Beneath The Skin(136)
As comfortable as possible. His transition here.
I’ve gathered everything he needs to say to me. I’m sure my face is a reflection of the turmoil inside. Not that Doctor Thwaite will care to acknowledge it, as he is known to avoid confrontations and pretend like nothing’s ever wrong. I swallow that thick pill he just popped into my mouth with an astute nod.
When he gives me the final smile, I dismiss myself. I’m sure I left imprints of my thumbs in the armrests of his lovely office chair.
Back at the auditorium, I ignore the inquiring stares from the others and return to my work, my face burning with anger. Sometimes, being deaf has its perks, like having an excuse to ignore the world when I want to shut everyone out and fume all on my own. If anyone tries to enter a conversation with me, I’m sure they won’t leave it with their head still attached.
No, he didn’t want me to do the lighting design for Our Town. No, I’m not some special flower. No, my hard work hasn’t finally been recognized. Instead, Doctor Thwaite’s flying in some big shot from New York City to design the show for us, and he wants me to show this guy the ropes.
Me, of all people. What the fuck is Doc thinking?
I’m overlooked enough as it is. Now, as if to push salt into my gaping wounds, I’ll get to experience the joy of watching someone else—who isn’t even a part of this damn school—do the work that I should be doing. I had so many ideas for Our Town, too. I’ve read the play ten times. I had a vision for the funeral scene, for the different homes, for the church …
Fuck. And there isn’t a single other person in the whole department whose sole interest is in designing lights, and Doc knows that. That’s my dream.
When I get home an hour later, the door slams so hard behind me that I feel the floor shake. I ignore the mess in the kitchen and shove through the door into my bedroom, ignoring the squinty glances from Brant and Dmitri on the couch, who seem lost in the middle of playing some first-person shooter game I don’t recognize.
Dropping my bag under the windowsill, I fall back on my bed and shut my eyes. The AC turns on a moment later. I can feel the pull of air as it tickles my skin. Something about that sensation centers me, and I find myself looking up at the bare ceiling as my mind wanders somewhere else entirely.
Dessie. I wonder what her story is. She shows up out of nowhere this year. She’s also from New York City, if what I caught from a buddy in the lighting crew is correct. Does she know the douchebag who’s coming to steal my glory? No one knows anything about her, yet she’s on everyone’s radar. And now she’s been cast as the lead in the first play of the semester.
And she learned a sign or two and told me her name with her sexy hands. Dessie …
I feel a thrumming on my bed and twist around to find Dmitri standing there. With a squint of his eye he signs to me: What’s up? You okay?
I shrug and lazily lift my hands: Shitty day.
He sits on the edge of the bed, which makes it impossible to see him, so I sit up and turn around. He signs to me: We’re going out for a bite. Want to come with?
I shake my head: Not in the mood.
Dmitri smirks: What’s going on? Is it a girl?
In an instant, I realize I don’t want to talk about the haughty dipshit lighting designer from New York. Dessie … That’s someone I’d much rather spend time and effort in moving my hands to discuss.
I shrug, playing up my nonchalance: Someone new at the theater, I sign. Yes.
Dmitri laughs, then signs back: A girl wants your nuts? Instead of the actual sign for nuts, he just grabs his junk and smirks leeringly at me.
I shake my head and snort too hard, the vibration going up my skull, then say: Verdict’s still out on that.
His hands are oddly long, which makes him extra expressive when he signs. It’s almost the equivalent of shouting in sign language. But that’s the only thing about him that’s long. Dmitri is otherwise a short guy, barely five-three, with a boyish face, rosy cheeks, and jet black hair. He has a red and blue tribal tattoo running down his forearm, a sunburst tattooed to the back of his neck, and a diamond stud in either ear. He’s bisexual, but he doesn’t ever bring anyone home and, more or less, seems completely uninterested in sex, despite chiming in whenever Brant and I check out girls. It’s really nice having someone around who I can easily communicate with, even if I refuse to sign much at all in public; I hate the attention.
He signs to me: Don’t let a girl ruin your day. She isn’t worth it, no matter how pretty.
It’s so much more than how pretty she is. Fuck, I wish I could’ve heard her music. I sign: She’s a singer and actress from New York City. And she signed to me.