Danny and Olivier

Part 2- The Bookstore

Danny could sing.
             He sang when he was alone. When his parents weren’t around. He sang in the shower, he sang in his room, he sang quietly to himself. He wasn’t as mute as people thought he was.
             And now he sang in his room, with the black Fender Stratocaster he bought himself hanging around his neck. He had two songwriting books- one with fake lyrics and fake notes that he left out in the open so his mother would stop poking around in his room, and another one- one with a black leather cover and a beautiful purple pen that came with it, one that really spoke from his heart. That book, he kept with him at all times. He couldn’t risk anyone else seeing it but himself.
             Danny sat on his bed after he finished his song and longed to light up the fireplace. The warmth and the crackling sound of fire always comforted him. But of course, if he did, he’d get yelled at.
             He always sang to himself, and to himself only. Only when no one was around to listen to him. So that no one had to listen to him. So that no one could yell at him for opening his mouth.
              Danny knew he had a wonderful voice. One that was clear as day, one that was soft but strong. He closed his eyes and imagined the crowd in front of him, cheering him on as he strummed the first chord of one of his songs. Imagined the hot lights beaming down on him, imagined the world listening to him for once, not someone else, but him.
              Danny stopped his guitar and closed his eyes, listening to the rain patter around San Francisco on this night. He lived up on Portrero Hill- where all the rich lawyers and the snobby mothers lived. His house was one of those dark wooden ones- the ones you see on TV, the ones where the vampires live. Antique and classic, as his father said. He hated being called the ‘rich boy’ at school. He hated stereotypes. He hated Portrero Hill. And most importantly, he hated pretending. Pretending like he didn’t give a damn in the world, when he actually did.
              He had to get out of his house. He threw on a black leather jacket with pins on it over his black shirt, then decided to keep his red plaid pajama pants on. He didn’t care. Why should he care, right? Not like anyone would listen to his explanation if someone had asked him why he was wearing pajama pants at ten, walking around in the dark.
             Danny grabbed his phone, his keys and his wallet, already thinking about where he’d go. As he was pulling on his boots, he caught sight of a rusty brown leather book on the floor of his room.
             Olivier, he thought instantly, then knew that he’d be stuck at that secondhand bookstore all night. Waiting for an invisible deaf boy to come in and have a coffee with him. Danny tried not to get his hopes up, but he was really wishing that Olivier was there. So he could talk to someone.



At the same time, Olivier was sitting in his house in the outer edges of the Castro, feeling the same rain that Danny was listening to. He touched it, tasted it, smiled at it as it hit the glass right outside his bedroom window.
             He felt a vibration near his foot and realized that his mother was standing in the doorway, smiling at her son. She held a mug of peppermint tea in her hands and offered it to Olivier.
             He shook his head no and sat on his bedside, still feeling the rain through the open window. His mother sat down besides him and begin to talk.
             “Are you okay?” she said, but all Olivier could do was read his mother’s lips. Pink, poised, and pretty.
             Olivier nodded his head and turned back to the window. He kept on thinking about the boy in the bookstore, the boy who didn’t talk. Was he deaf, too? Olivier wondered. Call Olivier lame, but he didn’t have any friends. What a surprise, right? He thought bitterly to himself. Of course no one wants to be friends with the deaf kid.
             He could feel the vibrations of his mother talking. “Don’t stay up too late, Olivier.”
             He nodded again. He didn’t trust himself to speak; it had been nine years since he heard his voice. Since he heard anything at all. Olivier talked sometimes, when he was alone. He didn’t want anyone to hear his raspy voice.
             Olivier wanted to get out of the house. He loved his parents dearly, but he needed someone other than his mother or father to be his friends. He needed someone his age who could understand him- preferably the boy in the bookstore today who struck up a five minute conversation with him. On paper, but still. At least he had wanted to talk to him.
             Olivier put on a hearing aid that picked up frequency sounds and grabbed his coat, ready to go outside and to do whatever it was that the normal people did at night. His mother and father looked at him funny as he unlocked the door, but all they did was told him to be careful. Olivier was generally well-behaved. He didn’t cause trouble on purpose. So his parents trusted him; and they gave him his freedom. All he had to do was text them every hour, or they’d go looking for him.
             Olivier danced in the rain as soon as he got on the sidewalk, opening his mouth to taste the acidic drops falling from the sky. Rain ran down his neck and soaked his coat, but he didn’t care. He was his own person. Who cared what anyone thought of him?
              Olivier walked down the familiar road to that same bookstore, knowing that Danny wouldn’t be there. But he still wished that magically, somehow, Danny would get his vibes, and they’d be up all night, having each other’s company as comfort.
             Or, Olivier thought, I could have another ordinary night in that bookstore. I could read until I fell asleep, until the night shifters woke me up from the chair like any other night. And he’d have himself for company. Only himself and the humming fluorescent lights.