Picture My Voice

Chapter Two // Ryan

Ryan, I see my mother sign from the corner of my eye. Stop playing with your food.
    I nod my head and stop. Thankfully, she doesn't prod any further; I'm moody. It's very rare for me to be moody. When I am, though, I revel in the midst of my brooding.
Today had gone to hell.
    Staring aimlessly at my plate of chicken parmesan, I recount the events of today. At Liddian Prep, my English professor always taught us that analyzation and reflection were the main tools to uncovering the mysteries of life. No one in class actually believed we'd ever have to 'uncover the mysteries of life', but high school and girls are close enough.
    When I woke up this morning I had had that weird feeling in my chest, you know? The feeling that the day was going to be terrible and you'd be better off staying in bed? Well, I hadn't identified the warning for what it was and merely claimed it to be butterflies and nervousness.
    I dressed in the new clothing my mother had let me pick out -- she can be highly controlling -- and my favorite pair of tennis shoes. Despite that strange feeling in the pit of my stomach, I smiled the entirety of the morning. I was optimistic that today was the first day of the rest of my life. I'd make friends, do well in my classes, and finally feel like a normal teenager.
    Like every year, downstairs, my mother was in emotional hysterics while making breakfast. All was right in the world.
    "My baby is going to high school!" She simultaneously said and signed. It took me a few seconds longer than usual to code her gestures out since she was shaking and tearful.
    "Mom, Ryan is a Senior. Please calm down. It's not like--"
    "Leave me to my dramatics, Georgia!"
    My sister rolled her eyes and continued eating her scrambled eggs and hash browns while I stood and gave our mother a peck on the cheek. Once my mother returned to the kitchen to clean, my thirteen-year-old sister whispered under her breath, "I blame you, you kiss up."
    Reading her lips, I winked at Georgia and signed that she should really work on her sign language and that if she kept "making" me read her lips, mom would get pissed again.
    She stared at me for a moment, trying to decipher the message, then rolled her eyes in her typical fashion and looked down at her phone, clearly not interested in playing along. Not to mention providing any words of encouragement for her big brother.
    7:24 my watch read. Cynthia wouldn't be here for a few more minutes. Hiking back up to my room, I turned off the lights and, lying on the floor with my backpack beside my head, let myself drift off into the depths of my own consciousness.
    I counted the years since I'd walked the halls of a public school. I estimated how many stares would be thrown my way, how many questions would be asked that I didn't want to answer. I'd have to answer them somehow, though. Unless I wanted to endure the embarrassment of Cynthia doing the talking for me, or her simply glaring at them until they grew uncomfortable and left. I didn't.
    My father's face suddenly appeared at my door and I knew it was time. As I tried to squeeze past him, he gripped my shoulder.
I know it may not seem like it, but all three of us are so proud of you, Ryan. And we love you, so very much.
    Even without the sign language, my father is a man of few words. I was surprised by his reassurance -- usually my mom would be the one to spout words of encouragement -- and could feel my rising blush.
    Thanks, dad. I signed, hoping he realizes how much I appreciate it. I stepped around him, walking backward until I hit the stairs. Have a good day at work, I'll see you after school!
    The day was all downhill from there.
    As usual, the car ride with Cynthia, my translator and family friend, was uneventful and -- who would have guessed it? -- quite. As I sat there, staring out the rolled down window and enjoying the weather, my nerves started to hit in full-force. I couldn't stop thinking about my 'image'. I didn't want to be known as the quiet kid and definitely not the deaf kid. I also didn't know what to make of my classes. I'm a smart kid, but Liddian Prep pulled back due to its disabled students. Would I be able to know what the teacher was discussing? Would my peers understand that I might need some time to adjust? Would I be able to make friends? Have fun? Succeed?
    When we hit the highway, I was distracted from my plaguing thoughts and had to roll up the window. A strip of the highway was being fixed and the construction vehicles and workers milling about made for terrible traffic. After twenty extra minutes of rushed driving and what I guessed (from the way her lips were moving) was Cynthia cursing, we arrived at school fifteen minutes late. You'd think that wasn't so bad, right?
    Imagine walking into a classroom. The teacher is discussing the events of his summer and the students in the class are taking turns talking about what they did as well. The class is filled with upperclassmen like yourself, but you're the new kid with no leeway. You're nervous, unsure, and overwhelmed. And to top it all off, you walk in beside a young, but definitely adult, woman at your side. The guys gave me suggestive and knowing nods that made me want to punch then in the jaw, while the girls openly stared at me with their eyebrows raised. And believe me, the girls' stares weren't suggestive.
