Page 8 of On the Bright Side
Back at Brandview, we often sat in circles or rectangles so everyone was visible. It’s not great to have a bunch of classmates behind me where I can’t see them. My neck hurts in anticipation of all the craning I’ll have to do.
Despite the sound I can hear through my hearing aid and cochlear, I need an interpreter for class. That way, when the AC unit is too noisy—or the teacher is facing the board and I can’t read their lips, or a classmate is asking a question I can’t catch—I’ll still get the full context of the lecture through the accommodation.
Icouldvoice my own responses if I wanted to. But for now, I’d like to make it clear that communication should flow through my interpreter. I rarely voiced at school after learning ASL, even though I have to speak at home because of my family.
“Class, as you see, we have a special guest,” the physics teacher says, and Pamela signs. “A sign language interpreter for our new Deaf student.”
I grimace. It’d be one thing if we were going around the classroom doing first-day introductions for everyone, but we’re not. Instead, it’s like I’m some demonstration science experiment that all my classmates should get a good look at.
“Ellie, would you like to tell us a little bit about what your old Deaf school was like?” Pamela interprets the teacher’s request.
“Well, it was falling apart, but it was our school, you know?” I sign, trying to smile and seem somewhat friendly but keeping it real all the same. I didn’t choose to be here, but Brandview wasn’t perfect, either. Yet the interpreter fails to convey this nuance. I watch Pamela’s lips as she says, “You know, our school was falling apart.”
Um, that’s not at all what I was saying, but maybe I misheard. I drop my fake pleasant expression. “Because of all that, I needed to go to a new school, so it’s not exactly like I’m happy to be here, but nice to meet you all.”
Instead of addressing my classmates, I turn and watch the interpreter to confirm my suspicions. “I’m happy to be here at this new school. Nice to meet you all.”
Is Pamela not understanding my signing? Or is she intentionally changing the words? From what I heard from the teacher earlier compared to what she relayed to me, I know what she’s translating into ASL is passable. But she didn’t voice what I signed correctly.
Ordinarily, I’d try to be discreet with my correction. Unfortunately for her, today is not the day I tolerate any of this.
“That’snotwhat I said,” I say—well, sort of shout—my Deaf accent coming out loud and strong. From the shock on my classmates’ faces, I realize the teacher had already started to speak again and now I’ve interrupted him.
I turn back to Pamela, my hands flying, but she sits there, not doing her job. Her lips quiver and eyes glaze over.
In fact, she starts crying.
“What are you doing?” I ask, unable to hide my baffled expression. Why is she this upset? She’s the one butchering my words; the least she can do is correct her mistakes and explain what’s going on to my classmates. “Tell them what I’m signing!”
I can feel the weight of everyone’s attention from behind me, eagerly watching how this plays out, even if they don’t understand what’s going on. This is absurd. And completely unprofessional.
Pamela stands, grabs her purse, and hurries out of the room. I’m left to sort through this disaster myself.
“Well,” I say out loud.
My classmates have broken into rapid whispers. The physics teacher is frozen, unsure how to proceed. “Ellie,” he says hesitantly, clearly unsure how to communicate with me now that the interpreter isn’t there. He gestures for me to come to his desk, where he scribbles on a piece of paper,Why don’t you go wait in the principal’s office while we get this situation taken care of?
NowI’mgetting kicked out? How did I end up in trouble? I couldtheoretically try to muddle my way through the rest of class on my own, but that would take too much explaining, and I don’t want to be here now anyway.
Ignoring the pointed and suspicious looks from my classmates, I grab my stuff and leave.
Pamela’s already at the front office, having pulled herself together enough to be speaking low and fast to the administrator across the desk. When she turns around and sees me standing there waiting, she signs with a huff, “I’m having a rough morning. They’ll see if Kim can come back early before her afternoon classes.”
And then Pamela pulls a huge umbrella out of her purse and leaves.
I’m ready to walk out myself, but the receptionist ushers me to wait on a couch. Now I’m too far into this office to ditch school without someone noticing.
There’s absolutely nothing that could turn this day around.
Chapter Four
Jackson
On the firstday back at school, I’m able to avoid Liam all morning until he bumps into me on the way into the cafeteria for lunch. “Hey, Slip, surprised to see you walking,” he taunts me.
I survived a summer full of supplements and yoga until eventually I regained feeling in my legs. Everything went back to normal.
Yet it’s apparent I still haven’t won back the soccer team. It’s not my fault I had to sit out the summer workouts. Coach insisted I needed a break in order to return during the school year in top form. He didn’t consider the team dynamics and the fact that I was going to continue working out on my own anyway. Rest is a foreign concept to me. I’ve been itching to get back to the weight room with the guys.
