Juliet Simone Everette
Junior year at Havenbrook University...
Glaring out of the wall-to-ceiling glass window in front of me, I mentally traveled somewhere beyond my current habitat.
Past the sparkle of porcelain revealed from boisterous laughter, beyond the vibration of the floor caused by sliding chairs—why couldn’t land walkers just pick the chairs up slightly to remove them from under the table?
And even through the discomfort of trying to drink my smoothie through a paper straw.
I mean, sea life aside, who thought it was genius to pair paper with liquid and expect it to work?
But my ultimate warriors were the smells.
The mixture of florals, cedars, sugar, and fried meat could break a bear’s hibernation.
And about one hundred feet to my left, I could smell someone's baby needed a diaper change.
But not even the smell of digested strained peas and chemically produced baby formula was a match for the daydream I was currently locked in on.
That was the magic of being hearing impaired—while my ears showed up late to the party, my other four senses arrived early to help set up.
However, they were no match for my mind.
When my unconscious kicked in, I had the ability to completely turn the world off and travel.
No, I couldn’t recall what I was daydreaming about, but it felt comforting. As if someone was hypnotizing me through song—but with no words and no melody. I couldn’t tell you where I was in the dream either, but it was warm… and peace was its leader.
Feeling myself going deeper into Wonderland, I didn’t put up a fight. I let all self-control go and allowed myself to float.
Until a heavy nudge on my shoulder caused me to blink back into reality.
And instead of my Wonderland…
I was staring at the decorative window decal that read:
Flip’d.
Flip’d, Havenbrook’s burger bar, was where you went to unfold.
The space had two floors, both hiding an arcade silenced behind a doorway.
Cream walls were detailed with light wooden accents, and the furniture was a blend of free spirit meets stuck-up suburban woman.
Homage to musical legends—both living and dead, such as Method Man, Brandy, and Heavy D—was displayed in a Tertius-like placement, enhancing the creativity of the rooms but not taking over its purpose.
High-speed Wi-Fi and intentional lo-fi music filled the air, keeping you connected to the world but at ease with your journey.
Mornings and midday were for enjoying the natural high of life—soft conversations, light laughter, and beautifully crafted land walkers sharing space.
Evenings were when you came to floss and twerk, turning the same space into something louder, reckless, but a safe kind of reckless.
And the menu?
Fire.
Ranging from burgers, seafood, and soups to delicious vegan and vegetarian options, it didn’t miss. The desserts had no remorse for your back, because the pineapple upside-down cheesecake was going to have you hooked at first bite, needing a fix at least three times a week.
My favorite was The Mary.
Juicy herb-crusted lamb patty topped with whipped feta, arugula, caramelized onions, and a drizzle of hot honey tzatziki on a toasted brioche bun. One bite in, and everything else in that moment didn’t matter. They mastered the formula for comfort food.
If you needed to catch a break, vibe, or get some work done—Flip’d had you covered.
“Um, Earth to Ju-Ju. Turn your ears on, RoboCop,” my best friend and daydream destroyer, Yahya, said.
“Do I have to?” I signed.
“Yes. And I don’t know why you have them off anyway. If my ears cost a Birkin each, I’d have the frequency on them up so high, I’d hear what a nigga was thinking before it came out his mouth.”
“You so damn silly, Ya,” I signed.
The Birkins that Yahya was referring to were my hearing aids.
They weren’t the standard bulky brown ones I had when I was younger.
Technology has really advanced over time.
Not only did they stabilize my hearing, allowing me to process multiple noises at once, but unless you saw me sign, you’d think I just had some fancy ear implant connected to anything Bluetooth.
The technology itself was available to everyone, thanks to Dr. Pristine over at Sundrex—but the style was customized, and I owned the patent thanks to Echo.
Choo-Choo paid one hundred and thirteen thousand dollars per ear to have them designed and let his lawyers handle the rest. And now, anytime someone purchases this style, a hefty deposit hits my account.
I was blessed to have such a caring big brother.