    Round and round the process went.   
    I'd get to class and the teacher would draw everyone's attention to Cynthia and me by taking us into the hallway to talk. After that, I'd come back in and sit at the desk closest to the teacher, while Cynthia stood in the back of the classroom to observe. As I tried to read each teacher's lips, I could feel my peer's stares burning into the back of my neck.
    I empathized with zoo animals now. My own secluded desk at the front was my enclosure. I was their show; their topic of gossip for that day. If I hadn't known any better, I would have assumed they would start throwing popcorn or peanuts at me. Note to self: write a letter to the local zoo apologizing for always throwing food at animals when I thought they were hungry.
    During third period, I did start to notice a pattern. The intense and curious stares of my classmates would only last the first twenty minutes and would eventually fade to the occasional stolen glance. Upon this realization, I physically relaxed and my anxiety dwindled to nervousness.
    In the five minute passing period between third and fourth period, one girl actually approached me. Cynthia had stayed back to talk to my Calculus teacher and I had left the room to escape her presence. I love Cynthia, but she takes her job very seriously and can become a drag at times. I was standing at the water fountain outside my fourth-period teacher's class when a familiar girl from the previous period started talking to me.
    "Hi, my names Shawna. I sit next to you in Mr. Sterip's class." Shawna was gorgeous; in a plastic way that reminded me of the Barbie dolls stuffed under my sister's bed. Tanned to a point of almost looking fake, she was of average height and had flowing chocolate brown hair. Her lips and boobs were of large size and her outfit and the way she squeezed her arms together did a magnificent job of pronouncing the later. Shawna stood close enough to me that I had to look down at her. Her facial and body language screamed flirtation and I was surprised to find that I was dreading the interaction between us. Don't get me wrong, I'd loved to have kept looking at this girl, but from the way she silently demanded my attention and passive aggressively kept creeping her boobs closer and closer to my face, I was sorely turned off.
    "You're new right?" Shawna said, her words dripping with a new kind of curiosity I had yet to encounter today. "Well, if you ever happen to ditch that dead weight with the pencil skirt and sneer, I can show you around for real." Before I could react and convey my disinterest, Shawna walked away, hips and hair waving goodbye.
    In all my years of life, never had a girl flirted with me. At least, not to a magnitude that was so obvious. I had been struck frozen with confusion and alarm that it wasn't until Cynthia came and waved her hand in front of my face did I move.
    Other than that interaction with Shawna, when I wasn't in class, very few people paid any attention to me or my translator. Even then, during class the other students would stick to their cliques. I welcomed the disinterest. I think I owed myself a few days to get the gist of things before I attempted to make friends.
    At lunch, Cynthia and I had decided to get ahead and visit my remaining teachers during their lunch breaks.
    Our last meeting took longer than the others since Mrs. Monroe was also responsible for helping me get a guide. I, like most teenagers, am an addict for independence. But when the school board agreed with my parents that it would be best for me to have a student guide, I was secretly glad. When I was younger and started at Liddian Prep, I had a difficult time making friends. I mean, it was a school for deaf and blind children, so making friends was a feat for everyone, but I was -- am -- shy and I took my time. With a guide, I justify, I can embed myself into their friend group and either stay there or branch off when I start meeting other people.
    Towards the end of the meeting, I was feeling more confident that I could reach my goals. I could make it through the year and gain some friends. My classes would be challenging, but I would enjoy them. I could have fun and have the full high school experience. We were wrapping up and Mrs. Monroe was discussing the list of students and their average characteristics when I nearly shitted my pants.
    The door to Mrs. Monroe's room slammed open, hitting the wall hard enough that I'm surprised it didn't leave a dent. The two women in the room visibly jumped, one of them going so far as to gasp. A girl, panting and looking ragged, stood in the doorway.
    Before she realized she'd interrupted, the girl looked frantic and wild. I was honestly frightened. It was lunch time and we were on the third level of the school. What student -- other than me -- would be up here?
    She then saw the three of us, her features transformed and became apologetic. I remember inwardly cringing as my frightened look slipped from me and was plastered on her.
    In the few moments where the four of us all knew what was happening, but didn't move to explain their presence, my heart faltered as she gave me that same look as the rest of the student body had: curiosity as if I was some beautiful beast in a cage. To my surprise, though, her curiosity wasn't sharp. It was tuned enough to be genuine and friendly. We stared at each other and I held my breath. No one had looked at me like that all day.
    The girl wasn't short, but definitely not tall. The way she filled up the doorway and the space around it conveyed her confidence and determination. This girl was on a mission. And I found myself wanting to be let in on the secret.
