“Don’t worry about it, Darcy,” she says. “I’ll make other arrangements, both for tonight and next Wednesday night. My brother and his wife are always happy to take her.”
I wonder if this is the beginning of the end of my baby-sitting job.
Mrs. K gets up and signs for Sammy to put her coat on, but Sam bursts into tears instead. It seems she’s having way too much fun with “her” Darcy. I hope Mrs. K is taking notes. I lean over and tell her, with my hands, that I will see her tomorrow. She gives me a big hug—I can’t believe such a small kid can hug so hard—and I wave to her as she leaves. Watching them get into Mrs. K’s car, I wish that Kat was still such a little girl. I wish I were still a little boy. We’d had our own baby-sitter then, one who could sign with Kat and who did puzzles with me. Someone else to be responsible.
I find Kat sitting on her bed, holding the same stuffed animal that she’d been hugging on Saturday night. “You okay?” I ask.
She nods. Her eyes are still puffy and sore, but I detect something else in them too. “Mrs. K says I’m a woman now,” she tells me with her hands. The corner of her mouth twitches and I know she’s trying not to smile.
“That just shows how well she doesn’t know you,” I sign.
She sticks her tongue out at me.
“I didn’t realize that no one had ever explained that stuff to you.”
She shakes her head and continues with her hands. “Now I get what those ads on TV are about. When I was little I thought those things were something you ate.”
I can’t help but laugh. She smiles, remembering.
“When I finally realized they weren’t food, I couldn’t figure out what they were for.”
You miss a lot when you’re a deaf kid in a hearing world.
“So, what do you want to do with the rest of our day? We’re not baby-sitting tonight.”
She just shrugs.
“Why don’t we catch a bus and go to the Wildlife Refuge Center. It won’t be nearly so crowded on a weekday.”
Her eyes light up. There’s nothing she likes better than being around animals.
“I’ll phone your school and tell them you’re home sick today.”
W
HEN SHE COMES
into the kitchen she’s wearing her just-like-new jeans and sweater. “Can you see anything?” she asks.
I guess I must look confused, because she suddenly gets agitated. “Down there,” she signs, without telling me where “there” is.
Then I get it. I guess I can be a little thick sometimes, especially when it comes to girl stuff. I glance “down there” and then force myself to meet her eyes. “Not at all,” my hands assure her.
“How about at the back?” She turns around, pauses and then turns back to face me again.
I shake my head.
She scowls. “It feels like wearing diapers.”
I nod, sympathetically, but inside I feel a rage welling up. No eleven-year-old girl should have to talk to her fifteen-year-old brother about these things. More importantly, no big brother should have to hear them. Kat needs a mom, an aunt, a sister, anybody female.
“Darcy?” Kat asks, snapping me out of my black thoughts. “I need a purse.” She spells out the word “purse” with her fingers. “To carry stuff in. Do you think we could stop at the mall on the way there?”
I’m not so stupid that I have to ask her what the stuff is that she has to carry in the purse. I just nod yes and grab my coat from the closet.
But I feel that murderous gene rearing its ugly head again.
“W
E MISSED YOU
yesterday, Darcy. Everything okay?”
The Rose has her doe eyes resting on me again. I glance at her, then look back at my page. I have to fight the urge to say something flippant like, oh yeah, I had a great day scrubbing bloodstains out of my little sister’s sheets, but with a deep sigh I control myself and resort to the usual, “Everything’s fine.”
“That’s good.” I know she’s nodding, trying to force me to look at her again.
I don’t. Instead I get busy copying today’s quote from the board.
People are lonely because they build walls instead of
bridges. —Joseph F. Newton
The Rose must think we’re stupid or something. And sometimes I wonder, suspiciously, if she chooses these sayings with me in mind, but then I realize how lame that is. I’m as important to The Rose as a single soggy seed in a forest.
As usual, I refuse to give her what she wants.
In this quote Joseph F. (I wonder what the F stands for.
Fred? Freak? Why not just write out the whole name?)
Newton is telling us that it is better to be an engineer than
a masonry-type person. This is because engineers build
bridges, and according to Joe F., engineers are not as lonely
as the wall builders. Just another reason to get a good edu
cation, I guess
.
