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I had a free period for my last class of the day and instead of waiting for Eddie, which I sometimes did, today I went to the park instead, sending him a text so he would know where I would be. If he didn't come find me, we would see each other later at the Home and that was fine, too, but I had promised him I would use my phone more often.

When I saw the new girl, I hesitated for a moment. Like me when I first arrived, she seemed to want to keep to herself and one part of me thought I should respect that. But I also wanted her to feel welcome. It had meant a lot to me that first night, when Eddie made me feel like I wasn't too strange to be his friend.

So I smiled and waved at her as I approached. One of the workers at the Home had told us she couldn't hear and I was fascinated by that, but knew better than to start asking the dozens of questions I had, so I settled for just the wave.

Regan recognizes the boy from the Home, though she doesn't know his name. She doesn't know almost anyone's names, there, and part of her thinks maybe she should change that.

When he waves, she waves, too, with a small smile. He gets a bit closer, so Regan pulls her notebook out of her backpack, which she still carries pretty much everywhere, and writes something down.

I can't hear. My name is Regan.

She turns it towards him when he's close enough to actually see it, hoping to nip any awkward, one-sided conversations in the bud.

I peered at the notebook before I smiled and nodded, then turned around my own backpack so I could take out the notebook I often used for drawing or my own personal notes instead of just my schoolwork.

Flipping to a fresh page, I wrote, My name is Jamie. The worker at the Home told us you can't hear. Can you read lips?

I was still keeping myself from asking all the questions I wanted to ask, but I thought that was one pretty important. I wondered if she used sign language, then thought it was very likely. Then I wondered how difficult it would be to learn. It must be a little lonely, I thought, not really being able to talk to anyone except through writing.

She reads the message with a small smile. At least people are spreading the word about her deafness. She tries not to think about 'if she were Hearing', and lowers her pencil to her paper.

Reading lips is tricky. I can catch some words but everyone has different mouths and ways of speaking. American Sign Language is easier because if it has any dialectal changes they're pretty easy to figure out.

She looks up at him, then hesitates and adds, Can you sign? It doesn't seem likely if he hasn't yet, but it doesn't hurt to ask, she thinks.

I shook my head, but I was still smiling and I bent over my notebook to write, Is it very difficult to learn? I loved learning and even though I wasn't always happy to be sitting in a desk at school -- I got very restless some days and couldn't wait for gym class -- I was happy to be there.

Learning another language seemed daunting, but it would be nice for Regan if she could communicate with people somehow other than writing. And there were no Many-Eyed to kill here, no pirates to fight. A different sort of challenge would be just the thing.

Are there books to teach me? I added.

The fact that he's asked is enough to light up Regan's face. She has to force herself to calm down so she doesn't overwhelm him with enthusiasm. As it is, she writes furiously for several minutes before showing him the page.

The hardest part for a Hearing person is the facial expressions and body language, she's written. Basics signs are easy to remember, but if you just use basic signs, it's like talking in baby talk? Facial expressions and your body can change a phrase. Like 'Can we go to the mall?' is just 'We go mall' until you put a question in your eyebrows or something. Does that make sense?

Also, there's an alphabet you can sign with, too, and it's slower, but it's good for things you don't know the sign for, or especially for names. My name is Regan. When you get to that part, point at the page, and I'll sign my name for you. Names also get shortened to a single sign, or a combo sign. I'll show you that, too.

I read everything she had written, going all the way to end the so I understood everything before I pointed at her name and looked up eagerly. I was excited to see how she signed her name, what it looked like.

The rest of it made sense to me, what she was saying about things having different meanings due to facial cues. It made all the difference for us, too, people who could hear, so it made sense to me that it would make a difference for her.

Regan waits for him to finish reading and for him to look up, and she signs her name. She takes it slow, and signs it more than once, so he can see how the letters on the page relate to the shapes her fingers make. It feels special, and important, that someone wants to learn, to make her life easier. She's spent so long with just her family, she'd forgotten how good the world could be.

