Song of Summer (5 page)

I look at Elsie. She hears it too. In fact, I think everybody in Westfield hears it. It sounds… loud and expensive. Looking together, we see the source of the noise through the diner's huge plateglass windows. It's a motorcycle, but not like any I've ever seen in Westfield. It's sleek and beautiful and tough. And bright, bright yellow and black. The rider is crouched low over the handlebars, not sitting up straight and tall like on a Harley. It's the difference between a jockey on a racehorse and my uncle Jim on his Belgian horse. I can't help it. My jaw drops.

That beautiful bike glides up our street and into our parking lot. Ever so slowly, I set the porcelain cow back on its shelf. Even Fannie peeks her head through the pass-through window to get a look.

The rider turns off the engine and dismounts, almost in slow motion. He kicks out the kick-stand and takes off his helmet, shaking his head to fix his hair. Which doesn't need fixing because it's perfect. Like his dark brown eyes. And his one crooked tooth. And everything else about him. I gulp.

“Holy hell,” says Elsie.

Holy hell, indeed.

From the ground up, Mr. Perfect Guy is wearing black leather boots, jeans, and a tight Italian leather jacket over a red T-shirt. The helmet is under his arm, and he's taking off his motorcycle gloves as he walks down the sidewalk into the restaurant.

“Your table,” says Elsie wistfully as the bell dings, even though she's too old for him and technically still married.

He looks at me and flashes a grin, waving hello.

“Hi,” I quaver, gesturing to all the tables. “Anywhere ya want.”

I close my eyes, face instantly red. I can't believe I just said that. Thank God he can't hear me.

He sits at a booth by one of the huge front windows and drums his fingers on the table. It's not an impatient move, it's an awkward one. It reminds me of the way somebody might say “um…” or “So…” I stash the dusting rag and get a menu and a roll of silverware.

“Hi,” I say again, setting the menu and silverware down on his table. His brown eyes look up through their lashes at me. I look away before I start blushing. “I'm Robin.”

What must my name look like to somebody who's lip-reading? Crap, crap, crap. And suddenly, inspiration strikes. I pull out my waitress pad, ripping off the last order from yesterday.

“I'm Robin,” I write on it. I tear it off and put it on his table. He reads it and reaches into his back pocket, pulling out his own pen and small pad of paper.

“Hi, Robin,
” he writes. “I'm Carter.”

Carter. Suave. Beautiful. Sophisticated.

“Hey,” I say, smiling. I give a little wave.

He waves back and smiles.

“Something to drink?” I ask out loud. I figure that's easy enough to lip-read, right? My hands are still. I feel the urge to pretend that I'm drinking from one of them, but that's probably wrong, so I feel stupid and don't do anything. My fingers flex.

“Soda?” His handwriting is careless and seamless. My handwriting is chicken scratch. I'm surprised he could decipher my name.

I smile and write, “We don't have soda.”

He tilts his head and points to the pop dispenser.

I finish the joke. “We have pop. You're in western New York, buddy! Time to talk like a local!”

His mouth opens in a silent laugh. “Fine,” he writes. He x-es out “soda” and replaces it with “pop.”

I sigh and start writing out the list. This could take a while. “Pepsi, diet, Mountain Dew” halfway through the word, he inches his hand up to mine and drums his fingers. Just once. I stop writing and he points to Mountain Dew, tapping it twice.

He looks me in the eyes and it's all I can do to nod instead of melt.

“Okay,” I say.

I write, “brb” on the paper and head to the counter to get his drink.

I chance a look back at him. He's grinning at his menu.

Carter

She's funny.

I can't stop smiling as I look through the menu. It's typical diner fare, with a few oddballs thrown in. Surf 'n' turf? I almost want to try the strip steak, just for kicks. New York is good for more than tall buildings, after all.

Robin. She's a little bird.

She's back before I know it, sliding the glass, which glows with electric green liquid behind my menu. I look up.

“You ready?” she writes on her little waitress paper. Her handwriting takes some time to figure out.

I shrug. “Maybe,” I sign before catching myself.

