A Quiet Kind of Thunder(45)
Nice. The second boy gives me a thumbs-up.
Rhys drops to his knees, retrieves the can and opens it for me, tapping the top first so it won’t fizz up and make this moment even more embarrassing.
After this display, they very kindly let me be for a while. Rhys takes my hand and leads me over to one of the large bean bag chairs, letting me sit between his legs so I feel guarded and secure. I sip my Coke and watch them all talk, trying to keep up but mostly failing miserably.
Here’s what I learn: that thing I told myself about us speaking the same language? Yeah, that was bullshit. Total, hearing-person oblivious bullshit. They speak this language, and I know some of it. I can understand it and even communicate using it if everyone goes a bit more slowly than usual and is willing to repeat themselves at the sight of my flummoxed face. But I speak it in the same way that someone who gets a B in GCSE French can speak French when they go to Paris on holiday. As in, can speak it to other people who also got a B in GCSE French. Actual French people? Not. So. Much.
BSL is, at best, my second language. My stuttering, earnest second language, where I am trying my hardest but will need several more months – if not years – to be properly fluent. I thought I knew what that meant, given that I’ve been getting to know Rhys for a while now and have spent two evenings to date with his BSL-speaking family.
But now I understand what the difference is. All of those occasions were in the hearing world. It was BSL as subtitles; BSL as an extra tool. This is the deaf world, something I’d never really given much thought to even existing until now, when I can see it in front of me. Five BSL speakers having two different conversations across a living room at once, laughing at jokes, getting each other’s attention with taps on the table and clicks in the air. It’s seamless and intuitive and fun to watch.
It’s terrifying.
Is this how Rhys feels at school every day? In it, but not part of it? How have I not even thought about this before? I’d thought I was attuned to him. I’d thought I understood what his life was like.
Between signs he always returns his hands to me. He touches my shoulder with his chin, squeezes my fingers, kisses my hair. Every time he does this, my heart calms, just a little. It reminds me that I am with him, that we have our own tiny island of our own whatever world we’re in. That this is about an us, not a them.
After the first hour, I’ve relaxed a little. I manage to have a conversation with Alyce about Ives and what sixth form is like there. She signs carefully for me, clearly used to having to go slow, going on to tell me that she and Owen have been together since Year 9 and are planning to open a cat cafe one day. I tell her about the kennels where I work and she lights up, asking if she can visit.
Owen sets up Guitar Hero on his Xbox after we order pizza and I watch as the boys argue over what songs to play. I tap Rhys’s hand and lean round so we can talk. Can I ask a really bad question?
He grins. Yes, we can play Guitar Hero even though we can’t all hear very well.
Is it as fun?
He shrugs. I don’t know any different. I think it’s fun. You don’t need to hear the music to be able to play. You follow the notes on screen. He hesitates. I love Guitar Hero. Being able to play rock music with my friends. Feeling the rhythm.
When they start playing, Rhys squeezing my shoulder as he gets up to stand with one of the guitars as I settle back against the bean bag, I eat pizza and watch. They’re all much better at this game than I was expecting, making me think that being able to hear the music is perhaps the least important part of playing guitar, and Rhys is the best of them all.
Three slices down, they all start gesturing to get me to play.
No way, I say, alarmed, holding up my arms in front of my chest like a shield.
Come on, Rhys cajoles. He holds out the second guitar to me.
I want to carry on refusing, but I remind myself that I’m here for Rhys, not me, so I force myself to stand up and take the plastic guitar from him. It’s light in my hands. He chooses a song on the easiest setting – ‘Heart-shaped Box’ – but I still fumble with the buttons, laughing with embarrassment, missing at least half the notes.
You just need a bit more practice, Rhys tells me when we finish. He’s clearly tried to go easy on me, but he still beats me by miles. He leans over and kisses me, right in front of all of his friends. We can play at my house.
For a second I think it’s just me who’s read an innuendo into these words, but then his grin widens, he shows all his teeth. He winks at me.
My entire body explodes in a shower of all-singing, all-dancing sparks.
By the time we leave Owen’s house it’s 10.30 p.m. and it’s started to rain. Neither of us has an umbrella so we hurry to the car, me holding my arms over my head and Rhys ambling along behind me as if the rain doesn’t bother him at all. At the car I bounce on my feet by the locked door, pulling fruitlessly at the handle.
He grins at me from the driver-side door, taking his time with his keys.
‘You suck,’ I say.
He finally unlocks the door and I scramble in, shivering, shaking my wet hair so the droplets fly all over his car. I’m about to start complaining when his hand takes a hold of my chin, his lips open against mine and – oh hello – we’re kissing.
It’s just brief, but it’s enough for my body to heat up, my heart to start thundering, a soppy grin to appear over my face. As Rhys starts the engine and cranks up the heating, I slide my hair behind my ears and settle back against my seat.