Chapter Two. The Return of Felix Song
Chapter Two
The Return of Felix Song
I was hoping Mom would’ve slightly cooled off by the next day, but to my dismay, she remains adamant about giving me the silent (or should I say signless) treatment—a Mom specialty.
Thankfully, a distraction comes in the form of a private lesson with the Songs, some of my favorite long-term clients. Shortly after I ring the bell, the door flings open, and I’m enthusiastically greeted by Ava.
“Hi!” The twelve-year-old’s shiny baby blue hearing aids stand out against her long black hair. She sports a CELINE T-shirt and teal yoga pants.
“Hey, A-V-A.” I use her sign name, which is just a lexicalized version of her name.
I started working for the Songs two years ago, shortly after Ava was diagnosed with degenerative hearing loss. Initially, it was a weekly lesson with Ava, her parents, and her older brother, Felix—when he bothered to show up, that is.
It wasn’t long before she was signing circles around her family.
So, to keep up with her enthusiasm, we added an extra weekly private lesson for her.
We also incorporated regular outings to put her skills to use in real-world situations.
For instance, Deaf events, Broadway plays with interpreters, or hanging out at the Center.
The more time I spent with Ava, the more I grew attached to her. These days, she feels more like a bonus little sister than a client. (Though, honestly, she’s much less annoying than my actual sister.)
“Why are you so perky today?” I ask with a chuckle, noting she’s somehow more cheerful than ever.
Her expression briefly turns mischievous. “Just excited for today’s lesson,” she explains, and scampers into the kitchen.
As I step inside the sprawling house (like, chandeliers-in-nearly- every-room-and-a-guesthouse-in-the-backyard sprawling), a massive, signed poster of Felix Song and his bandmates instantly greets me.
I can’t help but make eye contact with poster-Felix as I untie my boots.
When his boy band, DAYDREAM, moved to LA eight months ago and exploded onto the music scene with almost as much velocity as One Direction, Mrs. Song started proudly displaying the band’s photos on the fireplace mantel and fridge doors.
But this gigantic poster in the entryway is new—and looks comically out of place hanging with the up-to-interpretation, avant-garde art pieces the opulent home is decorated with.
I make my way over to the kitchen island, where Ava is sitting with her parents, and put Ginger in a down-stay before taking a seat facing the entryway.
“Are you OK, sweetie?” Mrs. Song asks me in ASL.
She basically pressed copy and paste on both her children, with her black-brown eyes and sharp jawline an exact match for Felix’s, and her thick, shiny hair and tan skin mirroring Ava’s.
Even her “athleisure” fashion matches Ava’s style: yoga pants that probably came from an MLM company and a Ralph Lauren top.
“You look tired.” Her kind eyes rove over my face.
“My sister came home from school yesterday. It was a busy day,” I tell a half-truth.
“Anyway, we’re doing conversation practice today.
” I grab the folders with lesson materials from my backpack and set them on the marble countertop.
Mr. Song nervously rakes fingers through his cropped salt-and-pepper hair and messes with his necktie.
It’s an eclectic range of clothing, but on brand for Mr. and Mrs. Song’s careers—CEO of a tech conglomerate and a women’s empowerment coach.
“You’ll do great!” I assure him.
Mr. and Mrs. Song are well-versed in ASL but struggle with complex sentences. Their son was the only problem I have ever faced when tutoring them—with how he’d goof off and never do his homework—but since he moved, lessons have been a lot smoother.
We get into our usual groove, and the first fifteen minutes of our lesson fly by.
“Perfect!” I thrust an F-shaped hand toward Mrs. Song when she aces a hard phrase. Ava applauds her mother with jazz hands.
“OK-OK, your turn,” I tell Mr. Song, scanning my list of sentences for an easier one. He’s the least conversant but makes a sincere effort.
Right as I’m about to give him a phrase, Ginger’s nose squishes against my leg—the action she does when she hears a sound she’s trained to alert me to. I peer at my phone on the counter, but nobody is calling and I have no new texts.
Before I can ask her to show me where the sound is coming from, Mrs. Song inadvertently fills in the blank. “Doorbell,” she signs to Ava.
In a flash of movement, she crosses the room and yanks the door open, beaming. My jaw unhinges.
You have to be kidding me.
I stare in wide-eyed surprise as Felix Song casually strolls in, hands full carrying a cardboard drink holder.
