Page 75 of Give Me a Sign
“Stand back.” The officer reaches to open the door of the police car, shoving Isaac, with his arms and primary method of communication bound behind his back, toward the seat. Isaac doesn’t step forward.
“He hasn’t done anything,” I say, my voice hoarse.
The officer pushes him again.
Isaac stands, frozen. He looks at me, tears in his eyes, lips quivering.
“I don’t know what’s happening,” I sign to him, trying not to cry. I feel so helpless.
The officer scrunches up his face and watches skeptically as I sign. “He’s deaf?”
“Yes, he can’t hear you,” I explain. “And he’s hurt because that guy grabbed him and—”
“Tell him————in the car then while I————,” the officer says.
“He wants you to get in the car,” I sign, my hands shaking. I’m so terrified of messing up right now, because the last thing I want is the officer to suspect that we’re bullshitting. I turn back to the cop. “But really, he didn’t do anything.”
“I still need to do some questioning inside,” the officer says. His voice softens. He says something else, but I can’t understand any of it now.
“But he needs a bandage or something,” I insist.
The officer’s voice is gruff again. “Then stop————. Right now, he needs to————. I don’t have all night.”
“He didn’t do anything wrong. Please.”
“I saw him assault the security guard,” the officer says, tired of this back-and-forth. He holds Isaac by the head and sets him inside the vehicle.
After shutting the door, the officer looks back at the guard, who is standing along the wall next to the store entrance, still wiping his bloody nose with a paper towel. “————get the cashier for me?”
The guard hurries inside. He grabbed Isaac. Jumped on him. Started this whole thing. He’s the one who should be sitting in the car right now.
I approach the car door so I can try to sign to Isaac through the tinted windows, but the cop points to the pillar behind me. “Stand there against the wall and don’t move until I come speak to you.” I reluctantly take several steps back.
The security guard returns to the door with the cashier. The officer huddles with them for only a few minutes, jotting notes on a little pad of paper, before the cashier walks away. The security guard comes outside, picks up the snacks Isaac dropped, and carries them back inside. The officer returns to me.
“The card————,” he says.
“What?” I quickly remember how Oliver told me this question can come across as confrontational, so I hold a hand behind my ear to capture as much sound as possible while nervously asking, “Sorry, can you repeat that?”
“The card didn’t swipe correctly,” he says.
“It didn’t?”
“When the cashier told you two, your friend grabbed the bag and walked off without paying.”
“I—” Shit. But that’s not the question cashiers always ask—it’s usually the receipt. Shit. Shit. Shit. “That’s my fault. I thought she asked if we needed the receipt. I assumed because—well, I couldn’t hear her.”
“I thought he was the deaf one. You don’t look deaf.”
I frown and try another phrase. “Partially deaf. Hard of hearing.”
“Sure.”
Does he think I’m lying? This would be a lot easier to prove if I was wearing my hearing aids right now. I should have put them on. Isn’t that what they’re for? To help me avoid shit like this in the real world? I’m not in the safety of camp. And now it’s my fault Isaac is injured and held in a cruiser.
“My hearing aids are in my bag. We’re from Camp Gray Wolf. We can go back and pay for the stuff now. I can—” I swing my backpack around, but the officer holds out his hand with the pen, motioning for me to stop.
He holds up the notepad. “Your name?” It’s the first of many questions. My name, Isaac’s name, why we’re at Super Mart so late, where our summer camp is, and so on. He rolls his eyes every time I ask him to repeat a question.
