Give Me a Sign(53)

“Do you mean?” I nod toward the golf cart.

“Yes, drive your campers up.”

I rush Phoebe toward the passenger side while Simone guides her girls to squeeze onto the back. We zip across the grass to the dining hall while everyone else walks quickly behind us. Small chunks of hail fall from the clouds, starting to pelt us from the side.

I can vaguely hear the sirens now. Phoebe must have heard the ones from the next town over. Is this a watch or a warning? Even when it’s just my family hanging out in the basement for a few hours, the possibility of a tornado always gets my blood pumping. There’s a reason for the cliché of Midwesterners standing at the window trying to get a glimpse before hurrying down to the basement.

Phoebe is mumbling something.

“What’s that?” I shout, peering out of the corner of my eye to watch her response.

“A tornado —— destroyed my school.”

“What? Really?”

“It was before I was born.”

Obviously, they do touch down sometimes. But that’s not what I want to be thinking about right now. “Was everyone okay?”

“Um, no . . .”

Honestly, I wasn’t that worried until she said that.

I park us in front of the dining hall and shout, “Let’s get to the basement!” Then I turn to Simone. “Shoot, the lifeguards. Should I drive down to the lake?”

“We’re here, we’re here!” Oliver shouts, out of breath, running toward the dining hall from the opposite direction.

The rest of the staff and campers are approaching now, too. Gary finds the door at the back of the dining hall, opening it to reveal a dark wooden staircase. Leaving the wheelchair off to the side, Isaac carefully carries one of his campers down the stairs. Gary does a head count to ensure everyone is here.

“There’s no rail,” I tell Phoebe, moving her hands to my shoulders. “Follow me.”

The basement is a third of the size of the dining hall. It’s a tight squeeze to fit us all in, and there’s one light barely illuminating this space. The floor hasn’t been swept in years. Gary is the last one downstairs after the lifeguards and kitchen staff.

Phoebe and I find a spot to sit along the wall. As we crouch to the floor, the single light bulb hanging above us flickers and goes out. Phoebe says something to me, but it’s too dark for me to lip-read what it is.

“Hold on,” I say, fumbling around in my backpack, trying to find my phone or mini flashlight. Some of the other counselors have already turned theirs on, casting eerie shadows on the wall. “Crap, no service.” I lean back against the cold concrete wall, pulling my legs to my chest and resting my phone between my knees with the flashlight pointed upward.

I turn back to Phoebe. “You were saying?”

“Never mind.” She’s already pulled a book from her satchel and is running her fingers across the pages.

And then we all sit here . . . and sit, and sit, and sit, waiting for the sky to clear and Gary to release us from this cramped and overcrowded basement. Mackenzie tries to lead a hand-clapping game, but none of the campers are in the mood, preferring to just talk among themselves.

Honey crawls over to sit beside me and Phoebe. She points toward Phoebe’s book. “I want to learn.”

“Hey, Phoebe,” I say. “Honey is right next to you and wants to learn Braille.”

“Cool.” But Phoebe keeps reading.

I give a smile and shrug to Honey. “One second.” I press Phoebe. “Maybe you could show her some? We’ve got nothing else to do.”

“I’m reading, isn’t that something?”

“This would be a very junior-counselor-worthy thing to do . . .”

Phoebe slowly nods. “Okay fine, ——， and only if she teaches me sign.”

“She wants you to teach her ASL, too,” I sign. Look how far my skills have come this summer, interpreting to facilitate communication between a deaf and a blind camper. Sometimes there’s purpose to being in the middle.

Honey nods eagerly. “That’s fun.”

Phoebe holds out her novel, scanning the bumps with her finger until she comes across the letter A. She nods for Honey to reach out and examine the letter. After which, Honey reaches out for Phoebe’s hand and presses the sign A into her palm, using the tactile approach. It’s a touch-based method of signing that I’ve seen Deafblind kids use before.

“Does the letter move?” Phoebe asks.

“Oh, she’s actually signing the word ‘yes’ now,” I say.

Blake is lurking off to the side, and I can tell she’s interested. I nod for her to come over here, too.

“What are you doing?” she asks.

“Learning Braille and ASL,” I explain. “Want to join us?”

Blake sniffles, wiping her nose with her sleeve. “Sure.” She cuddles beside me and, to my surprise, follows along with the alphabet as Honey demonstrates it for Phoebe.

“—— longer are we going to be here?” Phoebe asks, moving on to the next letter. “I’m starving.”

“Same,” I agree. It’s already dinnertime, but the storm has derailed our schedule. I should’ve stocked my backpack with snacks. “Maybe it’s clearing up already.”