Five Flavors of Dumb (2 page)

REALIZING
you’re completely alone . . . even in a crowd

As usual, my brother Finn (he’s a freshman) wasn’t waiting by the car (aka USS
Immovable,
a 1987 Chevy Caprice Classic Brougham that consumed fuel in legendary quantities) when school ended. What was
un
usual was that it didn’t bother me. For once I wasn’t in a hurry to get home, so I sprawled across the massive hood and basked in what remained of the sunshine.

I watched my fellow seniors tumble out of school, engaging in ritualistic chest-bumping, conspicuous air kissing, and flagrant butt-groping. When all socially accepted forms of physical contact had been exhausted, they ambled to their cars like they were reluctant to leave the school grounds. Some even pretended to have trouble unlocking their car doors, just in case the opportunity for further socializing might present itself. I waved to a couple of girls from Calc, but I guess they didn’t see me.

I closed my eyes and concentrated on feeling the sun against my face—so warm, so relaxing, so
rare
in the Seattle fall. I must have dozed off, because the next thing I knew, Finn was shaking my arm pretty hard, which scared the crap out of me.

If anyone asks, I’ve been with you here the last ten minutes, okay?
he signed feverishly.

I narrowed my eyes, but nodded anyway. Whatever he was about to be accused of, he was clearly guilty—otherwise he wouldn’t have willingly signed. True, sign language is my preferred mode of communication, but when there’s just the two of us in an empty parking lot, my hearing aids plus lip-reading are perfectly adequate.

See, deafness is complicated. I used to hear perfectly, but when I was six my hearing began to fail. It was a gradual process, but undeniable; and not completely unexpected, as my mom’s parents were both deaf. When I could only follow conversations by lip-reading, my parents shelled out a few thousand dollars for hearing aids, but they work best when I’m talking to one person in a quiet place. The constant noise of school is not conducive to hearing aid use, which is why I still prefer to sign whenever I can. Finn knew this, of course, but that didn’t stop him from speaking to me most of the time. Which is how I knew he was sucking up to me. Which meant that, yes . . . he’d screwed up
again
.

Barely ten seconds later, Mr. Belson—reluctant math teacher yet enthusiastic mascot of the school chess club—waddled through the door and made a beeline for my car. He came to an abrupt halt a few feet from Finn, but his enormous stomach continued to wobble. I could tell by his heightened color and incensed expression that the words were going to be shouted.

“I saw you in that room, Vaughan!”

Beside me, Finn shrank lower on the trunk.

“Admit it. You were there.”

I have to say, someone who breaks as many rules as Finn really ought to work on perfecting a look of innocence, or defiance, or something. All he seems to have mastered is the deer-in-the-headlights look.

I conjured a broad smile. “Hello, Mr. Belson,” I said.

He did a double take. “Oh, hello, Ms. Vaughan. What are you doing here?”

“Finn is my brother.”

“Him?”
Belson shuffled uncomfortably on the spot. “Surely not. It can’t be true.”

“Believe me, Mr. Belson, it still takes me by surprise sometimes.”

Belson looked genuinely sympathetic. “Well, I’m sorry to say your brother was engaging in nefarious after-school activities.”

Of course he was,
I wanted to say, but if I did, then we’d be here another hour while my parents were summoned to appear before the principal.

“Finn and I have been here ever since school ended, Mr. Belson,” I said innocently.

“That’s patently untrue. I saw him in that room.”

“It, uh . . . must have been someone else.” Despite years of covering for Finn’s misdeeds, I still felt my heartbeat quicken as the lie dribbled out.

Belson wiped the sweat off his forehead with a carefully folded paper napkin. “Don’t do this, Ms. Vaughan. You’re an excellent student. And an exceptional chess club captain, I might add. Don’t jeopardize your own reputation to cover for him.”

I shrugged, allowed the silence to linger. After all, if there was one area that I was extremely experienced in, it was prolonged silences.

Belson remained frozen to the spot, pondering his next move. Eventually he replaced the napkin in his pocket with a measured gesture and stared directly at Finn.

