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  Donovan’s lips are hard for me to read. I think it’s equal parts his mumbling and my not being able to look at his mouth for too long without imagining, well, a lot of things. We don’t talk much if Jordyn isn’t around to interpret.

  He caps the pen and holds it out. I can see that he’s talking to me, but my heart is racing. Get it together. I hold both my hands up, more charades. Lately it feels like I’m some sort of caveman: ME JULIA, YOU HOT BOY WORK DRIVE-THRU. I bring my hands down through the air, nice and easy.

  “Slow down,” my hands say.

  “Oh——-, sorry.” He points to the marker with his other hand and gives me a thumbs-up. Then he points right at me.

  “You,” he mouths, “draw?” Donovan takes the marker and pretends to draw on his hand. At least he’s trying. I place my hand out, palm down, and tilt it back and forth. I’m willing my lips to stay neutral but the corners are defying gravity.

  “Cool.” He hands me the pen and with a little wave goes off to start his shift.

  There’s only a million more things I wanted to say to him. Or, you know, have an actual conversation. But that’s all I get with hearies. Hi. Bye. Thumbs up, thumbs down. Head nod. Friend, family, etc.

  I talk with the Donovan that lives in my head the whole drive home.

  “What’re you doing here?” I ask coyly. “I thought you didn’t have a shift today.”

  “I had to buy a new tire for Henry this week, so I had to pick up a night shift.” His hands sign as deftly as a native speaker.

  “Poor Henry. Give him my regards.” Henry is the name I gave his car—not that he knows this.

  “How’s the new school?” he would ask.

  “Rough going for now. I’m dying to get into this advanced art class, but it’s full and the—”

  “Advanced? I didn’t know you were an artist.”

  “Oh. Well, you know, I’m okay. I guess.”

  “Can I see your stuff sometime?”

  “Just drive under the overpass on Spring Road.”

  My eyes sting. That conversation would never happen, not even close. Who knows what he gets to talk with Jordyn about? A lot of things, I bet.

  No tagging on a whim anymore, that’s my new rule. But I need to feel like myself again; I need to be HERE. Screw it. Thm! Thm! Thm! There it is: that heart-pounding, finger-numbing adrenaline that surges through my head and radiates through the rest of my body. Let’s do this.

  I take Zombie Green out of my pocket. Normally I would use the yellow one, but I’m all about this pen now; it has a secret. This tag is a note, a journal entry. Today Donovan held this marker and asked me about art. I wasn’t supposed to see him, and I did. He asked me about art, and I wanted to tell him everything, and since that’s never happening, this will have to do.

  I lace up my boots, pull on my hoodie, and hide the marker up my sleeve. I walk four blocks away from Lee, which should put enough distance between us, before I look around for the perfect spot.

  I like to pretend I’m waiting for a bus when I’m scoping out a good place to write. I can’t have it look like I’m wandering around without a purpose, but there’s no bus stop here. The main street has more traffic than I would like, but tonight I want to feel the risk. There’s a pizza place (closed), a drug store (closed), some mom-and-pop gift shop (closed), and the Dairy Barn (open). A car passes and a pedestrian-crossing sign is illuminated, all neon and yellow, in its headlights. That’s my spot. The sign is directly across from Dairy Barn, but the drive-thru window faces the opposite street. It’s a decent spot. I like pedestrian-crossing signs the best because of the little silhouetted people on them.

  This pedestrian is Donovan, and he’s saying my name. The art gods are on my side tonight; they know I need this and the roads are dead empty. I reach up and draw. When I’m tagging, the rest of the world blurs out. That can be really dangerous—another reason to keep it tight and work quickly. My arm knows what to do before my brain even tells it to. I have this weird connection between my brain and my limbs, kind of like when hearing people say they talk without thinking sometimes. I move without thinking. I close my lines.

  I’ve drawn a word bubble, and inside: HERE

  I add a few of Donovan’s perfect arm hairs for good measure. I cap it and scram. I don’t stand around admiring, I don’t take an Instagram. I write and run.

  WHAM. THUNK.

