CHAPTER 1
Casey
target of my anger is the ignorant doctor who performed my latest hearing test. I’m also mad that I can’t effectively communicate, and I’m mad that we’re moving to Florida in the middle of this whole mess. But above all, I’m furious at my ears for deciding to inexplicably crap out on me after a committed sixteen-year relationship.
“I’m sick of tests,” I continue. “They all show the same thing. Profoundly Hard of Hearing.” I say, using SimCom—simultaneous communication, or signing and speaking at the same time—for the last words, my horizontal index and middle fingers pressing together as I tap the air in front of my chest twice, moving my hand from left to right. Sure, Mom’s not going to see me signing because she’s driving, but using SimCom is good practice for me.
“No more tests. I promise.” Mom gives me a sad smile, the kind that makes you feel worse than you did before. I’ve drilled into my parents that I don’t want to be patronized, but they can’t help themselves with the sad smiles. “Unless you want a hearing aid.” She curls her thumb and index finger around her ear.
Mom and I have had this discussion at least five times now, and every time, I’ve told her I don’t want a hearing aid—getting one would involve even more tests, then fittings, and there’s not even a guarantee it would help with my type of hearing loss. Why doesn’t she understand that I’m done being poked and prodded?
“No.” I stick my hand in front of her and slam my thumb, index, and middle fingers together like a pincer.
Mom drops the subject, and we drive in silence for the remaining hour. I grab my phone and open Instagram to kill time, deflating a little when I see there are zero new DMs in my inbox.
I click on my most recent story—a picture of the WELCOME TO FLORIDA sign we passed earlier—and confirm that all the “friends” I left in Portland saw it. A lump forms in my throat and I close the app.
Seriously, what did I expect? For the friends who ghosted me after I lost my hearing, the people who abandoned me when I needed more support than ever, to suddenly start messaging me again? For my newly ex-boyfriend, Victor, who broke up with me
because I was “too hard to communicate with,” to stop treating me like a huge inconvenience because I’m no longer able-bodied?
Yeah. It’s pretty clear that’s not going to happen.
I shake the thoughts away and focus on the cars whizzing by, the tropical flowers and swaying palm trees that line the highway, and the smell of the ocean. The brightly colored exuberance of Miami is on proud display. It’s a stark contrast to Portland’s weirdness, which I already miss.
The scenery changes as we pull into our new neighborhood. The streets here are incredibly dull and uniform, all white houses with terra-cotta roofs, perfectly trimmed green grass, and minivans parked in pressure-washed driveways.
I find myself thirsty for another glass of the Miami I saw earlier.
Some neighbors wave as we park, and we politely wave back, then make our way inside our prefurnished rental home. The interior decor matches the cookie-cutter aesthetic of the neighborhood’s overall design: white, lifeless, and severely lacking originality.
I peer up the staircase that leads to the second floor, then glance back at my parents. “Which room is mine again?” I ask using SimCom.
I probably should’ve watched the 3D tour of the house Mom sent to familiarize myself with the layout before we arrived, but the last thing I wanted to do on the drive was think about my “fun new life in Miami”—as Mom and Dad looove to phrase it, like there’s even an infinitesimal chance I won’t absolutely hate living here.
“It’s the door at the very end of the hallway,” Mom chirps. “It’s a little bare-bones right now, but don’t worry, we’ll spruce it up! Make it feel like home.”
“Pretty sure all the ‘sprucing’ in the world won’t make it feel anything like home,” I mutter under my breath.
“What was that?”
“Nothing.” I kick off my shoes, release my sphynx cat, Jell-O, from her pet carrier, and charge upstairs. I locate the small bedroom at the end of the hall and face-plant onto the bed.
Welcome to effin’ Miami.
The scorching sun beats down on Mom’s van as we speed down South Dixie Highway the next day. I blare HAMILTON at a volume too loud for any Hearing person, hoping to avoid a pep talk from Mom. She glances my way but doesn’t say anything.
She’d never admit this, but I think she feels guilty. After all, she’s the reason we’ve moved to Florida mere months after I lost my hearing. The event-planning business she works for opened a new branch here and she was handpicked to run it.
Meaning I get to spend my junior year at a new high school three thousand miles away from home. With no hearing, no friends, and a perpetual sunburn. (I have a sneaky suspicion that even if I use SPF 5000, my pale, Edward Cullen-esque skin will instantly burn here.)
Okay, so, maybe I’m a little upset with Mom. Just a smidge.
Mom reaches over the center console and hands me her phone. The Notes app is open, a message typed out onscreen: I’ll be in meetings all day, but I’ll check my phone during breaks, in case you need me.
