Defiantly, I downloaded a voice-to-text app on my laptop that I used in all my classes to convert each professor’s speech into words on my screen before my eager eyes. Trouble is, the stupid thing would constantly miss key phrases, misinterpret words, or just plain fuck up. It was like living in an autocorrect nightmare. Still, I was so stubborn and determined that I sat in the front row of every class and stared at my professor’s lips, determined to read them like a hawk.
But, unbeknownst to most, lip reading is, in fact, a very flimsy and inaccurate means of communication.
After too long a time, I finally surrendered to the University’s interpreting services and got myself some school-appointed nerd named Joe, who occasionally sent a girl named Amber in his place, and either of them would interpret the lessons to me each class. I got to know their hands so intimately, they became my own. They seemed used to people who were born deaf, so I had to slow them the fuck down until they got used to a speed I was comfortable with.
As for the attention, I’d just deal with it. Soon, I stopped noticing the people in class staring.
So when this girl Dessie shows up out of nowhere, sings some song at me, grips my heart right out of my chest and then brings it back to me during lunch with a cute expression on her face and her fingers making clumsy words before my eyes, what the fuck am I supposed to do? My heart turned into a racing drum that shook my ribcage apart.
I want to tell her to stay the fuck away from me. I want to tell her that I’m bad news for her. I want to warn her the way a good friend should …
And I want to pin her to a wall and fuck her until she can’t walk.
A shadow drops over me, pulling me out of my thoughts. Standing to my side is the towering shape of Doctor Marvin Thwaite, the Director of the School of Theatre. He’s a staggeringly tall, round man whose steps I normally feel coming as he shakes the stage with each one. He has no hair, save a ring of grey that runs from one ear around the back to the other. His nose is a needle of flesh and his lips are pencil-thin.
He says he’d like to talk in his office, if I can pull myself away from what I’m doing. At least, I hope that’s what he said. I look over at Dick who stands with the others near the lip of the stage and, having heard Doc’s request, Dick lazily waves at me. I nod at Doctor Thwaite, then follow him out of the theater.
His office is as warm as an oven, its windows facing the sun all day long. Despite the AC running at full blast, it never seems to bother him. He takes a seat at his desk and motions to a chair where I sit. Doc faces me, then asks if I’ll need an interpreter or if I can understand him without one.
I give a patient shake of my head, then type into my phone and show him the screen:
If you speak slowly, I’m good.
Doc smiles and nods amiably.
I know what this meeting is about and can hardly contain myself. He’s going to offer me to do the lighting design for the main stage show. That has to be it. Maybe the lighting designer has some conflict of interest or discovered a scheduling issue and isn’t available. It’s your time of reckoning, Clayton. My stomach turns into steel and I find my hands attached to the armrests with anticipation.
His lips start to move.
I watch with every fiber of my being as my mind converts each lip movement into words. “…invaluable to our program…” He rubs his nose. “…and respect for your hard work and dedication…” He swallows between sentences, licking his long, thin lips. “…for someone with your capability…” His teeth are so white, they blind me with every consonant. What’s his point? Get to the point. I’m so impatient, I could break the armrests off this chair. “…lighting designer…”
I nod and mumble my consent. It’s the closest I’ve ever come to using my voice in front of any of the faculty. Yes, yes, yes. I’ll do it. The hint of a smile finds my face as I continue to watch his mouth move.
“…from New York City, and I want him to…”
My brow furrows. Something isn’t clicking. I find myself falling behind whatever it is he’s saying. Doctor Thwaite seems to notice, because he stops and asks if I’m following. I shake my head no, frustrated with the sudden break in communication.
Wait a minute. Did he just say something about a lighting designer from New York City?
He types at his computer for a second, then twists the monitor around. I’m shown the headshot of some handsome, dimpled, thirty-something douchebag. His name’s Kellen Michael Wright. Professional Lighting Designer from New York City.
Never heard of the fucker.
I glue my eyes to Doc’s lips as he goes on. “…can bring the School of Theatre some good publicity…” My heart sinks. “…as you know the department better than most, and can show him everything…” Blood pumps into my ears, into my cheeks, into my every fingertip. “…and make his transition here as comfortable as possible.”