand too much for the sign of, “sure”, making it look more like, “I’m you”.

I never correct Druce on his signing – if he’s making the effort to talk to me on my turf, I am by no meaning discouraging it.

When Druce was about ten and I was twelve, he decided he wanted to be fluent in signing. While learning the ABC’s, Druce got confused – his dangerously low patience level often got the best of him – while on the letter, “D” and started tapping his pointer finger, while in the d-handshape, to the bridge of his scrawny nose.

“Druce!.... St….. Stop it!.....” I was not yet as verbal at the time, and between boughs of laughter I was barely audible.
“What? Evan, what’s wrong?”
“That’s the sign for douchebag, Druce.”

Fazed by the memory of Druce’s inadvertent, yet jocular, mishap, I fail to notice him throwing my keys, which land in a clatter at my lacy, vintage boots.
Thanks, I gesture with my free hand as I scoop the weathered metal into my palm and head out the door, Druce stepping on the backs of my boots as we depart from the decolorized navy house.

Pulling into Oxford high school (credits go to Druce for giving me the exceptional directions, “uh, yeah turn here?”….”This stop sign looks sorta familiar….”) he signed, I notice I have the only icy-blue jeep wrangler in the vast, paved lot. The expressions roaming the parking lot are also a lot different than mine – boredom, irritation, merriment, and even indulgence. None of which can hold a candle to my apprehension and trepidation. This is my first day in a hearing-school. This is everyone else’s 70-somethingth day. Druce sloppily signs, “Catch you later?”, and I nod, unsure if even Druce could help me at this point. He runs across the sea of asphalt, his converse smacking the ground silently. Like everything else.

*************************************************************

According to my hand-drawn map and schedule scrawled in electric green ink on a napkin the office so graciously gave me, my first hour is AP British Literature, which I supposedly have with my best friend, Sonnet. I mean, with a name like that, how could you note take AP Brit Lit?

“Yes, yes, Ms. Blasky is very nice – gorgeous hair she has too – and don’t forget lunch is after fifth hour, where did you get those booooots?!”, the overly-wired, and possibly ADHD, secretary shrieks, causing everyone else except myself to clamp their hands over their ears in pain. I give my best smile, offering no teeth, and nod.
“Thank you, you’re so kind. They’re from my aunt’s store, she opened up her own place all the way over in Michigan.” I nod, more of a gesture of finality than agreement, and turn towards the double glass doors facing the English hallway. Obviously not satisfied with my answer, the secretary lunges her arm across her wrap-around desk and grabs my shoulder, a fiery red lock of hair of hers falling onto my forearm.
“Where are you from, Evangeline, I love your accent!” I barely register what she’s saying due to her lack of articulation and lip movement, but when I do my cheeks burst into flames, quickly surpassing the shade of her hair.
“Oh…it’s actually, um Evan. I go by Evan. And I’m from here, but I’m deaf.”

Be proud, Evan, there’s nothing to be ashamed of. Nothing to be ashamed of.

“Oh... Then... How…? What?” Her inquisitive nature sets me off, but I bite my tongue and try to concentrate on reading those babbling lips spewing garbage of hers.
“I’m reading your lips right now. I really must get to class.” Turning on my heel, I spin towards the glass doors, sure the secretary tried to continue on with the conversation, and glad, for once, I couldn’t do anything about it.

My leg shakes subtly as my phone vibrates underneath my fitted jeans.

Mom: Have a gr8 first day, I love you! Tell douchebag I love him too.