I sigh, place the phone in the unoccupied cupholder, and return my attention to HAMILTON.
We come to a stop in front of Palmera High School’s front courtyard as “Satisfied” ends. I unbuckle my seat belt and fling open the car door. Before I can make my getaway, though, Mom grabs my wrist.
“Did you read my note?”
“Yep.” I sigh, looking up at the building.
“Don’t be afraid to ask for accommodations if you need them. There’s going to be an adjustment period.” Mom smiles reassuringly. “But you’ve got this, sweetie.”
I give an incredibly forced smile in return. If I had a dollar for every time she’s encouraged me to “be my own advocate” while navigating school as a Disabled person for the first time, I’d have enough for a plane ticket back to Portland.
She holds up her hand, tucking her middle and ring fingers to her palm. “I love you,” she signs.
I half-heartedly return the sign as she drives off, then take the world’s deepest inhale and push through Palmera High’s doors.
I keep my head down as I walk toward the front office, doing my best to avoid being noticed by the other students. I thought pulling my hair into a cute messy bun and wearing my favorite shirt—a crop top with a subtle embroidered bisexual pride heart—would give me a much-needed confidence boost, but now all I can think about is how my hair is a rats’ nest from the humidity and my top is wrinkled from the way I packed it for the move. It’s less effortlessly chic and more slob-who-just-rolled-out-of-bed.
We’re off to a magnificent start.
The woman sitting behind the desk looks up at me through thick-rimmed glasses. “Casey Kowalski?” She smacks on chewing gum between words.
I may be new to this whole Deaf-Hard of Hearing thing, but I can tell I won’t be able to understand her when she’s chewing gum. It’s like talking to a baby—complete gibberish.
“Yep.” I mess with the hem of my shorts. “I’m supposed to meet with Audrey Simons. She’s my student guide.”
The woman hands me a piece of paper with my class schedule on it. Her mouth moves, but the words are blocked by the simultaneous chewing. When I stay silent, she glares at me, lowers her glasses, and points to the chairs behind me. She looks disturbingly like Roz from MONSTERS, INC.
“Wait there,” she commands with a grimace.
I take a seat and occupy myself by scrolling through TikTok until, a few minutes later, someone materializes in front of me. I look up from my phone, expecting to see Audrey Simons, but instead I’m greeted by a white woman in her mid-thirties with a blunt brown bob and a wide smile.
“Hi, Casey! I’m Colleen, the school counselor.” She extends a hand toward me, and I reluctantly shake it. “Principal Vega informed me you’re an IEP student and that you recently became Hard of Hearing.”
I blink up at her, unsure how to respond.
My silence doesn’t discourage Colleen, though. “I brought these for you. Maybe you can give them a read when you have a moment!” She hands me two pamphlets and a thick binder.
I scan the pamphlets first:
SO, YOU’RE THE NEW
KID IN SCHOOL: HOW TO MAKE FRIENDS AT A NEW SCHOOL!
SO, YOU’RE AN INDIVIDUALIZED EDUCATION PROGRAM STUDENT: HOW TO BE YOUR OWN ADVOCATE!
The binder is Palmera’s official student handbook, which I assume is full of arbitrary rules about spaghetti straps and dyed hair.
“If you need anything, please stop by my office. I want to support you however I can during this tough time in your life,” Colleen says.
“Uh. Thanks...?” I murmur, glancing around to ensure nobody is watching. All I want is to lie low, and lying low doesn’t typically include a personal greeting and public discussion of your IEP accommodations from the school counselor.
Colleen flashes another smile and makes her exit.
Forty-five minutes later, I’m still waiting and have missed first period. Bored with TikTok drama, I get up and peruse the bulletin board hanging in the office. It’s cluttered with flyers: a school bake sale, dance lessons, the ASL Club.
I take a closer look at the ASL Club’s flyer. There’s a picture of a white girl signing “I love you” front and center, with a caption underneath that identifies her as Audrey Simons, president of the ASL Club.
Her picture looks overly Facetuned to me, but nevertheless, I’m excited to meet Audrey. I’ll finally have someone to use sign with.
The next thing that catches my eye is a flyer for the Rossi Music Studio. I scan the text: VOICE LESSONS FOR ALL AGES, GENDERS, AND SKILL LEVELS! CUSTOMIZED TO FIT YOUR NEEDS!
I’m about to rip off one of the tabs with contact information at the bottom of the page, but I stop myself. My mind flickers to Laurel, my vocal coach back in Portland. I had been working with her for six years, and I really believed she could help me develop a career in music.