The devices required my fingerprints to power on and off. That was an important feature because, believe it or not, I sometimes loved losing my hearing. It was when I heard things the loudest. When everything slowed down. When my mind sharpened.
Some of the best decisions I ever made happened when my hearing checked out.
Because what normal hearing person would’ve discovered that fried catfish belonged between two slices of pound cake?
Okay… maybe that decision was influenced by the marijuana I was smoking—but I know for a fact I was deaf when I did that shit.
“I’m so serious, girl,” Yahya continued.
“Cause a YN would walk straight up to you like, ‘Hey baby, you're the most beautiful thing I’ve seen.’ And that’s when I’d turn my head to the side, have him thinking I’m flirting, when really, I’m listening to his brain.
And the whole time, his ass really thinking, ‘I can’t wait to be driving her BMW. ’”
I laughed, shaking my head.
“Now hurry up before I forget my damn thought,” she added.
Still smiling, I lifted both hands and gently pressed my index fingers against my hearing aids.
A soft vibration hummed against my skin—powering on my hearing devices. The sounds softly arose, layer by layer. And once the elevator completely made it to the top, I instantly remembered why I would rather have them off.
Voices overlapping, chairs scraping, music playing by some underground rapper so terrible I mistook it for emergency sirens at first. And just when I thought it couldn’t get worse, the cherry on top was the most disgusting burp known to man.
Slowly, I turned, and to no surprise, the vomit-worthy experience was delivered by my other best friend, Mega.
I let the purest look of disgust sit on my face as I stared at him.
“What?” he asked, unbothered.
“Oh, come on… You know that shit was sexy, Ju-Money.”
Yahya had been my best friend since kindergarten, my diary in living form and the sister I never had.
The epitome of fun — if Yahya was around, you'd best not be trying to complete anything important, because her antics would have you laughing as if you were at a comedy special rather than focusing on the task at hand.
Her personality was top-tier. She could fit in with any crowd and was one of those people you would either hate or love for the same reason — she was really that girl.
Not much into academics, Yahya didn't pursue education after high school.
School was a real struggle for her. I remember her crying and sharing with me how the special education team tried to convince her parents to sign off on a formal evaluation, because they believed she had a learning disability and would benefit from extra support.
Yahya was all for it — she always felt different and wanted whatever help she could get to "get her brain to act right.
" Her words, not mine. But her parents weren't having it.
They didn't want her labeled or considered less than, so instead of making their daughter's educational journey as smooth as possible, they loaded her with tutors, mental stimulation tactics, and paid off whatever teacher was willing to just pass her through.
Kind of fucked up, if I do say so myself. Letting your child struggle just to maintain an image among people who were going to talk badly about you anyway? I would've said that it was rich people shit — but I've come to learn that's just people shit.
Yahya, now the very sought-after party curator with well over thirteen million followers across social media platforms, took it upon herself to get developmental testing done as an adult. It turns out my girl has dyslexia and attention-deficit/hyperactivity disorder (ADHD).
"Ain't nothing sexy about hearing and smelling something that instantly puts you in the mind of Biz Markie — may God rest his beautiful soul," Yahya said, signing the last part.
"Well, you instantly put me in the mind of Labubu," Mega responded.
"Oh yeah? In what sense — expensive, hot commodity, limited edition?" Yahya asked. She turned to the side and flicked her hair behind her ear, presumably ready to receive one of those compliments.
"Nah, your big-faced, hairy ass looks like you bite," Mega said.
I could not help but spit out my smoothie.
Now this was worthy of me turning on my hearing aids.
Yahya and Mega would argue all day if you let them.
Yahya and I had been locked in since kindergarten, but I met Mega when he transferred to our school in eighth grade.
His father had won a lawsuit settlement after his job let him go — and not for any good reason.
The man was the longest-serving employee at the sanitation department, the oldest by both age and tenure, and they had the nerve to tell him they could benefit from paying someone younger and use his salary to hire at least two people.
Just like that, an ageist lawsuit earned him early retirement and $12.
6 million dollars. Doing right by his family, his father made smart investments and moved them to the beauty of Havenbrook.