Someone to Daydream About

Chapter One. Dare to Dream

Chapter One

Dare to Dream

“Is anyone confused? Have any questions?” I ask in American Sign Language as I wrap up the Beginner ASL class I’m teaching.

From the front of one of the run-down classrooms at the Nielsen Family Deaf Center, I scan my students’ faces, searching for any hint of uncertainty. They all look mildly confused, but nobody raises their hand. “OK-OK. We’re finished. See you next week!” I dismiss them.

As everyone trickles into the hallway, I turn to the whiteboard behind me.

My forced smile disappears, and I let my forehead thunk against the board in exasperation.

I pull back and stretch my neck and roll my shoulders, the muscles sore and tense, and swallow the sour feeling that always bubbles up after teaching this class.

When my dad taught it, all twenty-five seats were full.

He’d share colorful stories, his face twisting and contorting in perfect combination with his signs, hands flying smoothly through the air.

His students were captivated and laughed along even if they didn’t understand everything.

He knew how to capture people’s attention.

He knew how to teach people in a way that didn’t feel like teaching and could coax even the most reluctant learners out of their shells.

I’ve been trying to fill his shoes at our small, family-owned Deaf Center these last two years, but evidently I can’t teach half as passionately as him. I’m lucky if twelve students show up.

I force the all-too-familiar pang of grief down and glance at my service dog, who’s in a down-stay underneath my desk, oblivious to my woes.

“Ging, am I a good teacher? Be honest.” Ginger doesn’t stir. I nudge her with my foot, and the yellow lab simply stretches and yawns. She’s not the best conversationalist.

I startle when someone taps my shoulder. I whip around and see two students, Sabrina and her grandfather, Frank. Sabrina dons an apologetic smile. “Excuse me…” she signs. Great, they caught me asking my dog about my teaching competency. That’s not embarrassing at all.

“Hi. What’s up?” I ask after regaining my composure.

“Do you teach…” She frowns, not having the right signs for what she’s trying to ask. She looks to Frank, but he doesn’t know, either. “Alone lessons?”

“Private,” I supply the correct sign. “Yes.”

“Oh, great!” she exclaims, then clamps her mouth shut, adhering to my “voices-off during class” rule. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay. Class is over,” I say while signing at the same time—simultaneous communication, or SimCom for short.

“Grandpa made a new friend at his retirement home,” Sabrina explains, half-speaking, half-signing. She nudges Frank playfully.

“IT’S HARD FOR HER TO TRAVEL,” Frank yells. Sabrina plugs her ears. “SHE’S IN A WHEELCHAIR.”

It takes everything in me to not burst into laughter. Frank’s adjusting to his hearing loss and screams all the time. Personally, I think it’s adorable, but I’m also Deaf. Yelling doesn’t really faze me.

I quell my amusement before turning back to Sabrina. “My rates for private lessons are a little higher. With gas prices and everythi—”

“HER NAME IS JANET!” Frank interrupts. “DOESN’T LOOK A DAY OVER SIXTY!”

Against my will, a laugh breaks free, and I cough to cover it. While he rambles on about their Bingo Night meet-cute, I catch a glimpse of the clock hanging on the classroom wall: 4:37 p.m. Damn it.

My little sister, Jo, is coming home for the summer from deaf residential school, and I’m supposed to pick her up at the bus station in twenty minutes.

“I’m so sorry, but I’m late for something. You can email me for private rates,” I explain, rushing to gather my backpack and my dog. Sabrina gives a thumbs-up as I head into the hallway. Ginger obediently trots alongside me.

In the lobby, Mom is reorganizing our display of incredibly outdated assistive technology.

Her steel-gray eyes flick away from the shelves and land on me.

Her harsh expression, accentuated by the furrowed lines etched between her brows, could probably curdle milk.

“You’re late,” she accuses, adjusting her glasses with a clipped movement.

“I’m going now. Two students haven’t left yet—can you lock up the Center when they leave?”

“Fine.” She jerks her head toward the doors.

I push outside, buckle Ginger into her doggy seat belt, and climb into my dingy 2007 TOYOTA Corolla, resigning myself to the fate of sitting in Seattle’s bumper-to-bumper rush hour traffic.

“I thought you abandoned me!” Jo laments as soon as I get out of my car at the bus station pickup spot.

“I texted you I was running late. You’re worst-dramatic.” She sticks her tongue out at me, but our annoyance quickly morphs into sprawling grins.

“I missed you. I’m happy you’re home for the summer,” I tell her.

