I think you should call what’s-her-name’s daughter, said Mel.
Gonna need another hint.
Your mom’s best friend, from when they were kids.
Lu?
I think so?
No way, said February. They put her in Spring Towers.
It’s a new facility. It’ll be clean, all the best doctors nearby.
It’s all the way in Cincy!
But wouldn’t it be good for her to be with a friend? Someone Deaf?
Not only good, it would be essential. Without ASL, her mother would be totally isolated, which would exacerbate the dementia, which— Maybe they could room together, said Mel.
Her tone suggested that she’d been repeating herself.
Sorry, said February.
I know it’s a lot.
I’m not ready. She’s been doing so well.
How about this? said Mel. I’ll call Spring Towers tomorrow, just to see. Ask a few questions.
I don’t know.
Just a little research, okay? said Mel.
Okay, February said.
as payback for her truancy, Charlie had received a red-faced diatribe from her father （You’re really gonna blow this? After all I’ve done for you?）， a follow-up lecture in ASL and Post-it notes from Headmistress Waters upon her return to campus, and another week’s detention tacked on to her previous sentence, with a special exemption for the Drama Club.
Now she trekked up to the auditorium and through the stage door, waved meekly at the rest of the crew kids giddily organizing the prop table; they were clearly not here as a punishment. They were all wearing camping headlamps so they could sign to one another backstage, and somebody handed her one when she reached them. One of the girls showed her how to work the curtain pulley and what tape marked which set pieces, which props she’d manage and costume changes she’d facilitate.
Do you want this? she said, brandishing a plastic sword. Austin’s.
Sure? said Charlie, thrown by the girl’s knowing look.
I thought since you two seem—
Seem what?
Little school, big eyes, she said.
Charlie took the sword and laid it on her prop shelf.
We’re just friends.
Whatever. Just be careful.
What do you mean?
He’s a good guy. He’s just like _______ here.
Like what?
R-o-y-a-l-t-y. He’s used to getting what he wants.
…O-k.
She wasn’t sure she even wanted to know what this meant, but it didn’t matter. She didn’t have the words to ask more.
Charlie, right?
Yeah.
I’m friends with your roommate. I’m A-l-i-s-h-a.
She showed Charlie her sign name, and Charlie copied it.
Kayla’s cool, she said timidly.
She meant it—Kayla was cool, and their relationship had been growing closer in the past few weeks. But Kayla signed so quick that Charlie still got lost often, and she did not want to ruin the budding camaraderie by constantly saying so.
Yeah she’s the best. I keep saying she should try out for the plays, but she’s too sporty.
Do you ever act?
Me? No way. I prefer it back here.
Me too, said Charlie, and when she saw it on her hands, she knew it to be true.
Welcome to the dark side, said Alisha.
as the weeks passed, Austin found himself uncharacteristically apprehensive about play practices and what they would mean for dealing with Gabriella. Casting had gone as he’d expected—he’d landed the role of Peter, and initially he’d been pleased about it, until he realized what it likely meant for the female lead. He ran back to the bulletin board outside Fickman’s room only to find his fears confirmed: Gabriella would be Wendy.
These days, he couldn’t even bring himself to look at her across the cafeteria table, and spent most of his last periods crafting mental pep talks about the valuable experience of acting alongside one’s ex—surely professional actors had to do it all the time. Occasionally, though, another self would pop in and suggest he drop out of the play completely to avoid the real-life drama. But each day after the last bell flashed he dutifully walked to the auditorium, and now he was standing in the wings staring at Gabriella, who was already in costume and center stage, holding court with the boys who would play John and Michael. Up in the catwalk, the tech crew fiddled with the gels, casting her in spots of different hues—first a ghostly blue wash over her nightgown, then a red that gave her hair a crimson halo.
She really was beautiful, and it bothered him that he still felt a bit of longing when he saw her. The accusation that he’d used her for sex niggled at him, even though he hoped she’d only said it to get under his skin. Gabriella had been his first, and there were rumors that she’d hooked up with a now-graduated swim team captain when they were still in the eighth grade. He rubbed his eyes, as if he could wipe away his attraction, then turned from the stage. It didn’t matter how hot she was; they were simply no good for one another. In the wings, he watched as the crew sorted through old props, pulling out ones that might be of use in a Peter Pan world. That’s where he noticed Charlie.
She had her back to him, but it was definitely her—her hair pulled up into a messy ponytail, revealing the tiny green, glowing indicator light of her processor. He went to her and took her wrist; she wheeled around and shouted what even Austin and his shoddy lipreading skills could tell was definitely “Fuck.”
Sorry.
You scared me.
Sorry, he said again, now to both her and Alisha—he could see he’d interrupted them.
Alisha waved them off as if to say go ahead, and he led Charlie into the back wing, where a floor lamp with a naked bulb was glowing orb-like. They were alone.
Wanted to say sorry for not answering you this weekend. Family drama.
Her expression, which had been flat, almost businesslike, softened under the apology.
All good.
S-o, you’re in the play?
Not really. Stage crew.
Did you do theater at your old school?
At this she laughed.
No way. True biz? Headmistress Waters is making me.
Like, as punishment?
What?
P-u-n-i-s-h-m-e-n-t.
Yeah. I called her a bitch in class the other day.
What?
Austin tried to imagine a scenario in which he might curse at Headmistress Waters, but couldn’t. He didn’t think he’d ever seen anyone do it, even another teacher, or in the off-hours at one of his parents’ parties.
It was an accident, she said.
She looked down at the floor. Austin took a step closer, fiddled with the zipper toggle on her hoodie. He was pretty sure he’d never seen Gabriella wear a sweatshirt. He wondered what it would be like to kiss Charlie; he wondered whether there was something wrong with him, his desire flitting from girl to girl in just a few seconds, as if it was completely outside his control. He wondered whether kissing her would be worth the inevitable social aftershocks.
In any case, Charlie didn’t give him the chance to find out—though she had leaned in ever so slightly as he toyed with her sweatshirt, he was nearly a head taller than her, and she was still looking down at her feet. And it was in this position—gazing absently over Charlie’s head onto the stage, the zip of her hoodie still between his fingers—that he locked eyes with Gabriella.
He hadn’t done it on purpose, but he knew Gabriella would see it as a challenge. Maybe, deep down, part of him did, too. As she marched toward them, he tried to warn Charlie, but she didn’t understand the sign for watch out, and soon Gabriella took hold of her ponytail and pulled.