She looks surprised. Probably because she understands it. The sign for maybe just looks like you're weighing things in your hands. She probably uses it all the time, in the correct manner, without knowing it.

“How's the surf 'n' turf?” I write.

A laugh bubbles through her body. She shakes her head while she writes, “Stick to burgers.”

“Just burgers?”

Her hands are worn and dry, probably from handling hot plates and washing tables. Her fingers are strong and calloused, and her nails are cut close on her left hand, longer on her right hand. She taps the pen on her neck as she thinks, then writes for a while. When she shows me, it says, “The Reuben's good too, if Fannie's working. Anything deep-fried. And the veggie lasagna, even though it's Stouffer's.
Shhh
, don't tell.”

I smile and nod, almost writing, “I won't say a word,” but I don't want to weird her out. Sometimes hearing people are uncomfortable with deaf jokes.

“Couple minutes?” she writes.

I point to where it says “Reuben” in the menu and tap it twice.

“Reuben?” her mouth says.

I nod.

“Okay,” her mouth says, and she smiles. She goes back to the kitchen, punches the order into a computer, and starts to roll silverware into napkins.

“Come talk to me,” I want to say. Summer will be so long and boring. I am a Deaf island in this rural hearing ocean. The stores and restaurants near my school, and even near my home, know me. A lot of people know ASL or have learned little bits. Here? She's the only one I've found who even tries to get me. I guess she's the only one I've tried to get, too.

I want to catch her eye but I don't want to bug her. She's probably busy with that silverware. She's working, after all. Getting paid.

So I look out the window at Westfield, aka: the Middle of Nowhere. The diner is on the town's one main street, called, of course, “Main Street,” like from an old TV show. There's a bed-and-breakfast on one side, a grocery store on the other, and a doctor's office across the street. An antique car is parked on the expansive lawn in front of the diner with a for sale sign in the window.

I pull out my phone. There's a text from Denise waiting for me. I must have missed it on the ride up here. “At Sal's. Jolene says yes! It's a go!”

Sal's is this coffee shop/art gallery that we go to all the time. There are big, bright tables with good sightlines and elbow room. We go at least once a week. Our favorite barista, Tim, learned all the signs for the drinks we get, and he chats with us if he has time.

“Wish I could be at Sal's,” I text back.

“What are you up to?” appears on my phone almost instantly. She must not be too busy.

I purse my lips. “Got the bike out,” I answer.

“Nice. Get home before dark!”

“Duh.”

My dad spent a ton of time with me getting me ready for my license. He has a BMW bike he rides all the time. I almost got one myself, but then I saw the Streetfighter and it was all over. Love at first sight.

“Where'd you go?” she asks.

“Diner a couple towns over,” I reply.

“Nice. A diner with A WAITRESS?!”

“Maybe.”

“I knew it. Have fun.”

I roll my eyes, pocket my phone, and look out the window again. My bike is shining in the parking lot. A local walks by and eyes it like it's a magazine centerfold. Kind of is. He must feel me watching him because he looks straight at me. His eyes land on the helmet that sits on my table, and he jerks his head in a “what's up,” pointing at the bike and giving it a thumbs-up. I smile tightly and nod once. He keeps on going, looking back at the bike from time to time.

I'm watching his retreating back when a plate slides into my peripheral vision. Robin. I look up at the smile on her face.

“Here you go!” is written on her paper. “Need anything?”

I look it over—looks good. Smells even better. I'm about to ask for ketchup when she pulls a bottle out of her apron pocket. I'm about to ask for a refill but she brought one of those too. Then an idea hits me.

“Company?” I write. I slide my helmet down the table and pat the place opposite me, where it used to sit. She turns pink, like the first day we met, and glances back at the kitchen. Then she holds up a finger, saying “wait,” and trots back to the counter to talk to the other waitress—a tired-looking, pear-shaped woman with a limp ponytail and big doe eyes. The older waitress looks at me, wide eyed, and I flash a hopeful smile. She turns red and looks back at Robin, who is still talking.

I zigzag ketchup across my fries, and when I look up, Robin's there. She smiles, a little self-consciously, and slides in across from me, tucking one foot under her. “Sorry,” she writes. “Had to ask if she would take any tables.”