  That’s me, getting hit in the head with a basketball, then hitting the floor. The ball is hurled at the back of my head, so I can’t see it coming. Next they’ll say I shouldn’t be allowed to play. I feel like I’m back in middle school.

  Let’s get one thing straight: if I threw a basketball at the back of Kyle Fucking Stokers’s head, he would hit the floor just as hard as I did. Deafness has nothing to do with it.

  Gym is the one and only period I don’t have my terp following me around, which makes it even worse. No one willing to play my version of charades with me, and there’s no paper to write anything out on.

  Casey is required to be in all my classes, including gym, but we struck a secret deal: I get some time without a chaperone, and she gets to pick up our lunches from somewhere less vile than the Finley cafeteria. Every time I have gym, I start to regret our arrangement, but then I see the processed meat slabs they serve at lunch and change my mind.

  The floor is cold against my face. Nice floor, good floor. I must have really hit my head. I push against the nice, nice floor and roll onto my back. Ms. Ricker glares down at me, her whistle dangling over my face. She stands there, hands on her hips, doing nothing, while Yoga Pants comes running over to help. More gold stars for Yoga Pants. At least she looks more concerned for my well-being than Ricker, who is probably telling her to take me out back and shoot me.

  I end up in the locker room, holding my thumping head in my hands. Yoga Pants takes a small bottle out of her gym bag and hands it to me: Extra Strength Tylenol.

  “I—-headaches.” She points to her head and squints.

  “Thanks,” I sign. I shake out two pills and gulp them down at the water fountain. Yoga Pants is talking to me, but the only word I manage to catch is question. She’s skittish, pacing back and forth as she speaks. I reach out and place my hands on YP’s rounded shoulders, and she finally stops talking. I point to my eyes, then to her mouth, and do my patented “slow down” gesture.

  “Oh, oh! Sorry!” She actually uses the right sign for the word sorry. She looks at me straight on with her full, cherubic face. Her cheeks and heavy blond bangs remind me of that woman from Manet’s painting A Bar at the Folies-Bergère. Pretentious, I know, but I can’t help but see it. Paintings get stuck in my head in the same way I imagine songs get trapped in hearing people’s ears.

  “I ask you questions?” she says slowly, taking her time to mouth the words. I relent and nod my head. Right now I’ll do anything so long as I don’t have to go back into the gym.

  “I’ll make——like, yes-or-no ones. So you—-——nod for yes, shake for no, or whatever, okay?”

  I just nod or whatever.

  “Okay. So! Can you hear, like, anything?”

  Shake.

  “Whoa, nothing—all?”

  Shake.

  “You -----——-hearing-aid thingie?”

  This is bigger than a yes-or-no question. I have hearing aids, but I hate them. They don’t do anything but distract me, and I have awful tinnitus for hours after I take them out. I shake my head no.

  “Was everyone deaf --——old school?”

  I waggle my head, leaning toward yes. We had some hearing teachers, kids with cochlear implants, some people who were going deaf, some hard of hearing. A mixed bag. Not everyone who is deaf is profoundly so.

  “Why did you leave?”

  I look at my feet and pick at a cuticle. Should I tell her? Certainly not the whole story, maybe…

  “Oh! Sorry”—with her fist on her chest she signs it again—“that’s not a yes-or-no.” I give her the benefit of the doubt. Thi
s is the first almost-conversation I’ve had at Finley with someone other than Casey, and it’s all right. Even if her questions are the most basic hearie-meeting-a-Deafie-for-the-first-time ones. I point to myself.

  “You…,” she repeats.

  I kick my foot out, like I’m kicking a ball.

  “Kick?”

  I nod and throw my thumb back over my shoulder like an umpire making a call at first base. See, I know some things about sports.

  “Um…”

  I kick and thumb again.

  “You got kicked out?” Her ice-blue eyes grow wide. She’s excited to get a bit of gossip from me.

  Nod. I point to myself again and she follows along. The bell in the girls’ locker room is so loud I can feel it in my chest. I sign “later” to her and then point to my wrist for extra clarity as the room fills up with girls rushing to get changed and get out.

  Yoga Pants points to me, then to her head one last time. She doesn’t talk when she signs, “You. Head.” Thumbs up?

