“Now what?” I whisper again.
He shakes his head, amused. “Just lots of laughter,” Jackson mouths back. Thinking for a moment, he adds in sign, “I don’t know.”
“Nice,” I sign back to him.
“What was that?” Jackson asks, speaking at regular volume now. Being here in the quiet hallway instead of the cafeteria is like night and day.
“Nice,” I say, fingerspelling out the word. “N-i-c-e.”
“You know I was trying to say ‘I don’t know,’ right?”
I smile encouragingly as I unpack my lunch. “A little stiff, but correct, yeah. The way a lot of beginners look.”
“Stiff? How so?”
“You don’t need to be a robot. Let your hands move naturally. And you can kind of accent it with however you’re feeling, using facial expressions.” I demonstrate, making an uncertain face and a small movement forI don’t know. Then I do it again with a bigger motion, a flare to go along with an angry face. “You see?”
It’s strange being the one teaching ASL when, not too many years ago, I was the student. Brandview got me up to speed quickly, but it was Cody who filled in all the missing blanks. Who taught me the slang, the nuance, the beauty of all the different ways my hands could communicate. I used to watch him in awe, jealous that he’d known sign his entire life, while I was still playing catch-up. But after half a decade at Brandview, I left more confident than ever in my abilities—something I worry about losing now that I’m predominantly back in the hearing world.
Sometimes I think I miss Cody.
His physical absence yet lingering presence in my mind is something I need to reckon with. A change of scenery does a lot, but nothing will ever be the same. I hate how something as essential as signing is tinged by his memory. Thinking about what Cody and I had, a lot of what I miss is stuff that comes with any relationship. The closeness. The way the other person can tell what you’re thinking just by exchanging a look. The knowing exactly who you want to see and hang out with every day. How do I untangle my life before now from Cody?
Breakups are so confusing.
Because I like sitting here across from Jackson. He’s sweet and attentive in a way I’ve never really experienced before. And he doesn’t pretend everything is effortless, like that somehow makes it cool. He pauses for a moment with his hand held up. “Yes, I understand,” he signs, a bit looser, taking my feedback into account.
“Whoa, he’s got more tricks up his sleeve!” I smile widely, impressed he’s been looking things up on his own. Gotta say, good for him. It’s the basics, but I hadn’t expected him to be working on learning ASL. Let’s see if he keeps it up.
“I’m trying, I’m trying.” He’s clearly pleased with himself. “You never know what I’ll come up with next.”
Chapter Ten
Jackson
Despite our veryearly start, the sun rises in the sky, bringing the heat during a soccer pickup match Saturday morning. All the running was a lot easier at the beginning when it was cooler out, but by the time we wrap, I’m drained. I can’t wait until next semester when we’re in season and back in practice mode.
When it’s time to go, I pull my shirt over my face to wipe away the sweat and walk around to the front of the school to meet my dad. He parked the SUV along the curb and is standing there waiting for me, arms out to the sides, twisting his torso to crack his back. Dad is wearing fresh athletic shorts and a clean sleeveless shirt, so he hasn’t gone to the gym yet, which can only mean one thing.
“Hey, kid. Let’s stop at the Box on the way home,” he says, hopping in the driver’s side.
Despite spending less time at the company these days, Dad is still restless. He decided to fill his late fifties with CrossFit rather thanturning to golf like my nonno did. It seems to be the first hobby Dad’s ever enjoyed, which is why I don’t find his dedication to it utterly ridiculous. I just hope I don’t wait that long in life to find something I want to spend my time doing.
I groan and slink into the passenger seat, chugging the last of my lukewarm water from the green reusable Gatorade bottle. “Can you drop me off first?”
“Come on; you’re young! Bursting with energy.” Dad shakes his head and puts the car in drive. “We need to keep you on your toes.”
After listening to a playlist including “Eye of the Tiger” and a few other classic rock songs to hype us up, we pull up to the CrossFit gym, a large brick warehouse with several people from the previous class time still running laps around the building. As Dad maneuvers the SUV carefully to avoid hitting someone, several of his buddies wave hello through the windshield.
In the waiting space inside, Dad begins to stretch. The nearby bench is holding everyone’s bags, so I plop to the floor, legs out and back slumped. I don’t have the energy to even pretend to be eager for this. On the nearby whiteboard, the WOD—workout of the day—is scribbled out.
It looks rough. One hundred squats. One-thousand-meter row. Half-mile run. Thirty burpees. Today’s record time: nine minutes, twelve seconds.RIP me.
“Small group,” my dad says, nodding toward the two others who have joined us for the class. A dude in his thirties and a woman about sixty. Both regulars. Both about to smoke me in this workout.
“All right, 10:00 a.m., let’s go!” the instructor in a tight gray shirt calls out. “Rob, my man,” he says, greeting my dad. “Was wondering where you were this morning.”
“I thought I’d bring my son with me today.” Dad nods toward me. “You all remember Jackson?”
