Give Me a Sign(23)

“Have you ever been?” Oliver asks.

I tilt my head, unsure of the question. “Been where? To England?” I ask, and he nods. “No, I haven’t. But it’d be nice to travel, maybe study abroad one day.” How accessible is foreign travel? I’ll probably have to just figure it out as I go.

“Definitely. Let’s exchange info. You can let Ben and me know if you ever make it, and we’ll show you around.”

I smile and hand Oliver my phone. “Helpful for this summer, too. I may need a lifeguard the next time we break into the lake after hours.

He grins. “Of course, safety first.”

I’m surprisingly comfortable around him—dare I say, maybe even a little bit flirty. At school, I’m just that quiet, awkward girl that people may or may not know wears hearing aids. But here, the elephant in the room has been addressed from day one. I can present myself however I want.

Chapter Nine

“Lilah, please help Mackenzie with the lice check,” director Gary instructs from behind the welcome table, scribbling something on his clipboard. It’s finally Sunday, and after moving our belongings to the new cabin assignments this morning, we’re now sweating under the afternoon sun and waiting for the kids to show up.

“What?” I ask, disgusted.

“Ah, yeah.” Gary sticks his pen behind his ear and points to me. “I can tell you heard that by the look on your face.” He points to the open rear doors of the camp van, which he’s loaded with the set-up supplies. “Grab another chair. It’ll go faster with two people.”

I scrunch my face even more but oblige, fetching a wobbly, old folding chair. It won’t unfold, no matter how many times I kick and step on the bottom rung. Isaac is standing at the welcome table, helping Natasha and Jaden organize the kids’ Gray Wolf T-shirts, but he walks over to help me.

“Can I try?” Isaac asks me.

“Please,” I say and sign.

In two kicks, the chair is set up next to Mackenzie’s. Isaac looks at the station, then back at me, with a sympathetic look. “L-i-c-e.”

“Bleh,” I say, making a face again.

“I hope you find nothing, zero, no l-i-c-e,” Isaac signs with added emphasis.

“Same.” I reach back to fashion a tight high ponytail, sliding one of the purple hair ties off my wrist to secure it.

“No shirt?” he asks me.

Isaac’s in khaki shorts and his gray counselor polo that has a little wolf on the front and the word Staff, in big and bold type, across the back. As junior staff, I should also be in matching attire, but Ethan apologized for the shortage earlier and stuck me with the camper version—a gray tee with the logo large on the front. Counselors usually only wear this uniform on pickup and drop-off days so that parents can easily identify staff. But I’m still feeling left out.

I sigh, shaking my head.

“I have an idea. One second.” He walks back over to the welcome table to grab his backpack, retrieving a big roll of gray duct tape. “Turn around.”

He bites the strip with his teeth and rips it into smaller pieces. I pull my hair to the side and let him attach it onto the back of my shirt. He gently rubs his hand across my back to make sure it’s secure. Once he’s done, he pulls out his phone and takes a picture to show me. He’s fashioned the word Staff.

“That’s perfect,” I sign, staring at the photo, then carefully reach around to feel the back of my shirt. “Thanks.”

“No problem.”

“Lilah!” Mackenzie shouts, waving for my attention. “I need to teach you what we’re looking for,” she says and signs.

“Good luck.” Isaac cringes and walks away.

Mackenzie has barely finished explaining how to comb through hair and search the scalp when several cars drive up, unloading eager children with sleeping bags. A pair of brothers stops by the head-check. I slide on a pair of plastic gloves as one of them sits in front of me. The boys have buzz cuts, so I’m fairly confident the one that I’m examining is clear, but Mackenzie looks over my shoulder to confirm. If she’s doing quality control, why am I even here? I’m more than happy to let her do it all.

Another young boy is very chatty during the whole process, peppering Mackenzie with questions. “Where are your hearing aids?”

“Oh, I don’t need them,” she says. “But yours are really cool.”

“But you’re not blind, either,” the kid says. “Why are you here?”

I suppress a chuckle at this kid’s bluntness.

“I’m a sign language interpreter,” Mackenzie says, getting ahead of herself by several years.

“Why do you wanna be that?” he asks.

“My best friend is a CODA,” Mackenzie says and signs with her free hand. “Child of a Deaf Adult. She isn’t deaf, but her parents are, so she knows ASL. I didn’t know what I wanted to study in college until I met her.”

The kid seems satisfied with this answer because he turns to question me. “Are you new? I don’t remember you.”

“I—” But another rush of campers is arriving, and there’s a line forming in front of us. “Sorry, bud, it’s time to find your counselor now.”

Mackenzie signs to everyone who comes to our station, which I’m grateful for because it means I only have to add, “Hi, my name is L-i-l-a-h. Sign name Bug.” But some campers are more persistent than others in trying to sign more to me, assuming that will help get their message across. I hate having to rely on Mackenzie when I fall short, but I’m glad to be able to sign my responses on my own.