Song of Summer by Laura Lee Anderson Read Free Book Online Page A

pretty! Me!
    â€œI’m sorry,” I write hastily. No time to make my writing look good. “I hope I got it right. I didn’t mean to offend—” and he takes the pen right out of my hand.
    â€œDon’t be sorry,” he writes. His fingers are strong and long and lean and about four shades darker than mine. His nails are short and neat. “You got it right,” he finishes. He looks at me and gives me a smile that is more than distracting. My heart is racing and my breath is shallow. I nod, hoping I’m still the color of a person and not the color of, say, a cartoon character.
    â€œIt means a lot,” he writes, and looks up to gauge my reaction.
    He is so intense. Are all deaf people this intense? And gorgeous. Are they all this gorgeous? I’ve never met one before. I shrug off the compliment. I grab the pen out of his hand. “No biggie,” I write. He flexes his fingers once, like a cat stretching out its claws, as he watches.
    â€œRobin!” Elsie’s shrill voice is about two seconds too late to interrupt the moment. “A little help?”
    Ah yes, two tables came in at once. Call in the Coast Guard. I write as much on the paper and Carter laughs silently. “I’ll be back,” I promise.
    He nods but I feel his eyes on me as I grab menus and head to my new table—an older couple who keeps changing their minds and asking for more rolls. Another table walks in and I take that one, too. At this rate I’ll never get back.
    Sometimes when I glance over, Carter’s looking out the window. Sometimes he’s canoodling around on his phone. Sometimes he’s even looking at me. But from a distance, all we can do is wave, which feels a little silly after the third or fourth time.
    He sits back and pushes his plate to the middle of his table, finished. I dig his check out from my apron pocket and unrumple it. He signs, “Thank you,” touching his fingertips to his chin, and I wave like it’s no big deal.
    â€œYou want anything else?” I write on my paper.
    In answer, he pushes the pad of paper to the edge of the table. “When do you get off work?” it says in his neat, effortless handwriting.
    My heart skips a beat. He did not just ask me out. Did he? “Four,” I write on his paper.
    His face brightens and he begins to write something, but I keep writing. “But I have plans…”
    A frown creases his eyebrows.
    â€œWhat about tomorrow?” he writes. I have to practice. My free night is for Jenni, and the rest are for piano and guitar, or even pennywhistle. I want to find and perfect a new fingerpicking pattern for the church performance. I glance at his hopeful puppy dog face.
    With a gulp, I pick up the pen and circle “Four,” and write, “again.”
    â€œMuch better,” he writes. “Unless… if you don’t want to hang out or…”
    Screw practicing. This time I grab the pen out of his hand. He looks up at me through those eyelashes, and my breath catches in my throat.
    I nod. “Sounds good,” I write. I put a smiley face next to it and immediately regret the decision. It looks silly. Plus, I’m standing right here. If he wants to see me smile, he just has to look up.
    But he laughs, and I turn into a big pile of Robin mush.
    He folds the paper, pushing it into his pocket as he stands up. He slides his helmet to the edge of the table and tucks it under his arm.
    He’s tall, like on the “ROBIN’S PERFECT MAN” list.
My head would rest perfectly on his chest,
I think, and then I shake the thought out of my head and whisper, “Shut up, Robin,” under my breath.
    He looks down at me quizzically.
    Uh-oh. “Nothing,” I say clearly to him. “It was nothing.”
    He nods, unsure. “Okay,” he mouths, still a little question behind his eyes.
    I look at the ceiling and silently curse my whispering compulsion.