I look around the restaurant. It's just me and the couple who was here when I got here. “I don't know if she'll be able to handle them all,” I write.

She reads it with her mouth open in a slight smile, then laughs and shakes her head.

“You're right. It's dead,” she writes.

I take a bite of my sandwich, and she looks out the window. We sit like that for a while until I hold a fry out to her, tempting her to take it.

She smiles and takes it, biting delicately as steam escapes. I gesture to the plate and she shakes her head halfheartedly. I give her a look and gesture again, and she laughs and takes a second fry.

We sit, eating fries for a while. I'm trying to think of something to say but conversation escapes me, so I watch out the window with her.

“Nice bike,” she writes. Again, a few curls are desperately trying to escape from her ponytail. I wish they would.

“Thanks,” I write. “It's my baby. Got it a year ago, for my seventeenth birthday.”

“It's pretty,” she writes.

“So are you,” I write back before I realize what I'm doing. She reads it and turns pink again. She smiles but looks away, like she doesn't know what to say.

Idiot, idiot, idiot. Who says stuff like that? I reach for the pen and glance at her, hoping she stays long enough for me to write an apology.

She's already looking at me with a shy smile. Once she catches my eye, her hand touches her chin. She arcs it down gracefully.

“Thank you,” she signs.

She's speaking my language.

I could kiss her.

Robin

I hope I got it right.

I swallow nervously. He looks like he's seen a ghost. Ta-da! I probably got it wrong! And right after he called me pretty! I mean, he called me pretty! Me!

“I'm sorry,” I write hastily. No time to make my writing look good. “I hope I got it right. I didn't mean to offend—” and he takes the pen right out of my hand.

“Don't be sorry,” he writes. His fingers are strong and long and lean and about four shades darker than mine. His nails are short and neat. “You got it right,” he finishes. He looks at me and gives me a smile that is more than distracting. My heart is racing and my breath is shallow. I nod, hoping I'm still the color of a person and not the color of, say, a cartoon character.

“It means a lot,” he writes, and looks up to gauge my reaction.

He is so intense. Are all deaf people this intense? And gorgeous. Are they all this gorgeous? I've never met one before. I shrug off the compliment. I grab the pen out of his hand. “No biggie,” I write. He flexes his fingers once, like a cat stretching out its claws, as he watches.

“Robin!” Elsie's shrill voice is about two seconds too late to interrupt the moment. “A little help?”

Ah yes, two tables came in at once. Call in the Coast Guard. I write as much on the paper and Carter laughs silently. “I'll be back,” I promise.

He nods but I feel his eyes on me as I grab menus and head to my new table—an older couple who keeps changing their minds and asking for more rolls. Another table walks in and I take that one, too. At this rate I'll never get back.

Sometimes when I glance over, Carter's looking out the window. Sometimes he's canoodling around on his phone. Sometimes he's even looking at me. But from a distance, all we can do is wave, which feels a little silly after the third or fourth time.

He sits back and pushes his plate to the middle of his table, finished. I dig his check out from my apron pocket and unrumple it. He signs, “Thank you,” touching his fingertips to his chin, and I wave like it's no big deal.

“You want anything else?” I write on my paper.

In answer, he pushes the pad of paper to the edge of the table. “When do you get off work?” it says in his neat, effortless handwriting.

My heart skips a beat. He did not just ask me out. Did he? “Four,” I write on his paper.

His face brightens and he begins to write something, but I keep writing. “But I have plans…”

A frown creases his eyebrows.

“What about tomorrow?” he writes. I have to practice. My free night is for Jenni, and the rest are for piano and guitar, or even pennywhistle. I want to find and perfect a new fingerpicking pattern for the church performance. I glance at his hopeful puppy dog face.

With a gulp, I pick up the pen and circle “Four,” and write, “again.”

“Much better,” he writes. “Unless… if you don't want to hang out or…”

Screw practicing. This time I grab the pen out of his hand. He looks up at me through those eyelashes, and my breath catches in my throat.