Song of Summer (3 page)

“How's Barry?” my mom signs as I walk into the kitchen. She's up to her elbows in flour and her hands are covered in the stuff. My sister Trina is standing on a stool next to her. She's nine, and she's wearing a sparkly turquoise T-shirt and little black shorts. Her blond hair is pulled up into a ponytail, revealing her turquoise cochlear implant, or CI. To describe it very basically, a CI is a really complicated, high-tech, invasive device that enhances hearing ability. Part of it is permanent, implanted under the skin and attaching to the cochlea, and part of it is external, removable. I don't have one and never will.

“Barry is fine,” I sign. I pull a stool up to the island, across from the two of them. “His horizons have not been broadened. He learned exactly zero ASL. Fancy college will have to wait.”

“Sorry,” my mom signs back. I shrug. I wasn't expecting it to be a roaring success. I guess he's failing Spanish. His parents think the brilliant way around this is to teach him ASL this summer so he can test out of any foreign language requirement. That in itself shows you how ignorant he is. There is no way he can learn an entire vocabulary and language structure in eight weeks. Maybe he can learn enough to hold basic conversation. Maybe he can learn enough to scrape by. But fluent? Ha.

I watch as my mom kneads a big loaf of bread and Trina kneads her own little loaf. It's adorable.

“Looks good,” I sign, and try to snag a piece.

Trina slaps my hand away. “Mom!” her mouth says, and then she turns to mom and I can't see her face, but her mouth is still moving, since Mom can hear her. I take the opportunity to grab a piece of dough. You know how cookie dough tastes almost better than the cookies themselves? Bread dough is the opposite. Terrible. I choke it down.

“Manners,” my mom signs and says. She takes Trina's face and turns it my way. Then takes her little hands out of the dough. “Use sign,” she signs.

Trina rolls her eyes. She's had her CI since she was a little less than two years old; so long she's practically hearing. She's just begun to realize that the whole world doesn't talk with their hands, and she likes to practice that freedom. It's frustrating to my parents, who debated long and hard about getting her implanted so young. They like the independence her CI gives her, but it's frustrating that she's already using it against us.

“Carter is stealing!” her little hands say.

“Carter, don't steal from your sister,” my mom admonishes.

I hold up my hands in surrender.

“How was your trip? Where'd you go?”

“A diner in Westfield,” I reply. “Grape Country Dairy.”

“What?” my sister asks.

I sign it again, carefully.

“That doesn't make sense,” she signs and says.

“I know,” I sign. “But the food was good.”

And the server was pretty cute.

“What'd you get?”

“Bacon cheeseburger. A milkshake.”

A smile. A wave good-bye.

“Will you go back?”

Will I?

“Yeah.”

*
American Sign Language is a visual language. Direct written translations of ASL are confusing and an inaccurate representation of the language. For the reader's ease, all signed sentences are translated to English.

Robin

The music flows soft from my heart, liquid through my fingers, and hard against the guitar strings, into the ears of the congregation. I fingerpick slowly.

The choir comes in softly with, “Awake, my soul!” Trent's stand-up bass joins my guitar, rounding out the accompaniment and quickening my heartbeat. He winks at me while singing the verse and I almost forget to join him in the bridge, when the keyboard and second guitar add in. We let the last note of the bridge ring out for a minute in the big, old-fashioned church. This is the best part: the moment before a kiss, when you're breathing the breath of the person you love. I see the gleam in Trent's eye as his fingers slide up the neck of his stand-up bass, pounding out a new rhythm.

My right hand begins a rollicking strum pattern, and I find that I'm smiling. These are the little kisses—the tentative, building nibbles. I glance at the congregation. Every foot in the building is tapping and every head is nodding. Some people have their eyes closed. I can practically see the song being played out around them—over their heads and under their feet and around their hearts.

The choir sings of awakening souls, and I can feel mine coming alive inside of me. Something rounded and lovely begins to blossom inside me and it bubbles out through my fingers and my follicles. This is the only time my soul awakens: when I'm in the middle of the music. And now the descant is coming.

