Five Flavors of Dumb - Antony John [73]
“Are you teaching yourself?” I asked finally, trying to tone down the excitement in my voice.
Dad shook his head. “No. There’s a course at the community college. Tuesday evenings.” He pulled another book from under the desk, this one called Master ASL.
I flicked through it, but I didn’t really care about the book’s approach, or the quality of the writing. All I cared about were the signs, and the thought that Dad might someday know them. I wanted to drill him with a million questions, but this was my turf, not his, and he still seemed reticent to talk about it.
“How are you finding it?” I asked.
“It’s . . . not easy. But I’m getting there.” I wondered whether he was talking about our heart-to-heart chat as well as the rigors of learning sign language, but either way, he seemed worn out.
“Thank you for doing this. It means so much.”
Dad’s head and shoulders slumped. “Don’t say that.”
“Why not? It’s true.”
“Because I should’ve done this years ago, instead of always making excuses. When you started to lose your hearing I tried to learn with Finn, but he picked it up so much quicker than me. And compared to your mom I felt stupid and clumsy. In the end I honestly convinced myself that it would be better for both of us if I didn’t even try. But I was missing the point. All that time I think you just wanted me to meet you halfway.”
I nodded. “That would’ve been nice, yeah.”
“I feel like I owe you the best part of a decade, and I’m trying to play catch-up. Only I don’t know how that’s supposed to work.”
“You’re improvising well.”
Dad laughed. “God, Piper, I feel like I’m only just getting to know you now, for the first time.”
“You know me.”
“No, I don’t,” he sighed, refusing to play along with the easy lie. “Not really. And it’s unforgiveable.”
I stepped forward, gave him the briefest of hugs. “Well, I forgive you anyway.”
Dad summoned a smile. “Thank you.” He turned away and pulled a stack of papers from his bookshelf; the title on the front page read Financial Aid & Fees. “It says that more than eighty-five percent of students who apply for financial aid receive assistance. If Gallaudet is what you really want, we’ll be able to make it happen.”
I flicked through the stack and caught a glimpse of the university’s nineteenth-century buildings, familiar from years of browsing the website. It was what I wanted, but it still seemed so far off.
“You have to trust us, Piper,” said Dad, sensing my concern. “We want what’s best for you.”
We want what’s best for you. Who would have imagined that his idea of best might one day coincide with mine?
“What about Mom? After today she might not be so thrilled about helping with this,” I said.
Dad shook his head. “She will. You two are just going through a rough patch, that’s all. She feels like you’ve shut her out.”
“No way.”
“Hey, I’m not saying she’s blameless, but she just can’t keep up with everything. She never wanted to work every hour of every day, and I think she’d do anything for things to go back to the way they were.” He looked at the family photo again, straightened it carefully.
“But if she’d talk to me, I’d—”
“No.” Dad turned to face me, shaking his head decisively. “That’s the problem, see? You’ve moved on without her, not the other way around. You need to make the first move here.”
“I don’t know if I can.”
“You can. Just talk to her . . . do that thing you do, okay? You’ve always been our rock, the one who holds things together—our own Pied Piper. Right now we could really do with some more of that magic.”
Even though I was overwhelmed that Dad was learning sign language, I still wanted to say no. I wanted to tell him what a crappy thing it was to put the burden of responsibility on me. But he was gazing at me imploringly. In spite of my pink hair, my anarchic band, and my cutting school, he’d told me I was the rock. And in my heart, I knew that he was absolutely right.
I stopped at the doorway. “Thank