Song of Summer (14 page)

She takes the pen out of my hands. “We figure it out,” she answers.

“Good,” I write. “And on August twenty-eighth?”

“We don't think about August twenty-eighth.”

“I can do that,” I write. “Can you?”

She nods and the pen is still.

Robin

“So after the sunset, what then?”

Violet and Fannie are hanging on my every word as I roll silverware after the lunch rush and recount my date with Carter.

“Well, the sky got darker and the wind off the lake started to get chilly.”

“So he had to keep you warm?” Violet says.

“Maybe…” A smile plays around my lips.

“That means yes!” Fannie pipes up.

I laugh. “We walked back to his house and ate some kind of chocolate thing. Then he showed me some of his photography stuff and some pictures from New York, and I went home!” Before Violet can latch onto the details of the evening, I brandish my Chautauqua Guest Pass. “But not before securing… this.”

They ooh and aah over it, like they'd never seen anything like it before (which they probably haven't), and I laugh.

What I don't tell them is that I tingled the whole way home, like life had spiked my drink. He walked me all the way out to my car and kissed me good night and I didn't want to leave. I didn't want to do anything but kiss him for the rest of my life. Unfortunately, that wasn't an option. So I drove home and made my curfew and lay in bed, texting him until we both fell asleep.

We decided not to see each other today, just to take a break and make sure we don't overdo it or anything. Because no matter how much you love ice cream, if you eat it every day, you're gonna get sick of it. But I don't know about this boy: what boys are to ice cream, this boy is to crème brûlée. Or filet mignon. Or crêpes suzette. Or something foreign and delicious.

Tips were ridiculously fabulous today. At least a five from every table.

“I am on my game today,” I say, leafing through them. Thirty more dollars toward the Dread Pirate Martin.

“Or maybe people just like to see a girl in love!” Violet corrects, slicing up a chocolate cream pie into six giant slices.

I give her a look.

“What? This is love! You wanna know what love is? This!” she says, licking whipped cream off her fingers. “You were done the minute he walked in this door. Only now it's bad. Real bad.”

Fannie walks around to the coffee counter with me and Violet, grabbing the “ROBIN'S PERFECT MAN” list off the bulletin board. She starts going through check boxes with a Grape Country Dairy pen. “All right, Robin,” she says, “tall, dark, and handsome are already checked off. Let's see about the rest: Not gay?”

We all laugh.

“Let's just skip to the next,” Fannie continues. “Good tipper?”

“Check,” calls Violet.

“Good with kids?”

The look on Trina's face when he teased her. “Check.”

“Rugged?”

“Motorcycle!” calls out Violet. “That's rugged!”

“Interesting?”

“Definitely,” says Violet.

“Funny?”

Snide jokes at the dinner table. “Yes. Funny.”

“Smart?”

“Check!” calls Violet.

“Romantic? Oh I don't even need to ask about that one. We just got the play-by-play,” Fannie mutters under her breath.

“Rich?”

“One word: house in Chautauqua,” Violet says.

“That's not one word, Violet.”

“Might as well be.”

“Good heart?” Fannie breaks back in.

“Yes!” we chorus.

“Last one: Good taste in music?”

There's a pause.

“Sorry,” Fannie mutters, turning pink, “I don't… I, well…”

“It doesn't matter!” Violet declares. “Scratch it off due to unforeseen circumst—”

“Wait, no!” I interrupt. “It's my list. Don't scratch it off.”

Violet turns to look at me. One penciled-in eyebrow is arched and she has a mom look on her face. “If you're going to write him off, honey, because he can't hear music, then your priorities have got to be put in check. This boy is a once-in-a-lifetime! They don't make 'em like him!”

“I know… ,” I say. There's just something about scratching it off. About giving up just like that. I can't do it. Maybe my dad's love of tradition is genetic. Maybe something inside of me thinks that this already written list is better than a living, breathing list that changes and grows and evolves. I shrug. “Just leave it on. For now.”