“You’ve only been here a month, Vaughan. The fact that I’m already onto you is an ominous sign for your future at our school. Your next transgression will result in suspension, you understand? There’s no three-strike rule here.”

He didn’t wait for a response, just spun around with the grace of the Marshmallow Man and hurried back to resume patrolling the school hallways.

I’ll make it up to you,
signed Finn, his movements slower now, calmer.

What were you doing?
I shot back.

He looked away and refused to take the bait. Or maybe he was just trying to spare my feelings, refusing to confirm that one month into high school he was already more popular than me.

I got into the car and shoved the key in the ignition. I wanted to believe that I was pissed about having to lie to Belson, but really, that wasn’t it at all. I was just pissed at Finn . . . for serially screwing up and always living to tell the tale; for knowing he could always count on me to bail him out. It was all so predictable.

But it was more than that, even. I knew he only reverted to sign language as a way to soften me up—it meant nothing to him; he had no personal investment in it—and I hated myself for being secretly grateful to him anyway. Sure, it was an improvement on Dad’s complete unwillingness to sign at all, but I felt manipulated. Finn had no idea what my life was like, and I guess I had no idea what his was like either. I just knew that when he met a girl for the first time, he didn’t have to worry about how his voice sounded or whether she was freaked out by the way he stared at her lips the whole time.

I honestly think I could have kept up the silent treatment all day, but when USS
Immovable
’s decrepit engine turned over and over without starting, Finn began to laugh. Thirty seconds later we still hadn’t moved, and I cracked up too—restrained at first, then an all-out belly laugh. Suddenly we were shaking so hard that Finn couldn’t sit still and I couldn’t turn the keys.

Predictability has its upside.

“I swear, she’s like a clone of you when you were a baby.” Instinctively, Mom had said and signed the words simultaneously, but she was gazing at my eleven-month-old sister, Grace, not me.

I stared at Grace’s cochlear implant, a black contraption surgically attached to her right ear. She’d had it a month, but it had only just been turned on.

“Not anymore,” I said truthfully.

“Don’t go there, Piper. Not today,” warned Dad.

Yes, my name is Piper. And no, I don’t see the funny side. Seriously, what family with a history of hereditary deafness names their child after the player of a musical instrument?

“It’s amazing,” said Mom.

“A miracle,” gushed Dad.

They took turns whispering sweet nothings to Grace, who obediently tilted her head from side to side, seeking out the source of this new world of sound. I hadn’t expected the implant to work so quickly.

“Shame it wasn’t around when I was younger,” I said.

“Don’t be silly, Piper,” said Mom. She turned her mouth toward me as she stopped signing, so that I could see her lips. She still wouldn’t make eye contact, though. “You didn’t lose your hearing until you were six. And you know that Grace’s deafness was far more severe. Besides, your hearing aids work fine.”

Easy for her to say. The reason everyone assumes my hearing aids work fine is because I can lip-read with Olympic precision, and the combination of the two helps me get by. But it’s still hard work, and my hearing aids are old behind-the-ear models in Barbie pink that stopped feeling cool about a week after I got them, seven years ago. I was supposed to get a new in-the-ear pair for my birthday. Mom and Dad even promised me the Bluetooth iCom hookup, so I could hear my computer and cell phone through the aids, but then Dad lost his job and there wasn’t enough money. In a reckless moment I considered buying them with money from the college fund my grandparents had set aside for me, but I knew my parents would have a fit. Anyway, the fund was too important for that.

At that moment, Grace turned to me and smiled, as if to remind me that none of this was her doing. She was still the same Grace—the one whose face lit up each time I returned from school, who slept with the snuggle blanket
I
knitted, who made me feel like an inspired comedian just by sticking out my tongue. I still mattered to her, I realized.

Then Dad spoke and she looked away, breaking the spell.

I’ll never hear the way she does,
I signed, adding a little oomph as I smacked my chest (to indicate myself), and a lot of oomph as I flicked my hand toward Grace.

