Dear Little Deaf Boy

Chapter 2 - Charades

Chapter 2- Charades

Mr. Jenkins looked like he was trying to prove he wasn't completely alone, what with the moose horns and dead animals mounted all over his walls. But everyone knew the truth: his wife divorced him last year and took all their cats. Not the furniture. Not the houseplants. The cats. Every single one.

Still, he wore his wedding band. The skin around it looked swollen, like the ring had been glued there after she left. It clung to his finger the way a rubber band strangles a sausage. I was pretty sure his finger was either infected or halfway to falling off.

And now here I was—again—sitting across from him like I was the reason his life went downhill. I beg to differ. If it wasn't for me and my tuition, his salary would be as low-grade as any other educator in this country. Thank God for private school.

He cleared his throat. "Ms. Pines, your grades are slipping. I've also received complaints from your teachers. Outbursts will not be tolerated. I've met your father, Kinsley, and I doubt he would appreciate this behavior."

"Kinsley?"

"Kinsley, are you listening?"

I slouched lower and blinked at him like he'd just announced water was wet. Bored. Unmoved. He cannot be serious.

"I understand you're going through a... difficult time with your mother—"

"Don't." One word. Clean cut.

He leaned back, sighing. Thin bars of sunlight slid through the blinds and parked across his face. The office smelled like old coffee and varnish. The mounted moose watched us like they had tenure.

"You're in here at least once a week," he said. "I've decided on a solution—for your academics and your behavior. A proposal—"

"God no, Mr. Jenkins. Aren't you going through a divorce?"

His pie-face reddened at the mention of his estranged wife. He cleared his throat, palms flattening against his suit jacket as if straightening fabric could straighten his life.

"This could benefit both you and your tutor."

"My what now?"

"A tutor. And no, it isn't optional. Refuse, and your grades suffer."

I sat up, finally interested. "Why pretend, Mr. J.? We both know how this ends. You pass me, you get your check, I send a thank-you fruit basket. Tradition!"

No laugh. Tragic.

"Your tutor also needs exposure to other students. I think you can help him."

"What does that even mean? I don't have friends. Half this school hates me!"

"The students like you," he said, folding his hands. "The teachers... not so much."

Fair. I do make people earn their salaries.

"On the bright side," he continued, "you're outspoken. That could help him. And he can help you. He's at the top of all his classes."

"He?" I raised a brow. "Who is this philanthropic genius? Brad Tucker? He did my homework last year left a few wrong so it wouldn't look suspicious. Very civic-minded."

A tight throat clear from Mr. J. "Not Mr. Tucker."

"Then who?"

"Jasper Ralston."

I blinked. "I'm sorry—come again?"

Clearly my ears were mistaken.

"Jasper Ralston."

My stomach did a small, confused flip. "He's deaf!"

Mr. J. pinched the bridge of his nose. "Yes, he is. And I am not, so please no shouting."

"Fine." I crossed my arms. "I'm just saying... he's deaf. How am I supposed to learn? He can't hear me, and I seriously doubt we're going to mime our way through algebra. What's the communication plan here, charades?"

"He communicates. He reads, writes, and signs. If I recall, you took sign language freshman year."

He can't be serious.

"Another class I felt, maybe you should have suggested him being my tutor then huh. " My back slouched against the chair " Plus I only remember 'Hi, my name is Kinsley.' Which feels aggressively unhelpful."

"You're overcomplicating this. It isn't optional. It helps you, and it helps him. He's been here for years and still gets treated like an outsider because of his disability. I assumed you, of all people, would understand that." His tone sharpened. "If you refuse, I'll enroll you in Saturday school for the rest of the year. With Ms. Easton."

I stared at him. "You wouldn't!"

"I would. And your father would approve."

Three beats of silence. Then, internally: damn it. And again: damn it. One more for the record: damn it.

"Not Ms. Easton! You know my Saturdays are for dance! You can't do that!"

"Oh, I can. Your choice, Kinsley."

I glared at the moose, because it felt safer than glaring at him. "Fine."

A pleased little smirk tugged at his mouth. "Excellent. I'll inform Mr. Ralston. You've made a good decision."

"Can I go now? Lunch started two minutes ago. And as much as I love the smell of mounted wildlife, I'd rather choke down spoiled milk and carrot sticks. Makes me almost want to go vegan..." I paused. "Never mind. I hate vegetables."

"You're dismissed."

I was halfway through the doorway. "Free—"

"Before you go," he said, "be kind to Mr. Ralston. You can come off... overbearing."

I turned and gave him my sweetest smile. "Whatever do you mean? I'm a sweetheart, Mr. J. The world is just too sensitive."

I winked and left, trying not to think about the ring strangling his finger or the fact that I'd just agreed to let the smartest boy in school teach me how to be taught. Privilege only stretches so far. Apparently, today it stretched exactly to sign language.