Violet shakes her head. A warning sign. “Honey, you can't love a deaf boy hoping that someday he'll hear music. You're setting yourself up for disappointment.”

“Well, I did see this thing once…” Fannie trails off. She tacks the list back on the bulletin board and turns around. Seeing that she has both Violet's and my full attention, she continues: “. . . on
The Ellen DeGeneres Show
. I DVR it. You know, there's a device now, that lets deaf people hear! This woman had a YouTube video of when she heard for the first time. She started crying and carrying on… they had an update show, and she can listen to music now. Sings and everything!”

“It's called a cochlear implant,” I say. I remember Trina's chirpy little voice. I wonder if she ever sings. “I thought they could only be used in children. Babies, you know? Because… I dunno. Because their brains are still developing or something.”

“Well this woman on
The Ellen Show
had never heard a day in her life till they turned that thing on. She started just sobbing!”

“The day I see Carter sobbing about anything…” I try to laugh it off, but I can't stop the wheels in my head from turning.

The idea of Carter actually hearing my music distracts me so much that I forget about my last table. Disgruntled, they finally come up to the register without their check. I apologize profusely, but it's too late: my five-dollar-tip streak is broken.

I pick up Jenni on my way home from work. Some news just has to be given in person. One more night of missed practice won't hurt. It's just one night.

“Thank God you're here!” she says as she climbs into my car. “I think I'm going nuts. I thought, ‘One last summer of freedom. That's what I need. One last summer with no job, no commitments…' Bad, bad idea, girlie. That was a bad idea. I'm sick of daytime TV followed by afternoon TV followed by primetime and then late night. I'm getting a job.”

I roll my eyes. “Jenni. The summer is half over. Where in the world can you work now?”

Her eyes travel innocently up to the roof of the car. “Um
…
I dunno… maybe Chautauqua… ?”

“Seriously!”

“The ice-cream shop is hiring…”

“So you want to serve ice cream to creepy rich people who probably want soy-based, nonfat ice-cream-free ice cream?”

“Hey, watch what you're saying. Your boyfriend is one of those creepy rich people.”

Wow. Yeah, I guess he is. Only without the creepy.

“Robin… ? You didn't correct me.”

It was a trap—I should've known it. I shrug.

“Robin! You didn't say, ‘Jenni, he's not my boyfriend!'”

I shrug and smile.

“Oh my God, Robin Peters, are you dating that guy?!”

I nod, grinning like a freakin' hyena.

“What?! No! Tell me everything!”

So as we drive back to my house, I tell her about dinner and his room and his sister and his parents. I tell her about the little thoughtful silent time before the meal. As we walk into the house I tell her about how strange it was to have his words translated by his mom. And how much the whole family talks about everything—like nothing's off-limits. In my room I tell her about the walk and the bikes and the kiss and the cuddling and the sunset and the notes and the kissing and the walk back and dessert and the kiss good night.

It's like I'm feeding her.

“Oh. My God.” She sighs. “I think you wrote the gospel of romance.” She gets up, hands waving. “That's it! I'll never be able to compare with that! Nothing will! My life is no good anymore. I want what she has.”

I smile. It may be the first time she's been the one who wants what I have, instead of the other way around.

“God, Robin!” She throws herself on my bed. “It is perfect! It is all just perfect!”

“Except… ,” I venture. I take a deep breath and dive in. “Except he can't hear.”

She turns abruptly to face me. “What… ?!” she says in mock surprise and starts laughing. She stops when I don't join in. “Big deal,” she says. “You've always known that.”

“Yeah, I know…” I trail off. “Never mind. I feel like a jerk. That was a jerky thing to say. You're right. It was perfect. It is perfect. He is just right for me.” But the words sound sad as they come out of my mouth.

She shrugs and looks back at the ceiling. “It's okay to wish he could hear. Your favorite thing in the world, besides me of course, is music. It's totally natural that you wish he could share it with you.”

“Yeah… ,” I say, trying to convince myself. It doesn't feel like an okay thing to wish.

“So tell me again about the sunset,” Jenni bursts into my thoughts.

