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CLAYTON
- One Year Later -
The Summer After Graduation
I never planned to have someone in my life.
The way I pictured it, I was going to be the house on the street that everyone avoided. I was going to be the dark tech wizard whose hands were always blackened and cut up from metalwork. I was going to grow up and live in a shell of my own misery, bitterness, and distaste for humankind.
And then Dessie shattered that dream and replaced it with a new one.
Everyone’s here. All the couples and all the singles. Dmitri even brought this girl he’s been getting fresh with in one of his creative writing classes, a blonde with a beautiful face who always seems to squint at everyone she smiles at. The pair of them are snuggled up at the end of the table, which is the longest damn table we could find here at the Throng & Song that could seat everyone. Brant is near him with his girl too, and though he’s always had one girl or another by his side for all the years I’ve known him, I know this one’s going to be around for a while. It’s something about the way he looks into her eyes and how she seems to have none of it, not easily impressed, keeping him on his toes and smirking knowingly when he tries one of his signature Brant moves. She’s a keeper, that take-no-nonsense attitude tells me.
Sam has been oddly quiet. And I don’t mean that in some sort of humorous ironic sort of way, considering I’m deaf. I can tell when someone seems off or doesn’t seem to be engaging in the conversation at the table. She’s been picking at her nails and eyeing her boyfriend a lot, who sits there like a lump on a log as he chats across the table with Eric about something I can’t quite make out—their lips are moving too fast to read.
As I kick back and watch my friends, I start to muse about what they’re discussing. I’m guessing Dmitri is telling Eric and his girl all about the story he’s working on—maybe it’s about a world where everyone’s bisexual and no one has to second-guess whether or not a dude or a chick is into them; everyone just goes for it—but no matter what his story entails, the girl at his side seems more interested in carefully selecting each nacho she pulls from her basket, daintily plucking them with her index finger and thumb, then eating them in tiny bites. It takes her six nibbles to eat one damn nacho—I counted.
Dmitri finally meets my eyes after finishing a point he was apparently trying to make—which Eric seems to have lost interest in, judging from the roll of his eyes and the crossing of his arms. Dmitri smiles and lifts his hands, signing at me: How are you doing? Have you eaten?
Knowing that he, ironically, wouldn’t be able to hear me if I spoke, considering the usual noise and loudness of this place, I lift my hands and sign back at him: Not hungry. Have you seen Dessie?
An odd look crosses his face before he swallows hard, itches his nose, then replies: No. I’m sure she’ll be here soon. When do you guys leave? Brant wanted to throw you guys a going-away party.
His peculiar behavior doesn’t go unnoticed, but I ignore it for now and reply: End of the summer.
He’s talking about when Dessie and I leave for New York. The truth is, I’m terrified to go. Sure, I’ve been there a number of times with Dessie—twice at Christmas to see her family, once last summer, once in the spring—but every time I go, I feel like I’m visiting a new city. It never seems the same, as if the city itself is some giant temperamental organism that thrives and writhes restlessly, never settling. I sometimes look at my lighting designs that way: always struggling to find the right angle, to spill the right way on the stage, to color and accent the actors in just the right balance of vibrant and muted lights. Maybe New York City is the perfect place for us and I’m just slow to see it.
All this anxiety in my stomach, though … I know it all goes away when I’m with Dessie. No matter the obstacle, no matter the fears that grab at your feet the farther you try to climb in life, when she’s at my side, I feel fucking boundless. She’s my strength and she knows it. I wish I could give her half as much as what she’s given me. I can’t even begin to imagine how much differently my life would be right now without her in it.
With these thoughts floating through my head, I catch myself looking up, studying the lighting instruments that hang above and are used to light the modest stage upon which the band—and eventually tonight, Dessie—perform on. I observe them thoughtfully, trying to predict which ones are used for what, and how I might arrange them differently had I been involved at all in the design choices this restaurant slash piano bar employs.