Give Me a Sign(3)

I’m starting to really miss it.

Chapter Two

Two months later, our school has a half-day Friday to kick off spring break. My friends and I are sitting at a metal table outside Mackie’s. We’re enjoying the spring weather, which is unseasonably warm for the Chicago suburbs. I gather my long brown hair and tie it up with a purple ponytail holder. We’re trying to figure out how to start off our vacation, but hunger and exhaustion from a morning full of exams has us parked here for lunch.

Kelsey takes a big bite of her chicken sandwich, putting a hand over her mouth to finish speaking while she chews.

“What?” I ask, leaning forward. It’s times like these that remind me how much of my hearing is supplemented by lifelong lipreading skills.

“No,” my other friend Riley says. “Not that one.”

Kelsey takes a big drink of water and tucks her blond hair behind her ears in a feeble attempt to stop the light breeze from blowing it in her face. She hasn’t repeated what she said yet. I’ve hardly touched my cheeseburger and have to swat away a pesky gnat that won’t leave it alone. I turn to Riley instead and ask, “What’d she say?”

Having someone else repeat for me helps sometimes. Even if they aren’t any louder, I might understand them better if they are closer to me, enunciate more clearly, or have more familiar lips.

But Riley doesn’t echo exactly what Kelsey said. She unbuttons her shirt, tying it around her waist to sit cooler in just her tank top, and reaches for lotion from her bag to soothe her dry, white knuckles. “We’re trying to figure out what movie to see. It’s too hot to hang out outside.”

I knew that much. What I still don’t know is what movie options are being discussed.

“Is there even a showing soon?” Kelsey asks. Both girls pull up their phones to check the times, so I do the same but get sidetracked on Instagram.

In the midst of a Deaf-identity crisis after my audiology appointment, I’ve recently started following a ton of ASL accounts to restore my diminishing sign language skills. Fortunately, I remember a bunch from my time at Gray Wolf, but the reality of how much I still have left to learn is hitting hard. At least I know enough that I can determine if an account has a fluent Deaf teacher or an unqualified hearing person giving inaccurate lessons.

Even though I remember summer camp being a welcoming place for kids from all backgrounds, it can be hard to reconcile that with what I’ve seen on the internet—people arguing over speech, sign, culture, devices, and more. Sometimes it can seem like all I truly know is that I’m not hearing. I could spend days scrolling through conflicting takes of people within the community debating semantics as I settle deeper and deeper into impostor syndrome. People give too much power to labels. It can feel exclusionary, whether intentional or not.

“How about something”—Kelsey says—“like, uh . . .”

“What?” I ask again, my mouth jumping to the word before my brain can piece together that she said “like, uh” and not “Li-lah.” I shake my head in response to the blank stares from my friends. “Never mind. You two pick. As long as it’s something fun.”

“Okay, let’s do the superhero one,” Riley says.

My burger is cold, but I take a few final bites. Kelsey always sits up front in Riley’s car, so I climb into the back and stare out the window the entire way, since it’s impossible to hear them over the noise of the vehicle and the radio.

At the Regal, Kelsey and Riley buy their tickets. When it’s my turn, I step forward and say, “The same one they got.”

The guy at the booth nods. I reach for my wallet once the price lights up on the register and slide the cash beneath the glass. He gives me the change and says something I don’t catch. But my friends have stepped toward the door and are scrolling through their phones.

“What was that?” I ask him.

He repeats what he’d said, but I can’t hear it or read it on his lips since he’s behind a computer screen.

“I’m sorry, what?” I point to my ear and then the glass. I try to get my friends’ attention.

Kelsey steps forward. “What’s up?”

“Can you tell me what he’s saying?” I ask, gesturing back to the window.

But the worker rolls his eyes, pulling the ticket from the printer and handing it to me. He dismissively waves me away as he tosses the receipt in the trash.

“Never mind,” I tell Kelsey as we head inside the building. Of course it was about the receipt. I should have just defaulted to “no, thanks” and moved things along for everyone.

At the snack counter, Kelsey gets a slushie and Riley asks for Junior Mints. I don’t want to spend more money, but I’m starving and will need popcorn to get me through the next three hours of explosions and indecipherable dialogue. There’s no way I’m renting a pair of those sticky and hideous captioning glasses that theaters offer as an excuse to not put captions on-screen. They’re the last thing I want on my face when I’m out with my friends. The machine doesn’t work most of the time anyway.

While waiting for me to get my food, Kelsey and Riley run into some other kids from our school, so they once again aren’t with me to repeat anything the cashier says.

“One medium popcorn, please.” I hand over the money to the girl behind the counter, who then asks me something.