I relax once more and smile as I tell her about how we cuddled and watched the sunset and wrote little notes to each other. About his arms around mine and the way he would lay his head on mine. About the colors stretching out across the lake and the lap of the lake on the shore and the melody of the concert floating from the amphitheater and everything.

“Girls! Dinner!” Mom calls up the stairs. Jenni and I come down to the table with my mom and dad.

Dad says the prayer and my mom starts to pass food around.

“So what do you think about all this?” Jenni asks my parents out of the blue, who, in turn, look a little surprised.

I kick Jenni under the table.

“All what?” Dad asks.

“Um… you… know… the, uh… dinner?” she fumbles. I guess all of my friends are terrible liars. I give in.

“I was planning on telling you during dinner anyway,” I say as I blast Jenni the evil eye and she pretends not to see it, “but, you know that deaf kid I've been hanging out with… ?”

Mom nods as Dad shakes his head. She gives him a look. “You know, Gary. The deaf boy? They went to the craft fair?”

Dad still looks confused but he nods and says, “Oh yes! The, uh, the deaf boy.” I'm not surprised—I've really only hung out with Carter a few times, and my dad's brain has a tendency to stay stuck in the classical literature he loves so much.

“Um, well, we're kind of dating.”

My dad nods and continues with dinner, completely unfazed. My mom, however, puts down her fork and questions me with her eyes.

“I… just… well, I really like him. And he likes me. And… so we're dating.” I go back to eating, like everything's totally normal.

When I started dating Trent, my parents had already seen him around the town, the school, even the house. So when I told them we were dating, it was an off-the-cuff, “Oh yeah, and Trent and I are dating now,” kind of thing. They were indifferent either way. I mean, Mom was appropriately happy when we got together and sympathetic when we broke up. Dad distantly approved of everything. They were always nice to him and stuff, but I guess they knew it wasn't forever. Wish they'd told me.

“I'd like to meet him,” Dad says between bites of meat loaf.

“I'm sorry,” Mom says, picking her way through her words. “I thought it was kind of… kind of a community service thing or something like that… you know, volunteer hours for graduation or something.”

Jenni snorts and covers her mouth.

“Nope!” I say. “I just really liked him so I hung out with him. And now we're dating.”

Mom stays quiet, but I can see her working it out in her head. “Well, how do you… communicate? And things?”

“I've learned a little bit of sign,” I say. “From the Internet mostly. And we write notes.”

Awkward silence.

“And he's really good at lip-reading.”

Dad looks up at me, meat loaf halfway to his mouth.

Mom breaks in. “Isn't he a Chautauqua boy? Like, leaving at the end of—”

“Yeah,” I break in.

She digs deeper. “And that doesn't—”

“Nope!” Before I can think about it too much, I pass the conversational baton.

“Jenni's met him.”

Jenni nods. “He's super nice. Totally hot.”

I kick her under the table. I should've kept the baton.

Mom turns to look at me, eyebrows raised, setting her fork back down on her plate.

I shrug and give a little smile. “It's not like I've been hiding him from you!” I say (although I surely haven't made any attempts to introduce them). “I'm sure he'd be glad to meet you!”

“Good!” Dad says, going back to his meat loaf. “We'd like to meet him, too. Let's have him to dinner tomorrow.”

~

Yesterday's tomorrow is now today and the time is 5:00 p.m. My mom keeps checking the windows by the front door and pacing back and forth.

“You'll know when he's here,” I say, playing a middle school recital piece on the piano in the living room. “And he'll be here soon. He's always on time.”

“‘You'll know when he's here,'” Mom says in what is supposed to be an imitation of my voice. “I don't even know what that means!”

“It probably means that his arrival will be unmistakable,” Dad offers from his place behind a book.

“Thank you, Gary,” Mom says, and the lineage of my sense of humor proves itself once more. She checks the window again. I've chosen to keep the motorcycle a secret. And Jenni's description of “totally hot” is the only one I've given them. What can I say? I like drama.