    From the corner of my eye, I saw Mrs. Monroe start to talk to the girl. I didn't care what she was saying to the girl, I didn't care to look to the teacher's lips as she exposed my greatest adversity. I cared about the three or four different colors that made up this girl's eyes.   
    My teacher continued talking to the girl and Cynthia eventually started signing, translating Mrs. Monroe's words. I didn't care. Especially not when the girl started signing to me.
    I was star-struck. Surprised. Bewildered. Whatever you want to call it. This girl with her long, curly, pine-brown hair, sparkling and electric eyes and non-deafness was speaking in sign language.
    Hi, my name is Mar, she signed. Once done, this adorable self-conscious grin flickered along her face making my heart skip a beat.
    I wished the day had ended there. I would have died a happy man in that moment if the world had decided to explode into a million crystallized pieces.
    Instead, Cynthia and Mrs. Monroe had continued to explain themselves and me and suddenly another person was added to the list of people who didn't understand.
    I quickly finish my dinner and dessert, managing to vaguely answer each of my parent's questions about the day, and excuse myself. By the quick glance I catch my parent's exchange as I stand and head upstairs, I can tell they're worried. If I wasn't so tired, I'd confront them. They deserved, more than anything, to know that their son is happy and safe. Depriving them of that was cruel. But really, I was fine. I was always fine, even when it didn't show. Six year-old-me was wise enough to know that I'd be alright and went right ahead and accepted our destiny.
    At the moment, though, I just wanted to sleep.
    Entering my room, I change into a pair of gym shorts and a white undershirt that had been thrown into the corner. Looking around, I note that, even though it's not a pig sty, it wouldn't hurt to clean. My bed (unmade) sings to me as I climb in and find a comfortable position. The book I have to read for English, Fahrenheit 451, sits patronizingly on my nightstand beside me as if it knows I'll procrastinate reading it. I have already read it.
    I eventually pick it up, though, and lose myself in a world where all you need to solve your problems is a little fire.
    How I wish the world was like Guy Montag's: oblivious. If we were all oblivious, then we'd be accepting. But hey, humans are going to human, and I've come to accept that as well.
    An hour or so after I start reading, my mother peeks her head into my room. She gives me a cautious look and, seeing she's still concerned, I give her a simple smile. My real smiles are simple and she knows that.
"Sweety," she coos, signing her words as well. Each of my family members has their own way of communicating with me. My dad signs without talking, while my mother prefers to sign and talk simultaneously. Georgia is still working on her sign language, so more often than not I'm reading her lips. "Are you alright?"
    I nod, letting my mother now that I'm fine, but wouldn't like to elaborate.
    "Well, Cynthia told me about that girl you two met today in Mrs. Monroe's class. Marlowe?"
    So that's her full name.
    "I got an email from the school about her, as well." I sit up at this, more worried than anything else. Had they decided Marlowe would be my guide? When they asked, did she say yes? Or no?
    "The school board chose her to be your guide. They have yet to ask her and her family personally, so it may be a week or so before whatever paperwork is filled out and what not. That being if she agrees or not. Either way, I wanted to make sure that that was okay with you before we made it official."
    Over the years I've become excellent at expressing and hiding my feelings. Not being able to express emotions and thoughts through voice made sure of that. In this moment, though, I mentally give myself a high-five for my talent. With it, I could be excited that Marlowe may be my friend, while simultaneously keeping my mother in the dark.
    I nonchalantly nod my head a few times acting is if thinking and then sign, Thanks, mom, for telling me. Marlowe seems really nice. I think she'll be a fantastic guide.
    Satisfied, she gives my forehead a kiss and reminds me to set my alarm clock to the ungodly hour of 5:45 and exits.
    Once the lights are off and I'm left to myself, I realize how awkward it could be to have Marlowe as my guide. Yes, she seemed kind and willing to help me. But for all I know, at this very moment she could be making stereotypical assumptions about me. From what Mrs. Monroe and Cynthia had surely said to her today, she probably thinks I'm needy and unintelligent with no knowledge of how the real world works. Marlowe could be as vain as Shawna and naive as every other person who has ever judged me.
    You know what, Ryan I think to myself. You sound like an idiot. You need to stop judging others and acting like a whus.
    Tomorrow would go smoothly. I'd be smooth. By the time I get into bed tomorrow night I'll have made progress. I'll have taken the reins and pulled. I'd keep the stern from spinning since I'm the captain of this ship. If I felt another kid staring at me, I'd stare right back. I didn't need a flame throwing hose, like Montag. I could conquer tomorrow with a world's worth of silence.