Give Me a Sign(9)

“Um, no.” I beg my brain to remember any of the ASL I practiced. “Long time ago, I was here,” I say and sign. “As a camper.”

“Wait . . . ” He tilts his head to the side. His wonderfully expressive eyebrows do a lot of communicating for him as he raises them and leans forward. “I think I remember you. Bug, right?”

“Whoa,” I say and sign. “Yes! You were a camper here, too?” I am certain I would remember him.

“Yeah, and then ——，” he signs. I don’t follow most of his response, but he raises his hand from his chest to his head, signing that he’s grown taller. “I look different, maybe.”

“Oh right, good,” I say and sign, nodding while my brain still races to try to process more of what he signed.

“Good?” His eyebrows are raised and there’s a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“Good, as in, I think I remember you now, too,” I say and sign quickly, cursing my limited vocabulary and feeling the blush rise on my cheeks. I stare down at his worn running sneakers that are caked in dry mud and laced with bright-green cords.

“I’m I——，” he signs.

“Sorry,” I say, hoping that my frustration at my lacking ASL doesn’t come across as overly apologetic. “Again, please.”

He smiles and patiently spells out his name again. “I-s-a-a-c.”

“L-i-l-” But my hand is shaking, and I mess up, jumbling my letters. I close my hand into a fist, take a brief pause, and start again. “L-i-l-a-h.”

“Camp sign name Spider,” Isaac adds, signing with one wrist crossed over the other to resemble the eight-legged creature. “Like—” He makes a web-slinging gesture, a clear reference to Spider-Man.

“You and your friends always won all the games!” I say, forgetting to sign, but he reads my lips and nods enthusiastically. I do recall a small group of boys about my age who were always off playing sports. I shake my head, smiling. “B-a-t man, too?”

He nods and points toward me excitedly. “Yes!” He shows me the sign. “Bat. He’s a counselor here, too.”

“Awesome.” I’m still smiling ridiculously. “I thought no one here would remember me,” I say.

He watches my lips, grinning. “Nah.”

We just kind of look at each other for a moment, reconciling the little kids we used to be with the person in front of us now. He’s still standing beside me, near enough for me to pick up the citrus of his freshly washed tee, which already has a hint of musty outdoor aroma, soon to include traces of campfire smoke, sunscreen, and cut grass. His scent puts me at ease. I guess being this close to people comes naturally at camp. Strangers at the beginning of the season can be very best friends by the end. While this interaction wasn’t as smooth as I would have liked it to be—my signing impressed no one—it’s just a matter of time before I can hopefully converse with him better. I’ve got all summer.

“Let’s go eat?” He nods toward the cabin door.

“Yeah, Ethan said it was almost dinnertime,” I say, grabbing my backpack. Crap, I forgot to sign my response again. I can’t keep doing this. I’ll just have to push through, even if I don’t know the word for something yet.

Isaac and I head out of the cabin, where Ethan and Mackenzie are waiting, and we all start walking to the dining hall. Isaac turns around and walks backward to face us as he signs, “What’s for dinner?”

“I have no idea. Maybe pizza?” Ethan signs.

Rather than going along the perimeter path, we cut through the large grass field for a direct route toward the dining hall. We move together in a semicircle so everyone is visible for the conversation, a necessity for both signing and lipreading. It’s little things like this that bring back memories of my time as a camper at Gray Wolf. I’m thrilled with how much of the signing I’m able to follow, even if it’s only been simple communication so far. Maybe all my practicing made a difference.

“Yeah, hopefully pizza,” Mackenzie signs.

“Same,” I join in, ready to prove my language skills. I throw in another sign I’m able to conjure from memory. “I’m really hungry right now.”

This doesn’t spark the chorus of “same” reactions I’d expected. Isaac throws his head back, squeezing his eyes shut while his mouth hangs open in silent laughter.

Ethan sports an amused grin. “Are you sure that’s what you meant to say?” he says and signs.

Mackenzie winces. “Awkward.” She leans into the sign, wobbling her body side to side while she raises and lowers three extended fingers on both hands.

I turn back to Ethan, desperate for an explanation, but instead, Isaac waves at me, still wiping tears of laughter from his eyes with his other hand. Deaf waving isn’t like a casual hello. Rather, it’s like reaching out to slap a table to get someone’s attention: You bend your wrist forward to hit the air horizontally as many times as it takes to get the person to look at you.

I want to cover my bright-red face, but I have to leave my mouth visible. “What? No one else is hungry?” I ask, with my hands resting on the straps of my backpack, suddenly apprehensive about signing.

Isaac holds up one finger on his left hand, drawing his right hand to his chest where he signs the word “hungry,” slowly running the C shape down from the base of his throat. He holds his left hand forward with one finger out to emphasize the single movement.