Shay notices me wipe away a tear and signs, “I’m sure it wasn’t easy.”
“I wanted this.” I shake my head. “Still, it was harder than I thought it would be.”
I click the button on the intercom outside Jackson’s house. A garbled voice erupts from the speaker, and the gate slowly opens into the driveway. I’m guessing that was Jackson? I pull forward slowly, parking as close to the exit as I can.
Jackson’s standing at the front door, leaning against the frame, waiting for me.
He usually carries himself tall and confidently, so it’s concerning to see him slouching. His cheeks are puffy, and to be honest,weakis the first word that comes to mind when I see him—like he’s really been through it. Somehow less steady on his feet than before, which is really saying something because he was already always tripping all over the place.
I want to pull him into a hug and squeeze him tight. But when I get out of the car, unsure how we are with things, I lead with “I’m kind of surprised you go to Amber High.” I’m still unable to get over his rich neighborhood and figure he wouldn’t want me opening with some blunt observational comment about his appearance.
“What do you mean?” Jackson fidgets with the end of his shirt. “I know I’ve been out for a while—”
I gesture around to his ridiculously large home and chuckle awkwardly. “Your parents didn’t want to send you to a private school?”
“Nah, I’d rather go close by.” He looks like he hadn’t considered this before.
“I come bearing gifts,” I say, holding out my latest knit project: a navy beanie with a white stripe around the base. “Well, gift. A hat. I need to keep my hands busy when I’m anxious, and I had a lot of study hall time to worry about you, so.”
“Thanks, Ellie,” he says, accepting it. “Come in.”
Stepping inside a void with minimalist white-and-gold decor, I find the floors immaculate. “Should I take my shoes off?” It’s safe to say I’m more used to friends’ houses where there’s piles of sneakers by the doors, but my scuffed-up boots would look sad and out of place sitting here in Jackson’s pristine foyer.
Walking with a narrow black cane he was hiding behind him when I arrived, Jackson pulls open the large hallway closet and points to an empty spot on a shoe rack. How long has he been using a mobility aid?
With his free hand, he slides the beanie on, though it’s not quite centered. I reach up and adjust it for him, my hands grazing against his forehead.
“Cozy,” he says, avoiding my eyes.
“It looks great.”
As I’m putting my shoes away and my jacket on a hanger, his parents walk over to us, eyeing me curiously. Someone must have already said something, because they’re staring at me with expectant looks. His mother is whisper thin, in perfectly fitted athleisure, and sporting freshly painted nails, while his father loosens his tie, perhaps having recently come home from a long day lording over his plastics empire.
“Oh, hi, I’m Ellie,” I say. Jackson’s mom is taken aback. I’m suddenly self-conscious of my Deaf accent.
“We didn’t realize—” his father says in a quiet, low tone, barely attempting to disguise the frown he gives his son. I don’t need to hear the words to know what he said. I can tell they’re glad to see Jackson invited someone over, but they’re surprised to see it’s me.
They didn’t know I’m Deaf.Didn’t think to mention that, Jackson? I know he’s had a lot going on, but we’d have avoided this awkwardness if he’d prepared them with something like, “Hey, my friend Ellie is coming over, and, by the way, she’s Deaf.”
His mother grins and says something I’m sure was meant to be apologetic, but I can’t hear herat all. Not in the slightest. It’s like watching the TV on mute, but she doesn’t even move her lips enough for me to try to read them.
They’re soft speakers.
The kind of family that keeps the volume low. That doesn’t project across the dinner table or shout to each other from different rooms. That somehow getseven quieterwhen it’s bedtime. I hope they’re not the type that gets annoyed with Grandma when they have to speak up for her to hear them.
Their smiles could be entirely genuine, but I’m walking on eggshells trying to keep up with the conversation.
“Yeah, I invited her over,” Jackson says.
His voice booms and echoes across the spacious entryway. So loud and clear. Finally I can understand someone. I could kiss him.
You know, if he wants that.
With the end of his cane, Jackson guides me toward a nearby door. “Let’s go down to the basement. After you.”
He walks slowly behind me, and his mom must say something else.
“Just leave it alone,” Jackson quips. “I’m tired of knocking into everything.”