  “Better,” I sign back, swiping my chin. I assume she understands because the sign conveniently has a thumbs-up already built in.

  —

  “Good -----, Kyle. Great work.” Ms. Ricker pats him on the back as he leaves the gym. Great work? Was she not in the same class I was just in? That’s some serious selective memory. I’ve had it up to here with Kyle Fucking Stokers. I don’t care how the game went, or how nice his eyebrows look. I’m standing here with my head throbbing from the ball he threw at me, and he gets an “attaboy”? I look over to Ricker and her eyes dart away from me.

  “Hey!” I shout, not sure how loud I am.

  “What?” Ms. Ricker scowls, confused. Good. I’m loud enough, then.

  “He gets a pat on the back? What do I get?” The words scratch my throat as I yell them. The way he looks at me, like I’m a joke, takes my simmering blood up to a boil. He smirks, and one of his bros elbows him, chuckling.

  “It was an accident.” Kyle grins the fakest grin that ever graced his stupid face. “I’m sorry.” He fakes the apology, so it’s just genuine enough to be believable. I don’t buy it for one second, but Ricker is obviously satisfied with his bullshit excuse. He almost winks at me on his way out of the gym.

  “Don’t walk away!” I shout, and chase after him. I grab at him and my fingers brush the back of his jacket. Yoga Pants steps between us, grasping my hands. I thought I was angry before, but this? Holding my hands still, trying to shut me up? I wouldn’t dream of putting a hand over a hearing person’s mouth while they’re talking. I try to wiggle away but she’s holding tight, her eyebrows arched with that all-too-familiar expression: pity. I am on fire, I am HERE. Don’t pity me.

  “Let me go!” I scream and thrash until she releases my hands.

  “Stop screaming!” Ricker finally butts in.

  “You! Leave! Me—” I’m screaming and signing at the same time to everyone and no one in particular, until KFS leans in over Yoga Pants’s shoulder.

  “No—-—-understand you,” he spits. “Get it? You’re embarrassing yourself.”

  “Do————take——-to --- office?” Ricker separates us all. As far as I’m concerned, she’s said the magic word. Office. God, what am I thinking? I can’t handle getting kicked out of another school; I’m in enough shit as it is. Deep fucking breath. I back off.

  “Okay——now get out——gym.”

  She hurries YP, Kyle, all of them out of the door. I lag behind in the gym entrance, my face flushed red and hot.

  “Hey.” Ms. Ricker hunches over slightly so our faces are on the same level. “I’m———wasn’t—purpose. He said——-sorry. You’re—-——-yourself—-favors.” She doesn’t look into my eyes as she talks to me, as if her ugly sneakers are more interesting than my face. “I——-it’s great——you’re————-school—-—-, but you’re——-———try and fit in———-normal kids, okay? It’ll make life————you.” She pats me on the back, a stiff hard thump that moves me through the doors of the gym.

  I seethe, my boiling blood turning to acid. I think about sprinting to my car, to the road, to the underpass, anywhere but this spot. And as I think about it my legs take over for me and start running, down the hall, through the cafeteria, my eyes seeing red.

  Red flannel. Mini Mondrians woven all over his shirt. We collide and I almost fall to the ground for the second time today, but Mr. Katz steadies us both. He always seemed sort of gangly to me before, but he is able to catch me at full speed without toppling. A curl of black hair falls in his eyes as he studies my face for a moment. He exhales.

  “Not a good day, huh?” he asks slowly enough for me to understand. No day here has been a good day. There have been days where I’ve slipped under the radar, but I wouldn’t call those good days. He motions for me to follow him and walks down the hall without looking back.

  I follow. I imagine what we must look like, him gliding along like a proud trumpeter swan, me waddling along in his wake like some pissed-off goose. When we get to Room 105, he unlocks the door and holds it open for me.

  This is the room I’ve been dying to get into ever since I landed at Finley.

