Five Flavors of Dumb - Antony John [5]
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 fixeddaughter, 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.
CHAPTER 4
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