“Don’t you need to be studying for finals?” my dad asks, walking over to the couch and glancing at my laptop screen.
“Actually . . .” I say, noticing the skepticism on his face. “Well, yes. I need to study. But—I just got a job for this summer.”
“A job?” my mom calls from the kitchen. “What job? You were supposed to take classes over the break.”
“I don’t want to do those . . .” I look back at the email to confirm once again that it’s real before telling my parents. “Junior counselor at Gray Wolf. It’ll be all of June and July.”
“Hmm . . .” my mom says. It doesn’t seem to be what she expected. But I can tell the wheels are turning in her brain. “That does leave a few weeks in August to prepare for the new school year.”
“Sure, I guess,” I say. A few weeks is better than a whole summer of homework. “So, can I go?”
“Yeah.” My mom gives me a sly look. “And Max did just ask me about maybe going this year, so we’ll send him, now that you can keep an eye on him.”
“Right,” my dad agrees. “We always meant to send him.”
“He does have a busy June,” my mom says. “I wasn’t sure if it would work, but especially with you working there, they’ll probably be open to taking him late.”
Somehow my new job has now become about Max? Whatever, as long as they let me go. “I have to be there next Saturday.”
“That’s fast. But we can make it work.” My mom nods. “Proud of you for finding a job.”
“Yes, great work,” my dad adds. “I’m sure it’ll be a great time.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I say nonchalantly but filled with so much relief. I get to go be a counselor, hanging out with the college kids. I text my friends to share the excitement.
I’m already starting to feel a little overwhelmed. Sure, I know the sign language alphabet backward and forward, am decent with numbers, and still have a good grasp on camp-related vocabulary—enough to hopefully discuss the lunch menu or the activities schedule or the weather. But I’m not fluent enough to handle complex subjects like dreams and goals or life and love—the type of things I’d probably talk to the other counselors around the campfire about.
But I got the job, so they must think I’m qualified. I just have to put aside the creeping impostor syndrome that has me wondering . . . what if I struggle in the Deaf world as much as I do in the hearing one?
Chapter Four
I’ve never driven this far by myself before, but the three hours to the campgrounds at the Illinois-Wisconsin border are a breeze. My parents were worried about this old Civic making the journey, and reminded me several times that I’ll have to run the car periodically throughout the summer or else I may not be able to get it to start for the way home.
But I don’t worry about any of that as I blare music and bask in the sunshine warming my sleeveless arms.
The GPS tells me it’s only a few more minutes, but it’s nearly impossible to find the small arrival sign in the forest along the country road. In fact, I drive past my destination and have to make a hasty U-turn. I go slow down the long dirt entryway and approach the campsite as my stomach flutters. It’s an unceremonious arrival site, just a patch of gravel and a few parked vehicles. But I know what’s waiting beyond the path through the trees. My nerves dissipate at the sight of Ethan waiting for me.
“Lilah!” he shouts, his arms outstretched as I park and climb out of my car, beaming from ear to ear.
“Hey, Ethan!”
“You’ve grown, like, a whole foot since I last saw you, and that’s not saying much because you’re still so short.” Ethan tackles me with a hug. I smile, having almost forgotten how Deaf people tend to make a lot of visual comments about appearance.
It’s such a relief to see a familiar face at a familiar place. Ethan’s been at camp forever, climbing the ranks. He looks older, too, and absolutely in his element here. He’s Latino, short and stocky, and wearing bright-yellow socks with gigantic smiley faces patterned all the way up to his knees. His T-shirt spells out “Deaf Pride” in ASL lettering, and his dark-brown hair is long and shaggy, falling over his two silver hearing aids.
“It’s great to be back,” I say. “Anyone else I’ll know back this year?”
“Hmm, did you ever meet Natasha? We’ve got several former campers on staff.”
“Maybe?” I shrug, glancing at a pale freckled girl who just walked over to stand beside Ethan. She is wearing a long-sleeved black shirt despite the heat. I can’t place why she looks vaguely familiar.
“Oh, this is Mackenzie,” Ethan introduces her. “She’s one of our new counselors this year.”
“You’re L-i—h, right?” she signs.
“Yes.” I nod. I only caught a jumble of letters that started with an L and ended with an H, but I assume she spelled my name.
“She’s an interpreting major,” Ethan adds, answering the question he knows is on my mind. “So, do you still use the ASL you learned here?”
“I maybe remember some,” I sign to his delight, since he’s the one who taught me much of what I know from way back when. This is a strong start . . . but I also practiced this sentence over and over in my head on the drive here.
“Perfect.”
We both grab my stuff from the car and head into the campsite.
“Wasn’t there a welcome archway?” I point toward the path that leads to the entrance. There used to be a tall wooden board with a giant gray wolf—a friendly-looking painting that peered down at everyone passing through.
“It had to come down last year,” Ethan says sadly. “After that big storm.”
Without the sign, now it looks like the campgrounds have a secret magical entrance, where tall evergreen trees surround a rickety wooden footbridge that crosses a small creek. Even the temperature changes as we go over the water, though I’ve probably got the shade and cool breeze to thank for that. The dirt path before us stretches on until it divides into two at the clearing, forming a circle that hugs the entire perimeter of Gray Wolf’s fields and open space, splintering off toward the cabins, the dining hall, the dance barn, the pool, and the lake. It’s all the same—but changed. This place has fallen into some disrepair, but the charm is still there.
I wipe sweat from my forehead, glad I don’t have to lug my things for much longer. Mackenzie walks alongside us. She waves to get my attention.
“Where do you go to school?” she signs, extremely slowly, over-mouthing the words with her lips. “A deaf school?”
“Mainstreamed,” I tell Mackenzie, not able to sign back because I’m carrying stuff. “You can just talk to me right now. Dramatically mouthing kind of butchers the ability to lipread. And I don’t always use sign, so you don’t need to.” That might be rude of me to say, but she could benefit from the explanation. “When talking to just me, at least,” I clarify.
“I see,” she says and signs, finally using her voice. After a pause, she again speaks slowly to keep pace with her hands. I turn back to watch her lips. “But it’s best to always sign anyway, so other people around can see and join in the conversation if they want. Like how other hearing people could join us talking.”