My reaction is likely the exact opposite to most other teenagers. Any mention of him is usually followed by ear-piercing squeals. I hate sounding like “I’m not like other girls,” but I’ve seen him in the real world, when the spotlight is off and he’s back to being a Trust Fund Baby.
A stark contrast to the teenage heartthrob everyone else is obsessed with.
Honestly, I’m not sure this week could get worse. First, I have a big fight with Mom, and now Felix Song is interrupting my lesson?
I watch with a small frown as he takes off his hideous plaid BURBERRY trench coat; tucks shoulder-length, bleached-white-blond hair behind his ears; and casually kicks off his costs-more-than-my-car designer sneakers.
I’m half tempted to steal the shoes and auction them off on eBay. I bet they’d fetch a pretty penny.
I glance at their parents and find Mrs. Song wearing a wide grin similar to Ava’s, but Mr. Song’s brows are knit and his jaw is locked, his body language tense and almost unwelcoming. Maybe I’m not the only one taken aback by the surprise appearance.
Ava taps an “N” above her heart, my sign name, and jerks her head toward the kitchen. I freeze as Felix’s dark eyes land on me. The corners of his lips tip into a sunny smile before he looks at Ava.
“How ya goin’, Aves?” he asks. “Sorry I’m late.
The line— — coffee shop— —long— —” I only catch a few words here and there.
Part of it’s probably that his New Zealand accent is almost impossible to lipread and that he talks faster than an auctioneer, but also he’s still a whole room away and the sound doesn’t carry well.
Ava readjusts her hearing aids. “What?” she shakes a flattened hand in front of her. It’s weirdly reassuring to know that Ava doesn’t fully understand him, either. At least I’m not alone in that.
His brows knit, and his fingers wiggle in the air as he tries to form a response. Ava takes his hand and tugs him into the kitchen, taking charge of the situation.
Felix stays focused on me. I fix my posture as he pulls away from his sister and heads for me with missile-like precision.
He stops at the island and flashes a too-sweet, too-wide grin.
His teeth are so white they almost glow.
He slides an iced coffee across the island, and it skids to a stop right in front of me.
“Hiya, Nat. Still drinkin’ Americanos, yeah?”
“N-A-T-A-L-I-E,” I fingerspell.
Exhibit A of him being as annoying as an unskippable YouTube ad: I’ve literally never said he could call me “Nat.” But he does anyway.
I turn to Mr. and Mrs. Song.. “I should get going. You guys probably want to catch up?” I ask using SimCom. I haphazardly shove lesson materials into my backpack, but I’m distracted when Felix waves his hand in my face to get my attention. I raise a brow at him.
“I like— —it’s cute— —”
I blink slowly, trying to decipher what he said.
I sigh in frustration. “I didn’t catch that,” I reply using SimCom.
He rubs a fist on his chest. “Sorry. Your … hair … different,” he makes a clunky attempt at signing. “You look cute.”
I stare at him blankly, messing with my freshly dyed bubblegum-pink waves.
He’s wasting his time. His ingratiating flirting won’t work on me.
Because A: I’m demiromantic, and flirting only affects me if I have a deep connection with someone, and he hasn’t even come close to earning that.
And B: I have a stellar Bullshit Detector, and weirdly, it goes off whenever he’s around.
In lieu of a response, I sling my backpack over my shoulder.
“Wait! You can’t leave!” Ava peers up at her brother, a conspiratorial glint in her eye. A glint that anyone who has a younger sibling knows means there’s a scheme involved somehow.
“Why don’t you stick around?” Mrs. Song encourages using SimCom; her Kiwi accent is even thicker than her son’s.
Hearing her speak briefly catches me off guard—of course, I know she’s a first-generation New Zealand citizen, but since she obliges my “voices-off during lessons” rule, I sort of forgot.
And before Ava chose to exclusively sign, she had a subdued version of the accent.
Probably because she was so young when they moved from Auckland to Seattle.
I do wonder, though, if Felix exaggerates his pronunciation at times to score fangirl points. Aren’t Kiwi accents supposed to be sexy or something?
“Stay! Please?” Ava flashes me sad, puppy dog eyes, then points to the empty barstool I was sitting on.
My gut is telling me to get out of here before I can be roped into something I don’t want to be roped into, but Ava is well aware of my soft spot for her, and I sit back down, dropping my backpack.
“My doctors are saying my hearing loss is progressing faster now,” she admits. “Six months before I’m fully deaf.”