Page 26 of Interpreter

She clamps down on my hand, preventing me from leaving. “It’s okay.”

“I don’t know why I did that.” I do, but… “I wanted to be able to see your—” I swallow hard.

“Words.” She smiles, finally letting go of my hand and signing along. “You wanted to see my words.”

I give her a single curt nod. That’s partly the truth.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have turned away. I wasn’t thinking.”

I’m shaking my head, hating that she has to change any part of herself to communicate with me. “Don’t worry about it.” I flash her a fake smile that says,I’m fine. “It was a reaction.” I run a hand through my hair, eyeing the exit sign above. “I need to go,” I grate out. “Please tell Oliver I’m sorry about lunch.”

I don’t wait to read her lips. I pull away, ignoring the nosy guy across the hall peeping through his window. I don’t stop until I’m two halls over and in front of the familiar wooden door that I loathe and love all at the same time.

Carefully, I rap three times. And just like last time, the door is swung open with a dramatic flair and I’m met with the same set of gray eyes and matching hair.

“I knew you would come back,” she observes, sweeping her hand out and allowing me to pass by. I move carefully through the rows of instruments, bypassing them all until I get to the one that called to me yesterday when I found myself here after leaving Milah and Oliver, coincidentally.

My fingers trace along the edges of the black and white keys until Ms. Peak, Bleckley’s only music teacher, comes to sit on the bench, blocking my way to the other side.

“Sit with me,” she coaxes.

“No, thank you.”

I imagine she sighs because her head drops and she stares at the flowers on her skirt before her chest rises with a breath as if she’s squaring up for battle. It makes me smile.

“You’re getting on my nerves, boy.”

Boy. She called me that yesterday when I was here. Not Mr. Lambros. Not Tim. Not even Timaeus. She goes with “boy,” and part of me likes it. She reminds me of my mother when I didn’t want to practice. Ms. Peak makes sure I know that she doesn’t give a shit how old I am or how many Marine tattoos I have along my arms. She’s not scared of me. I’m in her domain now.

“Yet, you let me in,” I tell her, my brows raising in a teasing manner. Yesterday, when school was over, Ms. Peak let me sit in her room until Mason threatened to leave me if I didn’t get my ass to the car.

“Sit and play with me,” she tries again just like she did yesterday. And like yesterday, I shake my head no.

“Why do you come in here then?”

She’s challenging me. Dr. Parker and Anniston have done this enough that I know when I’m being poked. “I like the air freshener,” I lie, and it earns me a slap to the arm.

“Why did Beethoven play the piano when he couldn’t hear?”

See? I told you it was coming. Ms. Peak and I have never discussed that I am deaf. She just knew. She didn’t ask any questions, and I didn’t offer up any answers. I just sat in the back of her classroom and felt the vibrations as her class played sheet after sheet of music that I craved to hear. This is the first time she’s brought it up.

I eye the door, and she tugs on my hand. “I might be old, boy, but I can still run. Don’t make me chase you.” Her hand smooths circles over mine just before she says, for what I know will be the last time, “Tell me why he played.”

I know this is a test put before me. If I run out of here, like I have everything in my life, Dr. Parker will be right. I won’t have the little space of delusion I like to live in. I will go home a coward, afraid to face anything that challenges me.

Looking into the eyes of the woman who pulled me into her classroom yesterday without so much as a hello—a woman who handed me a rag after the bell rang and told me to help her wipe down all the instruments and move the desks back. This woman is giving me what I want. Equality. She isn’t treating me like I have a disability. She isn’t giving a fuck about what’s going through my head or that I’m Tom and Penelope’s legend of a son. No. To her, I’m just another music lover.

“Tell me, Timaeus.”

Tell her why Beethoven played when he couldn’t hear.

I swallow thickly, eyeing my escape one more time, and then… I sit. “Because he could stillfeelthe music.”

Ifeel like utter shit when Tim disappears down the hall. How could I forget? Why did I turn away from him while we were arguing? I wasn’t thinking, that’s why. If someone had done that to me and I relied on their lips and facial expressions, I would have felt so isolated. His face… it was like someone sliced him open and let a little of his broken soul pour out.

Tim hasn’t been much of a verbal sharer, but his eyes, if you look hard enough, will tell you all you need to know. He didn’t want me to know he cared what I had to say. He didn’t want to be treated any differently, but yet, the time had come. Tim and I can’t argue or have a conversation without looking at each other. Most of the time I’m fine with that, but there are times that I’m not. See, signing is so much more than just sign language. It’s intimate. You’re reading body language. Every flinch. Every shift of the body. Each expansion of the chest. Don’t even get me started on the eyes. Sign language is more intimate than sex.

I just didn’t realize it until now.

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