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.”
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.