Page 13 of On the Bright Side
“Nothing.” I storm upstairs, slamming the bedroom door shut behind me.
I’m still hungry, having barely touched my dinner, but I spend the rest of the night locked in my room, refusing to confront my parents again. I check under the bed, but Cheese isn’t here with me. I’m all alone.
The next morning, Mom drags me out of bed. I didn’t set my deaf alarm clock, but she unlocked the bedroom door with a bobby pin—seriously—and made sure I was awake on time. We ignore the argument from last night. I begrudgingly get ready.
My head hangs low as I return to Amber. I brace myself for immediate stares as I walk through the main entrance, but fortunately, it seems everyone’s already moved on to the latest thing.
When I get to my locker, there’s a note taped on the door telling me to stop by the front office.
Surprise, surprise, Pamela dared to show up again today. She is clutching the strap of her crossbody bag tightly, like she’s not ready to use her hands to sign anytime soon, and refuses to look at me directly. Kim is seemingly still in pajamas and standing by a baby stroller that she keeps shushing at even though my devices aren’t picking up on any crying. Maybe her child is just threatening to break out into large screams at any second. What a relatable mood. Kim seems irritated to have to show up at Amber before her shift for the second day in a row.
“We had a meeting to discuss yesterday. It’s unfortunate to have a difficult start. Sometimes it takes time to settle in. To that point,” Kim says, redirecting her attention to me and speaking for the avoidant interpreter, “we’re going to make sure that we address any of your clarification requests immediately. But, moving forward, please bring additional feedback to us outside of class time.”
Right, because, once again, yesterday was my fault.I’mthe one who didn’t handle that situation correctly…
If I don’t use interpreters while mainstreamed, my grades will probably suffer. Despite disliking this school and all my fuss about wanting to drop out of Amber, I do really love learning. I was a top student at Brandview, somewhere that was set up for me to thrive. But I could quickly be considered a bad or problematic student at a place like this.
Not to mention, if I stop using my accommodations now, my classmates will probably think I was faking. Even though that’s just, like, not a thing. Abled people accuse disabled people of faking at an extremely disproportionate rate to the very small number of people who might actually lie.
I walk fast, trying to get a few more minutes to myself, but Pamela closely follows me to first period. In the room, I can sense my classmates are expecting a show. The physics teacher takes a deep breath and asks, with Pamela interpreting, “Are we all good today?”
“Probably,” I answer, not wanting to give my interpreter the satisfaction of voicing ayes.
Waiting for class to begin, Pamela pulls out a bright-colored flyer from her bag. “I saw this earlier,” she signs, leaning forward to drop it on my desk. It’s for the school’s ASL club, which has its first meeting of the year this afternoon. I didn’t realize they had one here. Madison didn’t think to mention that? “I know it’s hard when things change. I thought you might find some new friends there.”
Is this supposed to be a gesture of goodwill? I might be more open to considering it a nice act if I weren’t so keen to hold a grudge.
When school ends for the day, I’m exhausted. Plus, I had to endure a meeting with Ms. Lily during study hall to make sure all my credits had transferred over correctly. But since I don’t want to go home yet, I’m desperate enough to check out that ASL club. No one at Amber has approached me trying to sign, as intro ASL students often do in public, so I’m not sure how many people I expect to find there.
I peer into the math classroom where the meeting is held. There’s a bunch of hearing students, mainly freshmen and sophomores, chatting and ignoring theVoice Offmessage scrawled in big letterson the whiteboard. I’m about to turn around and leave when the teacher waves for my attention from across the room, where she’s been rearranging chairs into a circle.
“Hey, you’re new! And Deaf?” the cheery young Black woman in jeans and a Cincinnati Bengals shirt asks, hurrying over. “I’m S-h-a-y,” she signs, also supplying her sign name, anSclearly positioned for the dimples she has when she smiles.
“Yes.” I realize the familiarity in her movements even though she isn’t wearing any hearing devices. “And you are, too? Whew!”
“We’re good.” She smiles wide, understanding my relief. I introduce myself as well, and then she gives a subtle nod to the others. “Most of them aren’t conversational yet, but we’ll get there soon.”
A student walks over to ask Shay something, but when they don’t sign, she simply points to the policy on the board, reminding them not to speak. “Sorry, sorry,” the student signs apologetically but then seems stumped as to what to do next. They turn to me and sign, slowly and stilted, “You’re. Really. Fast.”
“I mean, I already know ASL,” I respond at my typical speed.
“A-S-L,” the student signs, nodding enthusiastically and gesturing toward my ears. “Deaf!”
“Yes.” I’ll try to be nicer because I do appreciate the attempt.
Once Shay gets the club situated, opening with a round of new vocabulary for the week—holidays and weather—she has them break off into pairs. And I get to hang with her for a bit—two Deafies shooting the breeze. Shay takes the teacher’s chair, so I sit on the desk.
“I was a student at Amber a few years ago,” Shay signs. “They didn’t have an ASL club then. I had to both found and teach it.”
“That’s annoying,” I sign, chopping my hand into the opposite between my thumb and index finger. It doesn’t surprise me that she hadto be the one who went through all that effort. They’d hire teachers for foreign language classes, yet Shay had to fight just to get a club for ASL started.
“But we got enough interest that, when I graduated, they hired me on part-time to keep it going. You know, their diversity initiatives and all.”
“Seems a nice enough job.” I nod toward the board, where she’d added notes from her lesson. “Plus, you’re good at teaching it. Not everyone has that skill.”
Shay beams. “And now it’s more fun that we can chat together! Let me guess; are you coming from Brandview?”
I raise my hands, theatrically shaking them to convey my upset before signing, “I only had one more year.”
