Deaf Daisy | #1 in #americansignlanguage

6 Bona Fide Teacher Daisy

Cannon doesn't come back to school. It's two days, then three, then a week.

This is my fault.

It's not your fault, Serena tells me.

It is.

It was going to happen, anyway.

Maybe it wouldn't have. If I'd helped him.

You put yourself out there. You gave him a chance and he rejected you. She knows it's my fault.

I should've tried harder. He— I hadn't told her about the second note. Now, it's incriminating evidence. I'm a terrible person.

You're not.

I am.

You're not. Everything happens the way it's supposed to.

I pick at my salad. Yeah. Maybe.

After sixth, I ask Merinda for a favor. I'm gonna change the way it was supposed to happen. Or maybe this was the plan all along.

The office doesn't keep students' cell numbers on file, because they like to think we don't have personal lives, and we like to keep it that way. They have our legal guardians' cell numbers and our physical addresses.

I lie to my mom. I tell her we're partners in a class project, but I forgot to get his number. I need to bring him the paper that we were working on together in class. She eats it up.

I heard that he had moved in with his aunt and uncle after what happened. That the detectives took him from his home, his dad didn't want him there. The map on Mummy's phone brings us to a neighborhood that I've never been inside of, only seen from the outside. It's full of large, three-storied houses with backyard pools and front yard floral arrangements. His aunt must be a lawyer, or something. She pulls into the driveway — it's one of the more humble houses in the neighborhood. It's still three stories, but there's no pool. I ask her to wait in the car.

The front door has a dark wooden hanger that reads, in a white craft store script font, "The Kanes". So it's his uncle, then. I ring the bell. A few moments pass. I reach out a fist and touch ny knuckles to the glossy, white door again, but it opens. A tall and thin man with perfectly slicked-back hair and a perfectly clean-shaven face answers the door. He looks a little like Cannon, but older, taller, cleaner, softer.

"Can I help you?" he asks.

Shit. In my haste to bring this plan about for fear that I'd back out, I hadn't considered someone who was not Cannon answering the door. Gen Z don't answer doors. Gen Z don't receive home visitors at random. I fumble with the paper in my hand, unclear on how to proceed.

I'm sorry, I sign. I mouth the words that accompany my hands. I'm deaf. I can't hear. I point at my ear and shake my head.

"Oh— oh!" he says. His mouth moves wider. I assume he starts to speak slower and louder, as people do. "You're deaf. I'm so sorry. How can I help you?" He makes hand motions that he thinks will help me understand what he's saying, like people do.

I'm here to see Cannon. I spell his name, but Older Clean Cut Cannon has no idea what that means. I sign the word "cannon", hoping that will help. I mouth it. "Cannon. I'm here to see Cannon."

I see the understanding appear on his face. He seems a kind man. "Oh! You're here to see Cannon." He smiles kindly. "I'll be right back. Come— come in. Come in." He ushers me through the door. "I'll be right back," he repeats. He rushes up the stairs.