I watched carefully as she signed, paid close attention to the shapes her fingers made and tried to identify each one. Two of the letters in our names were the same, so I paid particularly close attention to the E and the A.

Then I picked up my pen again and wrote, Can you show me how to sign my name?

It was a small thing to start with, we would hardly be able to have a conversation that way, but it was still a start. I would get a book as soon as I was able, I had already decided.

She smiles. "Yes," she replies, and adjusts how she's sitting so she's facing him more. "Jamie. J-A-M-I-E." She runs through it a couple of times, especially since the J isn't a hand shape, but a hand motion. "My name is Regan," she adds. "Your name is Jamie."

I watched carefully, paying attention to the shapes her hands made as she signed my name. Then I watched as she spelled her name again, adding something to it that I thought was maybe part of a full introduction.

It was probably too much for me right off, but I made the effort anyway, fumbling a little with the introduction. The letters of my name, though, I was pretty sure I got them right. I grinned at Regan, hoping for the best.

"Very good!" she praises. That he's trying at all is huge, honestly, but he'd done pretty alright, too, for a beginner. But she returns to the page and pencil so she can make sure they're more understood.

Not bad for a first try. That longer sign I showed you was 'My name is/Your name is' and our names. 'Name' is when you tap two fingers against two fingers, twice, like I did.

I read her words, then tapped two fingers against my other two fingers twice, following her example. It was only one word and a simple one at that, but it was still one more word than I had known ten minutes ago.

I couldn't expect Regan to teach me everything and I knew that, but it was still nice, knowing that if I got a book at the library, she would be able to tell me if I was doing things properly.

I bet it takes as long to learn as any other language, I wrote. It'll be like you're talking to a baby for awhile, I think. But I was smiling as I wrote it. I was excited by the possibility of learning.

She smiles. Don't worry. Once you start getting the facial cues, you'll be a master. If it helps you, a lot of Hearing people will say what they sign as they sign it. I think it kind of helps them to remember the sign they want to use. She shrugs as she turns the page back to face him. She can't really know if that's why, for sure. Her parents and her brothers didn't mouth the words — usually.

That made sense, too, and it was something I would try to remember. Saying the words as I signed them. Regan had all kinds of ideas for me to learn and I appreciated them all and I hoped I could actually come through with something that would make it a little easier for her to speak with me. Writing was fine, we were able to communicate, but it took a lot longer than it would if I were able to sign like she could.

They'll have to hire someone at the Home who knows sign language, won't they? I wrote. It wouldn't be safe if she couldn't communicate with any of the workers. Do any of them know it already?

I think one of them does. I can't remember which one, though. She looks a bit bashful once she's written that down. One would think one would remember someone who shares her language, right? It's mostly because she'd ignored as much of the conversations as she could once she'd gone inside. She'd just wanted to hide away.

It's different, now. It isn't terrible, here.

I'll try to ask when I get home. Maybe they can help you learn, too.

I hoped one of them already knew, because it meant there would be one more person around for me to practice with and also they could correct me out loud if they had to. The more I thought about it, the more excited I was by the possibility of learning. I loved to learn and Darrow offered me so much more in that regard than the Island ever had. Peter wanted me to be a very specific thing, he wanted me to be his Jamie and his alone, but here I was able to be so much more.e

He would hate it if I knew how to communicate with Regan and he didn't, which made it more appealing still.

I hope so, I wrote. Are you having an ok time settling in? I know it can be difficult.

She smiles as she reads what he's written. He's sweet, she's realizing. They could probably be good friends.

I think so. It's all really weird. Scary sometimes. But good, too. She'd missed the freedom of a world not shrouded in terror, more than she'd realized before coming here.

I nodded in understanding, because I had felt that way, too, and often still did feel that way about Darrow. It was so odd, the way things worked here, but I preferred it to being on the Island with Peter.