But three months ago, Laurel said she had to drop me as a student because she couldn’t meet my “growing needs.” (Which is code for: “You lost your hearing, and I don’t know how to accommodate that.”)
The subtlest of ableism. Truly artful.
My world was upended
when my hearing deteriorated, but the thing that hurts most is that I lost my voice, my art.
I started singing my own songs almost before I learned how to talk. Music was my only way to explore challenging situations and express my emotions. I shaped my happy moments into verses and hid my deepest secrets in bridges. I wove my soul into the choruses I wrote. My life was a song.
But without sound...I’m not sure how that song can continue playing.
I turn away from the bulletin board empty-handed. My fist clenches by my side as I sit back down, trying to set aside the bitterness swirling in my head.
Audrey Simons shows up, finally saving me from Roz’s evil eye. She flips her bleached blonde hair over her shoulder, smiles like the Cheshire cat, waves a perfectly manicured hand, then begins signing at the speed of light.
I stand up, slack-jawed and utterly lost. “I’m not fluent in ASL,” I breathe, oddly embarrassed to admit that.
Audrey’s smile turns into a deep frown. “Oh. But they said you’re deaf.”
“I am.” I cringe. “But I only lost my hearing four months ago. I’m still learning ASL.”
She shakes a ‘V’ in front of her mouth. “Do you lipread?”
Fingers extended, I swivel my right hand side to side. “Kind of.” I shrug. “Just face me when you talk. And speak normally. Not too quickly, but not slowly.”
Audrey pastes her smile back on, but her eyes scrutinize me. “No problem.”
Though, as it turns out, it is a problem.
During our school tour, which causes me to also miss second period (I get the impression Audrey is using this as an excuse to skip class), she randomly yells at me every time she remembers I’m Deaf-Hard of Hearing and occasionally makes eccentric hand gestures that even a beginner can tell aren’t ASL. I wince as she shouts explanations about how the classrooms have names instead of numbers: Einstein, Aristotle, da Vinci.
Everything about Audrey rubs me the wrong way, so when third period finally arrives
and ends the tour, I send a silent thanks to the universe. If algebra gets me out of Audrey’s shouting range, I welcome it.
As part of my IEP, all my teachers provided me with work packets ahead of class to assist me in comprehension of lessons, but I’ll stand a better chance at catching some of the in-class content if I’m close to the teacher. I walk to the front of the classroom and stake my claim on a desk.
Moments after I sit down, someone stands in front of my desk. I look up to find a pair of fierce brown eyes glaring down at me.
“Hey, new girl. This is my seat,” the boy’s voice booms. Scary for most people, helpful for me. “Move.”
He sports a douchebag buzz cut, a silver cross necklace, and a thin black tank top that not so subtly displays biceps he could bench-press a Mack truck with. Ugh. I have a feeling this dude is the same breed of entitled, lunch-money-stealing, desk-claiming jerk that every American high school is equipped with. He also reminds me of my jock ex, Victor (look, I haven’t always made smart choices), which automatically makes him one hundred percent more annoying.
“Says who?” I shoot back.
Bitchy Hot Guy taps the desk with a grating scowl. I look down and run my fingers over the desk’s DIY engraving.
Property of César Ramirez
“Fairly certain this desk belongs to the Miami-Dade school district, Caesar.” I cross my arms.
One of his thick brows
shoots up. “It’s——”
I blink at him, trying to figure out what he’s getting at. “What?”
He repeats himself, but I still don’t understand.
“Write it down, if you must.” I cock a brow, slide him my notebook and a pencil, and re-cross my arms as he scribbles something in the corner of the page.
He shoves the notebook toward me with all the annoyance he can conjure up.
SAY-ZAR
Even his handwriting is packed with anger.
“Not ‘see-zur,’” he spits mockingly. His biceps flex as he crosses his coppery tan arms, mirroring my pose.
“Okay, fine, César. But you’re still not getting the desk.” I roll my eyes, which only adds fuel to the fire.
“——yuma.” I don’t catch the beginning of his sentence, but his eyes have darkened, and his jaw is clenched. Clearly, he doesn’t like his authority being tested.
“César!” A voice calls out from behind me. I turn to find a shorter, scrawnier boy jogging toward us. He nudges César when he gets close enough. “Leave her alone, she’s——” the rest of his defense is unintelligible.
Scrawny Boy pushes a swath of brown curls out of his eyes and steps between me and César. “Sorry about him.”
I stay silent as I watch César stalk to the back of the classroom, brooding like a bad-boy stereotype.
