Chapter Three. Gallivanting Is Not on the To-Do List
Chapter Three
Gallivanting Is Not on the To-Do List
When I get back to the Deaf Center, Mom’s teaching an Intermediate ASL class in the front room. I quickly dart into the hall before she sees me through the small glass window in the door.
Mom is Medusa-like, except instead of turning me to stone if I make eye contact, she takes it as an invitation to start arguing. Her fuse isn’t short; it’s microscopic.
I lead Ginger down the fluorescent-lit hallway. We pass cringey motivational posters with cats dangling from trees that read HANG IN THERE!, three more classrooms with long-unused chairs and tables, and a second office we don’t have employees for anymore.
When I was a kid, this place was full of life. There were always people around, laughing and learning. It was chaotic in the best way—proof that the world didn’t have to leave Deaf people behind. Here, we were understood, celebrated, connected. And now …
Now it feels hollow. Stacks of unpaid bills sit precariously on the front desk, a visual reminder that this space, once a haven, is on its last legs.
The once colorful walls are faded and chipped and only emphasize the emptiness.
It’s like the Center is holding its breath, waiting for the inevitable.
The silence presses down on me, a quiet indictment of everything we’ve lost and everything I can’t seem to fix.
When I enter the main office, I flip the light on and off to alert Jo to my presence. She peers up from the chunky desktop computer that overheats if you use it for longer than thirty minutes.
“How’s the website design going?” I ask. Jo is redesigning the Center’s website and starting social media pages to help boost visibility, while I manage the budget, write blog posts, and fundraise. (I’m the brains of this operation, let’s be honest.)
“We need a better resources page.”
“OK-OK. I’ll send you links. Now, come on. I want to show you my ideas!” I grab a clipboard and a piece of paper, then motion to the hallway. Jo pops out of her chair.
Our first stop is the small classroom near the office that’s mostly used for storage. “If we move the bookshelf, I’ll paint a mural on the wall. The budget for this room is $500.” With L-shaped fingers, I frame the area and grin. I can already picture it as a room for grades K–5.
If we can get local bookstores to donate some diverse children’s books, we’ll be able to host Sign Language Storytimes.
Parents of D/deaf kids can see how incredibly beneficial interacting with the Deaf community from an early age is, and kids who go to mainstream schools will have a refuge from auditory fatigue they face during the day.
“KissFist!” Jo signs.
Next, we step into the second-largest space, which I’ve already claimed in my heart as the middle-through-high-school hangout.
Standing in here fills me with bubbling excitement, and I can almost see the finished version in my mind: cozy beanbags, desks painted vibrant colors, and laughter echoing in the air.
My hands move quickly as I let my enthusiasm spill out.
“If we get a projector, we can have movie nigh—”
The lights rapidly turn on and off, cutting me off mid-thought.
Jo and I whip around to see Mom in the doorway, using the lights to get our attention.
Her eyes burn with a similar fire as last night.
I glance at the time on my phone and see her class ended two minutes ago.
Shit. I thought she’d be preoccupied longer.
“What are you discussing?” she asks, her fingers moving through the air in frustrated, choppy movements. Based on her expression, it’s a rhetorical question.
I take a deep breath, sensing another argument on the horizon. “Mom, please give us ONE reason why you don’t want us to revamp. It’s my money, not yours. Why are you so opposed?”
She directs another withering glare at me, her muscles tensing. “I told you NO. I’m sick of you bringing this up! STOP.”
Always needing to have the final word, she turns on her heel and leaves, slamming the door even harder than last night.
I’m suddenly thrust back into reality when Jo flicks my arm. “Sorry,” I sign. We came to the park during our lunch break so we can catch up and give Mom some time to calm down, but I keep zoning out.
Mom’s somewhat easy to ignore since I’ve spent eighteen years of my life walking on eggshells around her, so my mind keeps drifting. Ava, Felix, the weight of everything lately—it’s like my brain is juggling too much at once.
Jo flaps her hand in my face. Damn it, I zoned out again.
She chews a bite of her homemade bologna sandwich. “You’ll get wrinkles if you frown that hard.”
I ignore her. It’s not my fault I have RBF, or more like TBF—Thinking Bitch Face.
“Your face has been doing this”—her expression rapidly changes from an overexaggerated frown to contemplatively chewing her lip to a death glare—“for ten minutes. It has to be something other than Mom.”
I scratch Ginger’s chin while she sunbathes and aimlessly pick at blades of grass. Eventually, Jo flicks me again. Curiosity is painted across her face. “What are you hiding? Your face is doing gymnastics again! Tell me!” she urges.
I decide there’s no use lying. She’ll keep pestering me. “You remember F-E-L-I-X?”
“Duh. You brought him up constantly!”
“No, I didn’t!”
She shoots me a look.
It wasn’t constantly! Just … you know … sometimes …
But it’s only because in Felix’s pre-fame days, she was the one I complained to when he didn’t do his homework, talked during voices-off lessons, or arrived late wielding an excuse like “our bassist plugged his bass in with wet hands and electrocuted himself.”
“He showed up during the ASL lesson today.” I brace myself for her commentary.
“You’re kidding!” Her jaw is on the ground.
“True biz,” I sign, focusing on a very interesting blade of grass.
She pokes my leg to grab my attention again. “Are you still mad he moved to LA and doesn’t know sign?” My sister is like a damn mind reader. “I think you’re overreacting.”
I scoff. “How would you feel if I was Hearing and didn’t learn sign for you, and we couldn’t communicate?”
“That’s different.”
“No, it’s not! But suddenly he can learn ASL now that his family’s forcing him? Now that A-V-A is begging him?”
“What do you mean? ‘He can learn now’?”
Shit.
“Nothing. Conversation finished,” I snap. Oh god. I’m turning into Mom.
Jo doesn’t stop staring, disbelief painted across her pale features.
When I can’t take it anymore, I groan and admit, “A-V-A wants me to go on tour with him. Her hearing loss is progressing faster now, and she wants me to teach him sign.”
“WHAT?!” she wildly shakes both upturned hands in front of her. “I hope you said yes! The S-O-N-G-S are so rich we could probably upgrade the whole Center. Did you ask how much they’ll pay you?”
“No, I didn’t ask! I told them no. Even if he weren’t basically the worst, you and I have plans!”
“I thought you were the smartest sister! Say yes! When would you get to tour with a famous band ever again? Plus, it’s good money, hot guys, and you’d be helping A-V-A!”
“Are you kidding?! Mom’s already pissed at me, but if I did THIS, she’d never talk to me again!” I poke every conceivable hole in Jo’s plan.
“I can handle Mom. She might listen to me. And, if you let me borrow your car, I’ll cover your private lessons and the Center classes.”
“I doubt even YOU could get her to be cool with this.” Mom’s favoritism only goes so far.
And besides, Jo’s way oversimplifying this.
This is why I’m the brains. It’s not only about covering my clients or facing Mom’s eternal wrath …
It’s also about the dozens of things on my ever-growing to-do list that I couldn’t possibly accomplish if I’m gallivanting around with the Prince of Bubblegum Pop.
“No,” I sign. “I need to paint, plan fundraisers, find sponsors…” I list everything Jo didn’t mention, ticking each item off on my fingers. “Going on tour is impossible. We have enough money to get started. I’m staying in Seattle.”