I found it scary at first, too, I wrote. But the kids in the Home are mostly terribly nice and if anyone is rude to you at school, just punch them once really hard. They tend to leave you alone after that. I smiled as I showed her what I had written, as if I was telling a joke, but I really did mean it. Punching bullies once, showing them you were strong, that tended to get them off your back for the most part.

Regan breathes a little laugh when she reads that. I don't think I'll be punching anyone. I'll probably just ignore them. That'd always worked on bullies at her old school, but then again, ignoring a Deaf kid was as easy as closing your eyes. It probably wouldn't be as easy in a Hearing school. She'd have an interpreter, so maybe traveling in constant pairs, and with an adult, no less, would be helpful.

I wasn't very good at ignoring them. When it came to myself, it wasn't as hard, because none of the bullies were creative enough to come up with anything worse than what Peter had done to me. I had already lived with the worst possible bully in the world and I had survived. Maybe with a few scars, but still, I was here and I was happy and Peter wasn't.

But when it came to the other kids, I had a much harder time ignoring their bad behaviour. Still, I knew it was a strange thing, offering to hit someone for a person I'd only just met.

So I only wrote, That's smart. Less trouble that way. The workers at the Home don't like when I fight.

Most adults don't, she writes in agreement. She can remember when she and Marcus used to get into squabbles. They never really fought, not the out-and-out brawls like some siblings got into, but they had their share of bickering, and her parents had hated it.

She doesn't know why she doesn't share that with Jamie, but she doesn't. Instead, she writes, Do you like it at the Home okay? She'd like to know what she's getting into, in the long run. Maybe she can squat in Greta's garage, or something.

I nodded, smiling, then wrote quickly in my notebook. It's not perfect, but I like it a lot. I get to be close to my friends and I get to be in the same room as my boyfriend, Eddie. (Don't tell the workers he's my boyfriend, they might make me move rooms.)

I had called him my boyfriend before, but there was something about seeing it in writing that made my smile grow even further.

I didn't have anyone back home. No family. It's nice to be around the people who love me here.

Regan can't help a little smile at that. I won't tell anyone, promise. That's really awesome, though. It doesn't bother her, even for a moment, that Jamie has a boyfriend. He seems to be a sweetheart, and he deserves to be happy, and if his boyfriend Eddie makes him happy, then good. Might want to erase that, though, so nobody finds this and then finds out.

She was right about that and I laughed, scratching out the bit I'd written about Eddie, even though I still liked seeing his name beside the word boyfriend. I could write it again if I wanted to. Whenever I wanted to.

It really isn't so bad, I wrote. But I also don't have anyone to miss. It might be a little harder, if you're missing your family.

I understood that, even if I didn't have a family who might miss me in return.

I'm sorry to hear that, Regan writes down. I guess it's hard. You really don't have anyone where you're from? It's a hard question to even ask, let alone answer, but Regan doesn't take it back.

I shrugged, then considered what to write. It was a lot, trying to tell the story of Peter and what happened to my mother, and writing it all down seemed daunting in a way it didn't always when I was speaking. After a moment, I began to write again and it took me longer than I would have liked before I could show her, but I thought Regan would be patient.

I come from a very long time ago. It's very different from Darrow. My father was cruel and my mother was killed by someone I thought was a friend. I was living with that friend before I came to Darrow and I had only just realized what he had done to my mother. And to me. So sometimes I miss him, because I loved him for such a very long time, but mostly I'm glad to be away from him and somewhere I can start over again.

It's an incredible story. For a moment, she wants to argue that it's a lie, or an exaggeration. But Jamie is too earnest, she thinks, too sweet.

Besides: she's not sure anyone could actually make that up about themselves.

That sounds terrible and complicated, she writes. It feels lame, the way that apologizing for anything of importance does. But I'm glad you're here and can start over. That's how I'm trying to look at it, too.

Blue's got an extra shift today, covering one of the baristas who's called in sick, and so she's taken the time between the morning and evening to grab Copper and take her for a walk. Persephone has always been mellow, and the rats don't need much room, in the two bedroom that she and Kat share, but Copper -- peaceful as she is -- is built for long treks and so Blue makes sure she gets at least one if not two long stretches a day.