I know there are a few gigantic holes in my argument, but I can always hope that The Rose will appreciate my creativity. No doubt everyone else gave her the obvious response.
On the break I plug in another CD. Snapping the headphones on, I close my eyes and lose myself in the music. I’m really getting into it when I feel a presence beside me. I open my eyes and find Gem, the girl who sits beside me in class, standing at my elbow. I pull off my headphones. “What?”
“Nothing. Just wondering what you’re listening to.”
“None of your business.”
“You’re right.” She blows a gum bubble and then sucks it back in with a snap. “Mind if I sit here?” she asks, pulling out the chair beside mine.
“I don’t own it,” I say, but glance pointedly around the library, taking in all the empty chairs farther away, hoping she gets the hint.
She doesn’t, but then I really didn’t expect her to.
“How come you’re not out smoking?” I ask.
“Gave it up,” she says. “My boyfriend says I don’t taste so good when he kisses me.”
“I guess not.”
“How ’bout you?”
“I never started.”
“Oh, that’s right. I bet your girlfriend loves kissing you.”
“I don’t have a girlfriend.”
“Really?” she asks, pretending to look me over. “I’m surprised.” She snaps another bubble and then says, “You never look at girls so I figured you were taken.”
“You figured wrong.” I press the stop button on my Discman. A good song is probably playing and I’m missing it.
“Truth is,” she says, averting her eyes, “I don’t have a boyfriend either. But when I do find the right one, I don’t want to have nicotine breath. My dad smoked and when he used to kiss me goodnight, I’d just about gag.”
I wonder if Gem’s parents knew she was going to have such amazing eyes when they named her. They’re the translucent aqua of a precious stone, and they change color depending on the light. You’d expect brown eyes with her dark skin and hair, so it’s always a shock when she looks directly at you, which she’s doing now. I look away quickly. “What do you want, Gem?” I ask. I’m not stupid enough to believe this is just a social call.
“What makes you think I want something?” she asks. “Can’t we just have a conversation?”
“Maybe another time,” I say. “I was enjoying a
CD
” .
“Suit yourself,” she says, reaching into her bag and pulling out her own Discman. But just before I can push the play button on my machine she asks, “You’re not gay, are you?”
I pull my headphones off and look at her again. “Is that what they’re saying about me now?”
“It’s just speculation.”
“And were you sent here to find out for sure?”
“No!” Her reaction convinces me that she’s telling the truth. “I don’t really care one way or the other,” she says. “But it is odd when a guy takes no notice of girls.” She shrugs. “You can be AC/DC for all I care. I was just wondering, that’s all.” She puts on her headphones and presses play.
I press play too, but I don’t hear the music. I’m thinking about what she’s just said. I know I’m not into guys. At all. There’s no question about that. But she’s right. I’m not particularly into girls either. I’ve just always figured I didn’t need the hassle.
G
EM FOLLOWS ME
into the library again at lunchtime. “Are you my new best friend or something?” I ask her.
She looks at me, kind of hurt like. “Have you got a problem with me hangin’ out with you?” she asks.
“Not really,” I say. “It’s just that I’m wondering why the sudden interest.”
She studies me. “I’m just trying to build one of those bridges, Darcy, but you keep putting up walls.”
Oh God. She’s taken The Rose’s quote to heart. I feel my stomach give a little twist. “Did I let on that I was lonely?” I ask her. “Because if I did, I’m sorry. But I’m absolutely not. I’m not today. I won’t be tomorrow, and I wasn’t yesterday. If that’s not clear enough for you…”
She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t have to. The look on her face shows she understands perfectly. With a flash of her eyes she does an about-turn and leaves the room.
Breathing hard, I grab a CD off the rack without even looking at the title and plug it in. The music is soft and mellow. I close my eyes and sink back into my chair. I feel my breathing begin to slow, even though my eyes still burn with unwanted tears. Concentrating on the song, I allow myself to be seduced by its soothing rhythms. I feel myself escaping, being drawn back to the safe place, the place where no one can find me. I’m not afraid of being alone there. No one can hurt me when I’m alone. No one but myself. I rub the new welts on my arm.
