Chapter Ten. Sexy Dyslexic
Chapter Ten
Sexy Dyslexic
“Show me,” I tell her. She hops off the bed and sits in front of the door. Someone must’ve knocked. I peer through the peephole. Felix stands in the hall wearing tight gray sweatpants and his purple-striped sweater.
Wet hair is tucked behind his ears, showing off his bare face. I notice a mole on his cheek for the first time once I open the door. It must’ve always been there, but maybe I haven’t stared at Felix’s face long enough to notice …
Shit. I’m staring at Felix.
He quirks a brow as I snap back to reality.
“Whaddya say to dinner and a lesson?” he asks. He holds up a bag of take-out food from a restaurant called El Pollo Cubano.
“Shouldn’t you be exhausted?”
“I am. But this is what commitment looks like, Nat,” he says. “Ah, and is this the right brand? I saw you Googling.” He gestures to another forty-pound bag of Ginger’s food that’s propped on the opposite hip. His muscles are flexed from supporting the weight, but he makes it seem effortless.
He … bought dog food?
My heart beats ever-so-slightly faster—what the hell?
I’m usually a huge fan of bursting his bubble, but for some godforsaken reason, I don’t have the heart to tell him I bought a bag myself. So I widen the door and mumble, “Um … yeah, it is.” He steps inside. A crumpled-up Post-it note falls out of his pocket, and I pick it up and unfurl it.
BUY DIAMOND NATURAL
SAMON it’s okay.” I finally use SimCom after realizing he may not know the sign for “apple.”
Silence.
“You don’t know what I spelled, do you?” I squint at him.
“Er…” He hesitates, awkwardly raking fingers through his damp hair.
“I know the letters, but I can’t combine them in my head.
” His gaze flicks away, then back, like he’s weighing whether to say more.
He takes a deep breath before admitting, “I’m …
dyslexic and dysgraphic. Fingerspelling is nearly impossible for me.
I’ve also got ADHD, but that’s less of an issue.
” The barest hint of a wince crosses his features, vulnerability laid bare.
Bewildered, I gawk at him, my mouth slightly agape. “I’ve been criticizing your fingerspelling for almost two years, and you’re only now telling me you’re dyslexic?”
The corners of his lips tip upward. “Yeah. But, like, in a sexy way.”
I hold back my laughter, but a snort manages to escape. He grins a wider, genuine smile. A light bulb flashes, and I think back to the tense conversation between Lachlan and Felix back in LA. “Wait, is this why Lachlan was confused about me giving you a book?” I ask.
He gulps. “I reckon. My mates know about it, but I don’t tell many people.
Back in New Zealand, I was bullied pretty ruthlessly.
It got better when we moved to Seattle, but there was still teasing, and my dad would berate me for hours when I got low grades because of my bad handwriting and spelling. I’ve always felt stupid for it.”
Damn. Now I feel like a jackass for accusing him of making excuses when he expressed he didn’t want to read the study guide or assuming he wasn’t practicing fingerspelling enough.
“I’m sorry,” I breathe. I’ve always imagined him being the most popular boy in school—and now America—and I never stopped to consider he might face his own difficulties. “I wish you’d told me sooner. I would never judge someone based on their disability; I would accommodate it.”
He looks up from where he was focused on messing with the blanket on my bed, eyes wide. “I’m not disabled, Nat.”
The way he says disabled makes me recoil. Like he’s spitting it out, trying to get it as far away from himself as possible.
“Disabled isn’t a bad word,” I bite, a wave of defensiveness washing over me.
He hesitates, thinking through his next words. “Right. No. No, it’s not. I’m sorry. I meant that having issues with reading and writing isn’t a big deal, compared to … er, some things”—he vaguely gestures toward me—“so I don’t think calling myself disabled would be valid.”
My initial, guarded reaction fades away. After a lifetime of dealing with ableism, it’s easy to get defensive, but he didn’t mean anything harmful.
It’s probably just a sprinkle of internalized ableism, which is a unique and gnarly beast.
I gently pat his hand, but he takes it and gives it a squeeze. I tense up … But I don’t pull away. “There’s no disability that’s more valid than another. I promise.”
“Thank you,” he lowers a slow, deliberate hand from his chin.
We stay frozen in the moment for a long stretch. Finally, he gives my hand one final squeeze.
“Er, while we’re talking about this … I don’t do well with structured lessons, either,” he says. “I learn best with real-life application. Like when you sign while speaking. I should’ve told you earlier, but I was embarrassed.”
“You learn … by having conversations while I use SimCom?” I confirm.
Eyes focused on my hands, he nods. “Yeah. Is that OK?” he asks in a voice almost too quiet for me to hear.
“Sure. My job as a teacher is to accommodate different learning styles. I’m sorry nobody else did that for you. But,” I continue, “if I do that, it might be tougher to learn proper ASL later, because when I use SimCom, I’m signing using English syntax.”
He frowns. “A-V-A … understand … if I sign English … now?”
“She will. But it’s not technically ASL, so as long as that’s okay with you…”
His shoulders relax, and his smile returns, soft and appreciative. “Nah, yeah. Thank you, Nat.”
I recognize the beaten-down-but-wanting-to-be-strong glimmer in his eye, and I can’t help but wonder how many times he’s opened up only to have his needs dismissed. Been made to feel like he’s lesser for it.
Carefully hidden beneath fame and fortune, maybe there are more layers to Felix than he lets on.