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I fold my arms over my chest and sit on the corner of mydesk.
“How’d you learn to sign?” Iask.
“I thought it was cool. Some friends and I learned as a way to have our own conversations. Cooler than pigLatin.”
“That itis.”
“What aboutyou?”
“My roommate in college wasdeaf.”
It’s been a while since I was in high school, but I remember there were shitty times. Private school seems no different than public school on that front—something that surprises me,actually.
I’ve seen enough to know that while technology might’ve changed in the past fifteen years, the rest hasn’t. I’m guessing these kids walk around wondering if they’re good enough. What their friends talk about behind their backs. If their world will end if they fail atest.
If the girl they can’t stop thinking about is thinking about themtoo.
Our conversation Friday night went from cordial to loaded in a second. I hadn’t planned it, but the disarming way she talked about love had me wishing she was there with me instead of half a cityaway.
Since the party, I’ve replayed that kiss in my mind. It’s slightly demented because—let’s get real—it was a stunt. It’s not like Rena blew me on the Fourth of July while I got handed a letter approving my tenure at an Ivyschool.
Which suddenly has me imaginingthat.
I’m an evolved humanbeing.
But this entire weekend I had to use a horrifying amount of willpower to not get off toher.
Mostly because getting off to someone who doesn’t know you’re doing it feels wrong. But also because I needed to prove that I still have control overmyself.
I can get through a day without thinking abouther.
I only kept the picture she sent of us kissing at the party because I haven’t had a chance to deleteit.
I definitely don’t think about her ass in that dress. Or look at her profile picture and wonder what it’d be like to wrap that ponytail around my hand whileI—
“DrR?”
I’m going tohell.
I force my attention back to theroom.
“Beck, I’m going to level with you.” Because this kid looks desperate for someone to tell him the truth. “This debate team wasn’t my idea. But I don’t do things halfway, and I won’t let you either. I don’t give a shit what you’re used to. Your teachers, your college professors, they may not care. I do. And I need you to do the work. It’s my job to help eliminate anything that might prevent you from doingthat.
“So, I’m asking you,” I continue, watching his expression, “why are you here whenyoudon’t want to be hereeither?”
He hesitates. “My parents want me tobe.”
“Why?”
“The party line is that Brown admissions gets off on it. But, really, who knows? My parents are fucked. It’s like they don’t even care about eachother.”
“What do you careabout?”
“I want to do something with my life. I don’t care what these people think of it.” He shifts on his feet, and I wait him out while he checks his phone. I almost think he’s forgotten me until he shoves the thing back in his pocket and meets my gaze. “I want to be anactor.”
I swallow the heartburn that strikes faster than Mexican chili from the place on thecorner.
People don’t actuallydothat, do they? I mean, I know Hollywood didn’t spring fully formed from a seashell like a daughter of Zeus, but I don’t know anyone who grew up to be anactor.