  There are no desks, just long tables set up around the perimeter of the room. In the center stand two big lamps on tripods, their light framing a carefully draped table. On top sit some empty wooden buckets, a teakettle, four apples, and a pear. Still life isn’t really my thing, but after a month of bad English papers and full-contact basketball, I could turn this into a masterpiece. The walls are covered in sketches, some of the still life on the table, others of previous still-life arrangements, and random drawings, too. Comic pages, a drawing of Mr. Katz, whatever. Brushes are drying in big paint-stained coffee cans. A record player sits precariously close to the slop sink. You would think he would be more careful with vintage electronics. The whole room has that sharpened-colored-pencil smell—nothing is clean but everything is perfect.

  Mr. Katz doesn’t have a desk but a podium with shelving underneath it. He fishes out a yellow legal pad and starts writing. When he’s finished, he holds it out to me. He’s written:

  Stay and work awhile. It always helps me.

  I take the yellow pad. The sunny paper shines up at me, saying this could be all right. I motion for his pen. It’s one of those nice ones, the kind that feels heavy and expensive. I concentrate. Normally, I don’t give a crap about my grammar. I got so sick of my old English teachers hammering away at us, saying we Deafies have to rise above the stereotypes, and I get it. I do. But I just don’t care about commas and capitals and sentence structure. Just like I don’t care about chemistry or U.S. history. I don’t discriminate. I’ve never been one to set a good example anyway.

  Still, I feel this pull, and a desire to impress him. I’m asking for a favor and I want to be understood. When it comes to art I don’t like to be lazy. I take my time and write as clearly as I can.

  May I join your class?

  He scribbles a response, some excuse about it being the wrong time, and there’s no room, and he wishes he could, and blah blah blah. I wave my hand to stop him and sign, “I know.” He goes back to his first sentence and underlines the word always. Before I can respond Katz takes his pen, retrieves a tote bag from under the podium, and is at the door. He closes it behind him, gives a little wave through the window, and is gone.

  He was right. How did he know that? That I would almost instantly feel better sitting here by myself, left alone to do what I do best. I decide to try my hand at the still life and take out my sketchbook. I don’t feel right about helping myself to the supplies scattered around the room. I don’t rack paint either, even though some writers would say that doesn’t make me legit. I’m not a thief, I’m a vandal. That’s why I work at Mickey D’s: I buy my own supply.

  I keep thinking about the pear: Why only one pear? Was there a sale on apples? Did he pick up the pear by mistake, thinking it was an apple? Or were the apples mistakes and he was sad to find out he got
only one pear? I like this pear. I’ll start there.

  I begin sketching the base of the pear, where it’s sitting. There is a nice little fold in the cloth underneath. Folds are tricky. I love the way they look, curvy and kind of sexy in a way. Which is probably why I’m not very good at drawing them yet. I’m better at hard lines and solid forms, like letters. My old art teacher told me I draw like a man. I’ve never forgiven him. I don’t draw like anything, I draw like everything. I draw like me.

  Folds in cloth and bumpy, organic-shaped pears make for a rocky start to my still-life adventure, but I’ll be damned if I am going to walk out and give up this room. I’ll get it right. The bucket in the background would have been no problem, all hard lines and wood. I fall in love with its little iron handle. Where do you even get a bucket like that anymore? I go back to shading in my pear. I’m not mad, not hungry, not anything. Just me in an empty room with my pencil and pad and pear.

  I call it finished with about a minute to spare before either Mr. Katz comes back or the next class floods in, neither of which I want to be here for. I want to vanish like a ghost, savor this mood I’m in now. I carefully tear out my still life and pin it on the wall next to Mr. Katz’s podium. It’s from the last page in my sketchbook. His writing is in the corner, almost like a signature: We’ll see.

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to start coming to your gym class?” Casey follows me out to my car after school. Ricker must have told her what happened. I certainly didn’t.

  “I’m fine, don’t worry about it.”

  “I do worry! Making some friends might help, too, you know.” She’s so genuine, I can’t tell if she’s making puppy-dog eyes or if it’s just the magnification of her glasses.

  “Don’t have time for friends.” And after Jordyn’s dirty double-crossing sent me off to this place, don’t want ’em, either. I’m meant to be an outsider. I highly doubt Banksy spends his weekends palling around with his BFF.

  “Seriously, let me introduce you around to some of the kids in your lunch period. They aren’t all bad.”