She notices the girl sitting alone. First, because she is alone, and a young-teenagery sort of age that tends to be found either in clusters, or if alone, doing something in particular. And secondly, because she's seen her peering in at the cats and wondered before if she was going to come in.

The girl's people-watching, and she lifts a hand in hello, waving. "Hey," she says by way of introduction, "You watch the cats at the cafe sometimes, don't you?" As Blue takes notice so does Copper, and she lifts her head in interest, wagging her tail and taking a few steps forward.

If Regan hadn't already been watching the people walking around her, she might not have noticed the girl and her dog, or the wave. She smiles a bit wanly — mostly out of shyness — and waves back. She can see the girl's mouth moving, and she catches a few easy-to-read words, but she doesn't answer. Instead, she pulls out a notebook and flips to a page she's clearly prepared for this moment.

My name is Regan. I'm deaf. She shows the girl, then turns the notebook around again and adds, I like your dog.

"Oh!" Blue's whole body sort of exaggerates her understanding, and she smiles at Regan's addition, digging for her phone, then pauses. This whole thing could be easier, if...

"Do you sign?" she signs, letting the loop of the leash sit around her wrist so she can do the motion for "sign". She's not good enough at it not to mouth the words behind what she's saying, and her grammar could use some work, but she's not bad given her lack of reason to practice these days.

Edited (lol i was trying to find an icon that looked like she was making a question face. kiinda?) 2019-01-20 09:17 (UTC)

Regan's eyes widen, and she surges to the edge of her seat.

"Yes!" Her enthusiasm is evident in how vigorously she raises and lowers her fist. This is so exciting! "When I realized I was going to be in a new place like this, I didn't think there would be anyone who could sign. You're, like, the second person I've met!" She tries to go slow, because she wants to make sure she's understood.

Blue grins at the enthusiastic yes and Regan's brightened expression. She's not as good at understanding other people as she is at signing herself, so her brow furrows just a little as she follows, translating to herself.

There are a few words she doesn't catch, but as the first sentence winds down, she's already smiling, glad she can help. She can tell Regan's signing more slowly than she has to, and it makes her think maybe she should take some lessons.

"My friend's sister was deaf, so I learned," she signs by way of explanation. Then, with a little coy grin she adds, "And my cat is deaf, too, but she doesn't know ASL."

(Cat is one of her favorite signs, like whiskers.)

"I'm Blue," she signs, using finger-spelling, then signs the color too, just to make it clear that yes, it is a weird name and yes, Regan's reading it right. "This is Copper."

"I see you at the cat cafe sometimes. You should come in!"

Edited 2019-01-29 07:40 (UTC)

Learning about a deaf cat makes Regan think about teaching animals simple signs, but she doesn't get into that right now. Most cats, at least to her understanding, are very contrary to learning things, anyway.

"I've been in once," she replies. "It was really nice! If I knew you were there and could sign, I would have started talking to you then. I'm Regan. 'Blue' is such a cool name. So is 'Copper,'" she adds, so the dog doesn't feel left out — whether or not it even knows its name fingerspelled.

Persephone probably could learn signs for things like come, or down, the way that Blue is accustomed to using body language as well as English for those commands to dogs, but she'd almost certainly pretend she didn't know. It's much easier for her having trained Blue into feeding her at the same time of day and knowing when she wants to be touched.

"I'm sorry I missed you!" Blue says, smiling and takes a seat with a little bit of a question. "Thank you. People don't always ..." She doesn't recall the sign for believe so she spells it out. "It's my real name."

"Are you new here?" She doesn't know everyone here by a long shot but she's gotten fairly good at recognizing when she's never seen a person before. The people like them who are out of place and time tend to congregate, a little.

"Yes, I got here earlier in the week," she answers. "It's . . . really different from what I'm used to. The timeline is close, it's not that, but. Everything else. All the people, and the noise."

