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.
Dmitri’s eyes go wide. Oh, he signs. You’re fucked.
Fucked, I agree.
He slaps my shoulder, then moves his hands: Come out with us. We’re getting tacos. It’s Brant’s treat.
I smirk knowingly: Does he know he’s treating us?
Dmitri grins: He will when he gets the check.
I think the company of my buddies is just what I needed. The whole way there, I sign to Dmitri, telling him about Dessie, how she sang to me, how she ran into me at the food court and fucking signed to me. Dmitri relays a lot of it to Brant, then keeps signing: You’re fucked. Brant agrees by mimicking his signs, except it keeps looking like the signs for: You fell.
When the three of us arrive at the diner, we take our usual booth in the back. Brant tells us about this new girl he met in the psychology building and how he’s got this fantasy about her hypnotizing him to do things. When he makes a face to imitate how she’ll look when he’s diving between her legs, I laugh so hard that I spill my sweet tea across the table, soaking Dmitri’s pants and causing him to curse loudly, drawing the attention of nearby tables. In the midst of his tantrum, I sign to him: Would you mind signing all that? I can’t quite make out what curse words you’re shouting. That makes Dmitri mouth the very distinct words of “Fuck you” before he laughs and throws a tea-soaked wad of napkins at Brant.
When Dmitri excuses himself to the bathroom to dry up, Brant leans over the table and asks me about the girl. I shrug, mumbling and looking away. He taps my hand to draw my attention back to him, then asks what I’m going to do about it.
I frown. What the hell does he expect me to do?
His eyes turn serious—something I don’t see in Brant very often. His lips move slowly: “I don’t want you to be alone forever. I care about you. You have to do something about this girl.”
I shake my head, dismissing him again. There’s no use pursuing her, no matter the signs she learns. She won’t be able to handle me. They all run away.
He smacks me over the head. I catch his hand, threatening to crush it if he does that again, but he only responds with a superior smirk, leaning across the table. He reminds me that she signed to me, then mimics her by making dumb motions with his hand, ending randomly with his favorite sign: fart.
I snort and shake my head, the humor not hitting me. The more I think about her, the more frustrated I get. I punch my thumbs into the phone, then show it:
What’s ur point???
I’m too much work.
I’m fucked up dude.....
she’ll run off the second she gets close.
Brant nods. “Yeah,” he says slowly, “she will run off because you gave up.”
I glare at him. I start typing again, but Brant’s hand covers mine. He says something else.
Then, I get so fed up that I do something I almost never do: “It won’t work out,” I tell him.
The sound of my voice takes him aback.
My face flushes, angry. I can’t stand talking. I can’t stand not knowing what I sound like. I feel so fucking insecure about it. I remember hearing and making fun of the slurred S’s and the weird vowel sounds that other deaf people made when I was a kid, and here I am, having become the butt of my own childhood jokes. I was such a little shit when I was a kid … when I could hear …
Sometimes, I wonder if this is my punishment.
Brant flicks me in the chin, nabbing my attention. He tells me: “You’ll never know unless you …”