“You know this wasn’t an easy decision,” sighed Mom, refusing to sign back to me. “But let’s not forget, the implant works best on very young children, and with your residual hearing you wouldn’t have been a good candidate. Besides, it wasn’t covered by insurance back then.”

“It’s not fully covered now either,” said Dad, no doubt relieved that we were speaking, not signing. “The co-pay is monstrous. We talked about it, remember?”

Mom hushed him, then glanced at me and turned scarlet.

I felt my pulse quicken. “What are you talking about? I thought it was going to be covered.”

“Well, partially,” said Mom reassuringly, “but it turns out my insurance isn’t as comprehensive as your dad’s used to be. It’s complicated.”

“Try me.”

“There’s no need to get all worked up about this, Piper,” said Dad. “We’ll make up the shortfall somehow.”

“Shortfall? What shortfall? Where did you get the money?”

Mom glared at Dad briefly, then turned on the charm for me. “You’ve just started senior year, Piper, honey. We’ll return the money to your fund before you need it for college.”

“And if we can’t, you’re even more likely to qualify for financial aid,” added Dad helpfully.

I felt like throwing up. “You raided my . . . college fund for this?”

“Being part of a family entails making sacrifices, you know.”

“But shouldn’t that be my decision? Oma and Poppy left that money to
me
.”

“What about your hearing aids? They cost money too, you know,” Dad pointed out.

“A few thousand bucks, yes. But that was years ago. You said the implant was going to be over eighty thousand.”

Dad raised a finger menacingly. “This is your sister we’re talking about, Piper. You want what’s best for her, right?”

Silence. My father—master of the rhetorical question. Of course I wanted the best for Grace, but not at my expense. The college fund my grandparents had set up for me was my ticket to another world. I’d dreamed of heading to Gallaudet University in Washington, DC, ever since they told me about it: the finest liberal arts college in the world for deaf and hard-of-hearing students—a place where I’d automatically fit in, instead of standing out in all the wrong ways. What if the financial aid package wasn’t enough?

Oh God. I had to concentrate to keep from crying.

Anyway, who’s to say what was best for Grace? Mom always called her my baby twin, and if she remained deaf we’d be closer than mere sisters. As she grew up we’d sign nonstop, sharing words that few others could understand. I’d be there for her, help her, allow her to express herself in her own way, not demand that she conform to society’s bias toward oral communication. I even came close to saying all this, but then I had an epiphany: My father wasn’t indifferent to my deafness; he was mortified by it. For him, Grace’s total loss of hearing was an insurmountable disability, something that had needed to be remedied at the earliest opportunity through major surgery. And even though my hearing loss was less severe than hers, the notion that I was also “disabled” struck home. Could it really be that after eighteen years Dad saw me that way—a poor girl struggling to be understood, who achieved self-sufficiency only by virtue of others’ help?

Dad interpreted my silence as petulance and shook his head disgustedly as he returned his attention to his
fixed
daughter, leaving me wondering when and how we’d gotten so far off track.

Meanwhile, Mom called Grace’s name again and again—from above, from behind, from either side and from the corners of the room. And each time, Grace turned toward her like an obedient puppy, large eyes blinking in wonder, the corners of her mouth turned up, caught between a grin and total bemusement.

“Of course I want the best for Grace,” I whispered, hoping that one day my father might understand the million layers separating our ideas of what counts as best.

Finn was late again, and I didn’t feel like waiting around while he broke a few more school rules. I figured if he was working on getting expelled, he could at least do it during regular school hours.

It didn’t help that I was already in a bad mood. Belson forgot to give us our homework assignment until the bell had already rung, so his announcement was made over the scraping of chairs and the ceaseless chattering of the supermodel wannabes. I couldn’t catch what he said, so I had to wait for the room to clear before asking him to repeat everything to me privately. I wish I could say it was an unusual occurrence.

As I trudged back from the parking lot to the school’s main entrance I noticed the steps were still blackened, and those stains weren’t coming off anytime soon, either. Dumb weren’t just the talk of the school, they’d left their mark on the building itself. If Finn needed lessons on how to break school rules with style, he could do worse than learn from the members of Dumb.