I sing over top of the choir. My voice flies as my soul soars, peering down at the heads of the people in the crowd, joining their souls as they fly among the mahogany beams in the vaulted ceiling.

Too soon, the instruments cut out, one by one until just Trent and I are left. I'm fingerpicking again, and we sing out the last line, slow, in unison, but separated by an octave.

I end the song looking at the neck of my guitar and breathing a sigh, savoring the last notes as they echo above the heads of the listeners, finally fading away.

The congregation claps politely, a kiss on the nose after five minutes of passion. I set Bender, my good-enough-for-now guitar (Fender Bender is her full name) on her stand. I look and nod at them before going back to my seat in the hard pews, between my parents. It's weird to be clapped at in church. I don't mind, but somehow I don't feel like I should take all the credit. The sermon is fine, I guess. Something about loving God and loving people. But my fingers twitch and my brain replays, and my heart can't stop pumping out the beat of the song that just ended.

Church ends with the benediction. After the “Amen,” I go up to the stage to take care of Bender as the congregation mills around, exchanging good mornings and comments on the weather.

“Robin!” I hear, and I turn to see the crowd part, heads turning to let a gorgeous and determined redhead through. It's my best friend, Jenni.

“Ooh, Robin! That was so good!”

Jenni catches me up in a hug, threatening to knock Bender out of my hands. I come up to her shoulders. A situation which is not helped by her three-inch heels and my ballet flats.

I laugh and untangle myself. “You came!”

“Of course, I came!” She flicks her long red hair over her shoulder. I catch this guy from out of town doing a double take and I smile to myself. Happens all the time. Jenni is, of course, oblivious. She looks over the crowd. “So this is church?”

I shrug. “Yup.” I've been coming here my whole life. It's only recently, though, that we got the new worship pastor and he found out I can play guitar.

“Do I look okay?”

I give her a look. “Jenni. You are the most beautiful thing here. You could be wearing sweatpants and a poncho and you'd still be the most beautiful thing here.” We became friends sometime around middle school, before she got gorgeous. Our friendship has remained solid through her growth spurt and my growth sputter, her sleek red hair, and my frizz-prone brunette locks, her slim figure and my sturdy thighs. Sometimes I think she'd be higher on the popularity scale if it weren't for me. But who needs a popularity scale when you have a best friend?

“So will you play again next week?” she asks.

“No… we rotate. It'll be a while before I play again.”

“It's tempting,” she says, looking around at the instruments, and I think of how her breathy alto would fit between my sweet soprano and Trent's clear tenor.

“You're welcome to join,” I say.

She shrugs. “I'll see, but probably not. This is my last real summer before I'm an adult. I want to enjoy it.”

Suddenly, big hands cover my eyes. I recognize the calloused fingertips before I smell his Sunday cologne or peek through the fingers to see the look of disgust on Jenni's face.

“Peek-a-boo, guess who?” says a disguised voice. My breath catches in my throat.

“Get off, Trent.” I step away and brush his hands from my eyes, kind of wishing I could just stay there, his hands on me again. I wonder if he knows how he affects me. My flushed face doesn't do a whole lot to hide it.

He laughs in his natural tenor and shoves me lightly. “Just playin', Robin egg,” he says, his voice back to normal now that his “disguise” is gone. His curly hair is parted on the side and gel attempts to hold it down. Gray-green eyes glint and the stubble on his face is already defying the morning's shave.

“Maybe it's a little too soon to play,” Jenni says tightly. She liked Trent well enough when we were dating but when we broke up he became the oil to her water.

He ignores her. “Good job up there, Robin,” he says.

“Thanks. You too.”

“Nah…” he waves me off. He never takes compliments well. “You gonna do the gig next month?”

“What gig?”

“You mean he hasn't talked to you about it yet? You are in for a treat.” He winks at me and I look just in time to see Pastor Mark approaching.

“Robin!” he says. He's a tall man, balding and bearded, but he has excellent taste in music, which goes a long way with me. When he became the worship pastor at our church, the music scene morphed from canned '90s praise songs to a mix of secular acoustic songs, old hymns, and original arrangements. The music is musty but fresh—new life breathed into old traditions and sentiments. Like today's mash-up of “Awake My Soul,” and “I'll Fly Away.” Brilliant. “Good job today, Trent. I'm glad you joined us.”

