Five Flavors of Dumb - Antony John [4]
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.
CHAPTER 3
“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.