She circles her sternum with a claw-shaped hand. “Make-me-disgusted!” She feigns a look of revulsion but yanks me into a hug.

We originally went to the same residential school, but when our dad got sick, I decided to attend mainstream school in Seattle (with the assistance of an interpreter) so I could help Mom with the Center and Dad.

A memory of thirteen-year-old Jo and fourteen-year-old me bickering during the three-hour bus ride home about who got to hug Mom and Dad first flashes through my mind.

Now I’m the one greeting her at the station.

It’s strange how life … goes on. Shifting so suddenly and without mercy, leaving you to mourn pieces of a world that doesn’t exist anymore.

When she pulls away, I study her. The orange Camp Half-Blood shirt she shamelessly stole from me a few months ago is French tucked into a black miniskirt.

Her hazel eyes, which we both inherited from Dad, gleam in the evening sunlight.

She looks at me closely, too. And ever-so-kindly remarks, “You need better concealer. It doesn’t hide your eye bags.

Or you can borrow some of my R-E-T-I-N-O-L cream. ”

I instinctively touch my dark, puffy eye bags and sigh. I guess that’s the consequence of getting less than four hours of sleep a night for two years.

“What did Mom say about our new Deaf Center ideas?” she asks, then loads her luggage into my trunk.

I avoid answering by getting into the driver’s seat.

“You didn’t tell her?!” Jo accuses me when she buckles in. I shrug.

For years, Jo and I have been brainstorming new ideas to improve the Center.

It’s not falling apart or anything—except for the only-slightly-leaky roof—but it’s outdated.

The world evolved, but the Center didn’t.

We agreed to start Project Revamp while she’s home for summer break, but I was supposed to lay the groundwork with Mom beforehand, since she’s been stubborn about modernizing the Center ever since Dad died.

“I know, I know!” I tap flattened fingers to my temple. “But sharing our new ideas will be easier now that you’re here! She’ll be happy to see you after such a long time. You’re her baby.”

Mom’s favoritism for Jo has always been painfully obvious. I might as well use it to my advantage.

“You’re annoying. And I’m not a baby.” She flicks my arm. “And it’s only fair Mom loves me more. You were Dad’s favorite. Don’t get greedy.”

I roll my eyes. Technically, Dad never played favorites.

But he and I were in a similar boat, being the medically Hard of Hearing half of the family, and there were certain experiences that only we shared; people incorrectly assuming we had no issue following conversations just because we were comfortable voicing, or how overwhelming the background noise of the world could get.

We knew what each other was going through. We never needed to explain it.

Mom and Jo share a connection like that, being medically deaf, and I’ll never fully know their experience.

The only difference is that I no longer have a family member who understands mine.

“But I’m right.” I flash her a grin. “I’m the smartest sister. True biz.” I stick my key into the ignition and start the trek to Ballard—the part of Seattle we call home.

“We’ll tell her tonight, then,” Jo replies as I stop at a red light.

I shake my head and sign one-handedly, “She’ll react better if we let her have a nice, peaceful night and do it tomorrow.” Jo sticks her hand in front of me and signs an affirmative “OK” since I can’t look at her while driving.

Good. Hopefully tonight will go smoothly, then.

I have everything perfectly planned. The Center barely makes enough to cover the mortgage and our monthly payments on Dad’s outstanding medical bills, but over the past year I’ve squirreled away some of what I made from private ASL lessons and my senior-year-lunchtime-side-hustle: Algebra Tutoring for Cash.

I mean, yeah, I’ve been teetering on the very edge of Poor Kid Burnout, but my lack of a work-life balance has yielded $3,232.77 for my slush fund. Worth it.

And since I’ve spent my precious few spare moments coaching Jo on how to be an ASL tutor, she can get her own clients this summer and add to that fund.

Primary speakers or users of a language aren’t automatically good at teaching it, but Jo has a knack for it, like Dad.

Sure, this money won’t be enough for all the building upgrades, educational resources, and community outreach we eventually want to implement, but it’s enough to get us started on redecorating and designing a new website while we fundraise for the rest.

When Dad was still in the hospital, Jo and I would squeeze into his bed and brainstorm ideas for the Center while I drew design concepts in my sketch pad. This will be a step toward bringing the place back to life and bridging the gaps between the Deaf and Hearing worlds, like we dreamed with Dad.

All that’s left is to convince Mom …

After we pull into our driveway, I turn to Jo and sign, “Remember, we’ll bring it up tomorrow. OK?”