Trent nods and winks at me. “Thanks for letting me stay.”

Pastor Mark gives him a questioning look. Trent joined the church worship band around Christmas, by my invitation. Pastor Mark never knew that we were dating, much less that we broke up.

I roll my eyes and turn to the pastor. “So, Trent says something about a gig next month?”

Pastor Mark laughs and the corners of his eyes twinkle. “I guess you could call it that. I'd like you to do some special music. I've written an arrangement of an old folk hymn that has your name all over it.”

He hands me the music, titled, “What Wondrous Love Is This.” I've never heard of it. I flip through the old hymn, hearing it in my head. It starts out solo guitar and voice, then builds to the rest of a string band, finally involving the choir and ending with a solo again. It's gorgeous. A showstopper. My mouth starts watering.

“What do you think?” he asks.

“It's… awesome,” I say. “I'd love to play it.”

“What about sing?” he asks. “I'd like you to do both.”

I look up at him. “A solo?”

He nods. I gulp. Not my usual harmony or descant. Solos make my knees trembly. But I can't pass this up.

“Sure,” I say. “Sure! I'd love to.”

He smiles. “Good. I'll see you Tuesday night for rehearsal. It's gonna take awhile to get this one on its feet. A lot of moving parts.”

He leaves me clutching the music, a ridiculous grin on my face. I turn slowly toward Jenni. “Jenni! Did you hear that! He wants me to do this song! This gorgeous song!”

She smiles. “Awesome! If you need help, let me know.”

Trent grabs the papers from me and starts flipping through them, humming. “Nice,” he says after a cursory look. “I didn't know much about it—just that he wanted you to solo. But it's gonna be good. Great bass part, too.” He mimics playing his stand-up.
“Ba-domp-BOW!”

“Give that back.” Jenni snatches the music out of his hand, smooths it out, and gives it back to me.

“Thanks.” I smile up at Trent.

He raises his eyebrows and tilts his head toward Jenni, mouthing, “Crazy.”

I shake my head slowly in defense of my friend. The smile stays on my face, though. He's just so cute.

“See ya later, Robin egg.” He winks at me and walks away, his broad back disappearing in the crowd of churchgoers.

“Bye.”

Trent is barely out of earshot when Jenni turns to me. “I don't know why he feels the need to keep flirting after he broke up with you.”

“Jenni. He's not flirting with me. He acts that way with everybody.”

“Then he's flirting with everybody! Robin! Honestly! You have to stop letting him do this to you! He already took too much of your heart!”

I shrug. She's right, of course. I'm about to admit it when my mom comes up to us. She throws her arm around me.

“You girls ready?” I look just like my mom—but about thirtysomething years younger and thirtysomething pounds lighter.

I nod. “Yeah. I think we're ready.”

“You want a ride home, Jenni?” my mom asks.

“Sure, Mrs. Peters.” Jenni smiles politely at my mom but gives me a less tolerant look as we get in the back of my dad's sedan. She makes her fingers into a heart, then breaks it in two and stomps on half under one heeled shoe. I stifle a giggle and turn my attention to my dad. He's talking about the sermon and the music and how he wishes we could go back to the old days. He's an English professor, wishing for hymnals and prayer books and recited creeds. This starts him on a rant about, “a return to decency.”

“You wouldn't believe the kids in my classes,” he says. “Tattoos on their hands. That's never going to come off. Just imagine when they're my age with mustache tattoos on their fingers! Who will hire them?”

“I don't know, dear,” Mom placates.

“Sleeping around, too. They're all sleeping around! And their parents condone this, they tell me! Guess old-fashioned guest rooms are a thing of the past…”

“Guess so,” I pipe up from the backseat. “We don't even have one.”

Dad glares at me in the rearview mirror. “We have a basement. A nice basement with a nice couch.”

We pull up to Jenni's house and she pats my back sympathetically before exiting the car. “See you tomorrow?” she calls over her shoulder as she walks up the stairs to her front door.