flutter above me. Will Mr. Yankowski notice I am gone? Will Travis seek some sort of revenge? Will I get detention? Electroshock therapy? Tasered?
Who am I kidding? Only Devon Smiley will even register my absence, and he is probably too busy getting his nipples twisted in the locker room by D. JONKER. Jonker has really stepped up his harassment of Devon lately for some reason.
Right now it all seems so far away: gym class, Devon’s nipples, Pat, Leigha, Principal Kroener, Fatzy McFatpants.
Suddenly I feel a strong presence. It’s hard to explain, but deaf people definitely sense things. I don’t hear it exactly, but maybe I smell it? Smell the sound waves? Taste the presence on the air? Something is here, and it is getting closer.
In the split second before I jump up and open my eyes, I have several thoughts: Is it Yankowski tracking me down? Or Travis Bickerstokes? Is he going to beat me senseless for getting him in trouble? Or maybe—and this seems the most likely option, even here in my moment of Walden-like peace—I am to be bothered by Devon Freaking Smiley. Odd thing is, I am quite happy at that thought. Just not in a romantic way.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
When I open my eyes , it’s like when you think that thing on your plate is a cube of cheese and then you bite it and you find out it’s actually zucchini. At first your tongue is just totally baffled, and it takes a while for your brain to adjust its preconception to the new reality.
It is a dog—a goofy black-and-white long-haired mutt with a mouth that turns upward into a floppy smile. He ambles over to me like we are old friends. Like it is the most natural thing in the world. And this is so kind that it almost makes me want to cry.
I want to take him home and give him a bath and a great name (maybe FFD, for Friendly Forest Dog, or just Ace because that’s a cool cani-name). I’d let him sleep in my room and lick my face, and we’d be best friends. I immediately feel sad, though, even as Ace (he is definitely an Ace) happily wags histail and stares at me like there is no one else in the world so perfect. I can’t keep him. Mom hates dogs. She isn’t crazy about cats either. I guess it’s the fur or the whole “I don’t need another mouth to feed” thing. The only pets I ever had were goldfish, which aren’t that fun and also have a bad habit of dying from neglect.
“Well, at least you can keep me company on the walk home,” I tell Ace, realizing as I do that it is maybe sort of weird to sign to a dog. I have to get home before Mom and Dad but not too early, what with our neighborhood spy (and my love interest), eight-hundred-year-old Mrs. Finkelstein, keeping watch. Ace follows me. The walk home is bleak and strange. Most of our city is as bland and modern as anywhere else in America, filled with Taco Bells and chemical plants (note: coincidence?), but the walking route I take from school to home shows slices of the past. Half-falling-down buildings—relics of the coal-mining era—are still visible. They hang incongruously in the shadows above the shining new construction, receding into the background. Like ghosts.
I walk past a rusty bridge that retreats into the woods for a few hundred yards, then gets swallowed up by trees and the side of the mountain. A bridge to nowhere is probably symbolic of something in this town, of my life maybe. I read the graffiti that marks the bridge’s underbelly. Mostly old band names: Pantera, Metallica, Fugazi, Black Sabbath. I feel very damn sad. There are also declarations of love: “MS + SA.” “Kelly is hot.” “PC + LP.” I feel even sadder. I walk slower and slower, past the old abandoned buildings and slightly surrealconstructions sticking out of the scarred earth. FFD follows alongside, stopping from time to time to whiz on the curb or chew on a stick.
“Do not do that in the basement,” I sign, realizing that I have made some sort of decision about this dog. He perks his head in that angle
Who am I kidding? Only Devon Smiley will even register my absence, and he is probably too busy getting his nipples twisted in the locker room by D. JONKER. Jonker has really stepped up his harassment of Devon lately for some reason.
Right now it all seems so far away: gym class, Devon’s nipples, Pat, Leigha, Principal Kroener, Fatzy McFatpants.
Suddenly I feel a strong presence. It’s hard to explain, but deaf people definitely sense things. I don’t hear it exactly, but maybe I smell it? Smell the sound waves? Taste the presence on the air? Something is here, and it is getting closer.
In the split second before I jump up and open my eyes, I have several thoughts: Is it Yankowski tracking me down? Or Travis Bickerstokes? Is he going to beat me senseless for getting him in trouble? Or maybe—and this seems the most likely option, even here in my moment of Walden-like peace—I am to be bothered by Devon Freaking Smiley. Odd thing is, I am quite happy at that thought. Just not in a romantic way.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
When I open my eyes , it’s like when you think that thing on your plate is a cube of cheese and then you bite it and you find out it’s actually zucchini. At first your tongue is just totally baffled, and it takes a while for your brain to adjust its preconception to the new reality.
It is a dog—a goofy black-and-white long-haired mutt with a mouth that turns upward into a floppy smile. He ambles over to me like we are old friends. Like it is the most natural thing in the world. And this is so kind that it almost makes me want to cry.
I want to take him home and give him a bath and a great name (maybe FFD, for Friendly Forest Dog, or just Ace because that’s a cool cani-name). I’d let him sleep in my room and lick my face, and we’d be best friends. I immediately feel sad, though, even as Ace (he is definitely an Ace) happily wags histail and stares at me like there is no one else in the world so perfect. I can’t keep him. Mom hates dogs. She isn’t crazy about cats either. I guess it’s the fur or the whole “I don’t need another mouth to feed” thing. The only pets I ever had were goldfish, which aren’t that fun and also have a bad habit of dying from neglect.
“Well, at least you can keep me company on the walk home,” I tell Ace, realizing as I do that it is maybe sort of weird to sign to a dog. I have to get home before Mom and Dad but not too early, what with our neighborhood spy (and my love interest), eight-hundred-year-old Mrs. Finkelstein, keeping watch. Ace follows me. The walk home is bleak and strange. Most of our city is as bland and modern as anywhere else in America, filled with Taco Bells and chemical plants (note: coincidence?), but the walking route I take from school to home shows slices of the past. Half-falling-down buildings—relics of the coal-mining era—are still visible. They hang incongruously in the shadows above the shining new construction, receding into the background. Like ghosts.
I walk past a rusty bridge that retreats into the woods for a few hundred yards, then gets swallowed up by trees and the side of the mountain. A bridge to nowhere is probably symbolic of something in this town, of my life maybe. I read the graffiti that marks the bridge’s underbelly. Mostly old band names: Pantera, Metallica, Fugazi, Black Sabbath. I feel very damn sad. There are also declarations of love: “MS + SA.” “Kelly is hot.” “PC + LP.” I feel even sadder. I walk slower and slower, past the old abandoned buildings and slightly surrealconstructions sticking out of the scarred earth. FFD follows alongside, stopping from time to time to whiz on the curb or chew on a stick.
“Do not do that in the basement,” I sign, realizing that I have made some sort of decision about this dog. He perks his head in that angle
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