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Mom tilts her head. “Sazuki. He’s a musician, right?”
“Pianist.” I run my fingers over invisible piano keys.
“Wasn’t there an article about how snobby he is? I read that he keeps to himself and doesn’t talk to anyone ‘beneath’ him.”
“Typical rich people,” Yaya signs.
“Selfish.” Dad tsks. “They have all that money and they don’t do anything to help the less fortunate.”
“That’s not true.” My voice climbs. “Sazuki built an entire foundation to give back to the deaf community. And I’m betting there’s a lot more he’s done that no one knows about because he hasn’t broadcasted it.” My shoulders go rigid. “Weren’t we just talking about how damaging gossip is? Why are we doing it to him?”
Mom’s jaw falls open softly.
Dad’s chip drops out of his mouth.
Yaya looks amused. She signs, “What’s with you?”
“I just think it’s unfair to judge people when you don’t know them. That’s all,” I mutter sheepishly.
My family continues to slant me weird looks. I grab a handful of chips and stuff it into my mouth to keep from talking.
Dad wisely changes the subject and there is no more mention of Sazuki or his foundation until later that night when Yaya sneaks into my bedroom.
“You’re still afraid of the dark?” I sign after rolling over and putting on the lamp.
She stands in the doorway and sticks her tongue out at me.
When we were little, Yaya would often come running into my room after a bad dream.‘I can’t hear if a monster’s coming,’she would say. I promised to let her know if I heard any monsters.
“Some traditions should stay alive,” she signs.
I laugh softly.
Yaya’s changed into an oversizedBeethoven’s Nightmaregraphic T-shirt. Her hair’s wrapped in a cheetah-print silk bonnet. Silver moonlight caresses her prominent cheekbones.
She climbs into the bed. I scoot over to make room for her and prop pillows against the headboard so I can sit up.
“Is there something between you and your boss?” she signs.
“Something like what?” I ask out loud.
She makes a gesture that, to anyone who didn’t understand sign language, would look suggestive.
Heat blazes in my cheeks. I repeat the gesture and then signal an ‘x’. “It’s not like that.”
“Then why did you get so worked up?”
“Because it’s the truth.”
She slants me a disbelieving look.
I arrange my feet so I’m sitting cross-legged. “Because I know the truth.”
“Why do you care so much abouthistruth?” she challenges.
“It’s not about him. It’s about his daughter,” I gesture. “Sazuki’s daughter is deaf. That’s how we connected.”
My sister raises both eyebrows.