T
he pendulum of Kat’s moods appears to be stuck on the side labeled Bad. She’s always cranky now, and no amount of clowning on my part cheers her up. In fact, if I didn’t know better, I’d say she’s avoiding me. I’ve had to start setting an alarm clock at night because she no longer wakes up on her own in the morning. She only picks at her food and she spends a lot of time in her room just sitting at her desk. She’s so miserable that even Dad notices.
“Is she okay?” he asks. Kat and I have just returned from baby-sitting and she heads straight to her room.
“I don’t know.” I don’t. But I decide to try my hand at passing blame. “Could have something to do with those newspaper articles you handed her on Sunday.”
I won’t swear to it, but I think I see a trace of remorse flicker across his face.
I
T TURN OUT
I did a better job of tapping into Dad’s guilty conscience than I meant to.
A car sporting a
Working Dogs Association
bumper sticker is parked right outside our townhouse when we get home from baby-sitting on Thursday night. I spot it from half a block away. So does Kat. Her sharp eyes don’t miss a thing. She glances at me. “Do you think?” she asks, incredulously.
I shake my head. “No, Kat,” I sign. “Don’t go there. Dad’s not going to change his mind now.” Especially now, seeing as he’s planning to get rid of her.
But I guess she doesn’t believe me. She jogs up the stairs and into the house. I follow quietly behind, feeling slightly sick and wondering what Dad could possibly be scheming now.
We find him sitting in the living room with the lady who—no doubt—owns the car. At her side is a golden retriever, its silky head cocked as it watches us enter. It doesn’t move, even though you can see by the ears that tilt forward and by the eager, coppercolored eyes that it wants to come over and give us a good sniffing.
“Darcy, Kat,” says Dad, “this is Eileen Gilbert. She trains dogs to work with people who have…” he pauses, looking for the correct word, “physical challenges.” Dad smiles, proud of himself for remembering the term. I have to restrain myself from rolling my eyes. He’s such a big fat fake.
“Hello, Kat. Darcy,” Eileen signs, to her credit. “This is Star, one of the dogs I’ve been training.”
The dog watches her hands as if it, too, knows sign language. Eileen pats its head.
“Why are you here?” I figure there’s no point beating about the bush. This is clearly not someone who would date Dad, and besides, Dad doesn’t bring his girlfriends home to meet the kids.
“Your dad invited me, Darcy,” she answers, kindly.
I turn to him. “Dad?”
He at least has the sense to look a little embarrassed. “Your sister’s been whining about getting one of these dogs for months,” he says, then turns to Eileen. “She saw a special on TV about a dog who could predict when his epileptic owner was about to have a seizure. Supposedly this dog could then protect her from hurting herself.” He glances skeptically at Star, then back to Eileen. “Since then she hasn’t shut up about getting her own.” He tries to look fondly at Kat, then shakes his head, as if he always gives in to her whims. He must have forgotten that Kat can’t whine, she rarely talks and when she does, he doesn’t understand her anyway.
Eileen must have missed those minor points too. She smiles and nods at Kat, her hand still on the dog’s head.
“But, Dad,” I remind him, trying hard not to sound sarcastic. Unfortunately, I don’t think I’m up for the challenge. “You always said, ‘No. No way. Not in my lifetime,’ or words to that effect.” I think I’ve done a pretty good imitation of his tone. Nasty is easy to imitate.
Dad glances quickly at Eileen, but turns back to me. His eyes meet mine, and he gives me the look, the one telling me I’ve crossed the line. His words, though, say something quite different. “Everyone’s allowed to change their mind, now, aren’t they, Darcy?”
I don’t answer. I don’t have to because Kat is changing the subject by signing to Eileen, asking if she can pat the dog. I can see from the look on her face that she’s past being simply hopeful. She’s smitten.
Eileen tells Kat that she is welcome to pat the dog, so Kat kneels down, offers a hand to be sniffed and then, after stroking its head a few times, puts her arms around its neck in a big hug. The dog responds by licking her ears and neck. It’s really quite pathetic.
“Star likes you,” Eileen signs. “Look at the way her tail is thumping.”
Kat grins and continues stroking the dog. They are gazing at each other like reunited lovers.
I have to leave the room. It’s too much.
L
ATER, WHEN
I
HEAR
Eileen’s car starting up, I come out of my bedroom.