Scrawny Boy nervously smiles at me. “I’m—”
His introduction is cut off by—I check the name on my class schedule—Ms. Ochoa entering the room, loudly clapping to get our attention. “Sit down. All of you.” Her voice is nasally, but it carries well. I can work with that. Scrawny Boy scurries off and sits at the desk next to César.
“Welcome to my advanced algebra class, Ms. Kowalski,” Ms. Ochoa greets, then leans next to me and lowers her voice, which makes her impossible to understand. Not wanting the class to hear whatever private thing she’s sharing with me, I social bluff and nod, pretending I can understand what she’s saying.
She claps my shoulder as she stands, satisfied by my reaction, then starts talking about quadratic equations or...something.
Unfortunately, when the bell rings, my notebook is empty. I didn’t catch anything Ms. Ochoa relayed because of her fast-paced speech.
Trying my best to not act crestfallen, I sling my backpack over one shoulder and head to lunch. My ears throb with sensory overload as I step into one of the busiest cafeterias I’ve ever seen. Tugging my backpack straps a little tighter, I swallow my discomfort and squeeze into the lunch line.
I glance around the room as I wait in line, my eyes jumping from person to person, but I focus when I make eye contact with Scrawny Boy from advanced algebra. He offers me a shy wave, but his hand is slapped out of the air by César, who sits across from him. There are three other people at their table, but I don’t
recognize them.
Before I can decide whether or not to wave back, Audrey suddenly appears in front of me.
“Casey!” she shouts, inches away from my face. “The ASL Club is meeting during lunch. You should come!”
That’s more a command than a request, as it turns out. As soon as we’ve both received our trays of unidentifiable sludge masquerading as food, Audrey steers me back out of the cafeteria and into a small classroom I haven’t been in yet. The walls are decorated with fingerspelling charts and ASL posters as well as some French and German posters—this room must house all the foreign-language classes. The desks have been pushed to the edges, and a dozen students sit on the floor in the open space, conversing in sign.
It’s a nice classroom, and I can picture myself practicing sign here, but the ASL teachers at Palmera are all Hearing, so my family signed up for lessons at the University of Miami—with a Deaf professor—instead. My tutor back in Portland was Deaf, and she suggested I continue learning ASL from a Deaf teacher since I specifically want to learn Deaf culture and slang and to be a more authentic signer.
“Everyone! This is Casey!” Audrey announces.
“Hello,” I sign timidly, balancing my lunch tray with one hand.
A Black girl with wiry curls and cat-eye glasses smiles up at me and her fingers fly through the air at a breakneck pace. I barely catch her fingerspelling her name: “J-E-S-S-I-C-A.”
The other students introduce themselves, but the only other name I make out, Marco, belongs to a boy who gives off major asshole-supporting-character-from-RIVERDALE vibes as he smirks and speeds through his signs.
“Casey——new members——I think you beginners will really get along,” Audrey tells me, some of her words cutting out. She gestures to a group of students in the far back, all of them sporting deer-in-headlights expressions as they observe the rapid signing.
“Oh, uh...nice.” I gulp. “Are any of you Deaf or Hard of Hearing?” I ask using SimCom.
Asshole-Marco scoffs. “Hell no. I’d go psycho if I was deaf!” He guffaws, clearly thinking that’s a totally funny and not at all ableist joke.
I grit my teeth. “So, what inspired you to learn sign?” I narrow my eyes. I have a gut feeling I’m not going to like his answer.
“Looks great on college applications.” He smirks. “Plus, ASL class is an easy ‘A,’ unlike the real foreign language classes.”
Ding, ding! My hunch was correct. An absolutely garbage answer!
I look around the room to see if anyone else is offended by his ignorance, but they don’t acknowledge it at all. Marco strikes up a conversation with Audrey as if nothing happened, that infuriating smirk still on his face.
Blood boiling, I scoop up my backpack and leave. I’m not putting up with this bullshit. Plus, all the auditory input from trying to track several different conversations has triggered an excruciating headache.
My head pounds as I slam the door shut behind me, angry and exhausted. The hallway is peaceful and soundless, so I sit, trying to talk myself off the edge and lessen my tiredness.
I only get a few minutes of rest before the bell rings. Battling an unresolved case of auditory fatigue, I trudge toward my next class, resigned to the fact I have no hope of absorbing what any of my teachers say for the rest of the day.
Sure enough, when the final bell rings, all I have to show for my first day at Palmera High is a heavy heart and a killer headache.
CHAPTER 2
Hayden
Miami’s best weather is in early September. It’s the kind of heat that surrounds you, ...
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