Maybe it seems ironic that a Deaf girl is talking about how noisy the city is, but she has a feeling that Blue will understand. Or, at least, she hopes she will.

Blue nods, understanding that much even if she doesn't know exactly when or where Regan is from -- though she clearly has been told that people come from all sorts of different times. "Only a few days? I wanted to hide, so you're doing good," she smiles.

"Where are you from? I'm from Henrietta, Virginia," she spells out. "All trees and mountains. Much quieter and ... greener. Maybe that's why I always end up at the park."

"I'm from Iowa," she answers, "but I'm also from after the world sort of ends? No explosions or like in the movies. But something comes to the planet and ruins everything."

There. She's said it. Making it real like this is scary, because it's going to be so easy for Blue to decide that Regan is crazy and not worth her time, or else that whatever she's left behind at home will make its way here.

She really hopes that neither of those things is the case.

Iowa conjures cornfields, but what Regan says next is more important. Blue definitely misses a few signs there, but end of world is unmissable and her eyes widen; she nods, grimly. “Shit,” she says out loud, though she doesn’t know the sign for it, and switching back into sign, says “That’s terrible.”

Feeling like she needs to contextualize her lack of surprise, she hesitantly adds, “I actually...I know a lot of people living here who come from the end of the world?” She almost laughs. “My ex-girlfriend and one of my friends both had zombies. Different kinds of zombies! This place is crazy.”

Or maybe less crazy, considering.

“In Virginia we had magic. But no end of the world.”

She's heard about magic since coming here. Not, like, in the abstract sense: Beau had believed in magic in his own way, of course. Regan probably had, too, when she'd been younger. But Greta had told her that, here, people come from places with real magic.

It's still kind of hard for her to believe. She hasn't seen much of it yet, so it's easy to pretend she'd never learned it at all. But now she's faced with it again, and she tilts her head, unable to hide the uncertainty — very nearly the fear, even — at the remark.

"Real magic?" she asks, a bit hesitantly.

Regan's eyes go wide and a little -- sensibly, honestly -- trepidatious, and Blue nods, her "Yes" certain but not overenthusiastic.

"Good and bad. I had a friend there who could dream things into life. Make dream things real," she adds, because she's not sure how to explain what Ronan does. "But there were scary things, too."

"And my family are all psychic." She spells it out. "Except me. I don't know if that's magic, though. That's more like...seeing more."

Regan isn't even sure how to take this information. Psychic? Can Blue understand Regan's thoughts? No, she said she wasn't. Regan tips her head a little.

"You're the only one in your family that isn't psychic?" she asks. That sort of sucks. Kind of like being the only one in the family that can't hear.

"Yeah," Blue says with a wry smile. "Fun, right? I..." She hesitates for a moment, because it's hard to explain her ability and she's always a little hesitant about revealing it. It's such an easy thing to see as useful, and Blue doesn't like being seen as an advantage, not a person. But Regan is a teenager, and doesn't -- as far as Blue can tell - have any powers that are likely to use hers. "I do have my own powers. But mostly what I do is make other people's powers stronger. I got dragged into the room when my mom was trying to see something a lot."

She does have other abilities, she knows, from what she's been told particularly by Gansey coming from her own future. But she doesn't know how to use them, here, and she's not sure what all they entail or if she even wants to risk finding out. Maybe something she should find out, someday.

After so many years of doing her homework at the small kitchen table back home, Rosie felt very silly and incredibly cosmopolitan about what had become her usual routine in Darrow: sitting in a cafe, a mug of something hot beside her, alternately working on her assignments and watching people pass by outside. The general sketch of it hasn't changed much at all, maybe; the table still a little small and her drink of choice still either tea or cocoa, depending on her mood. But here, there's no parental disapprovals to tune out, no older brother or his friends plodding loudly through the room on their way to the parks for a game of football. Above all, it feels different enough, which is what matters most.

Having finished her drink, but not her grammar worksheet, she unfolds herself from the chair she'd curled up in and picks up her mug, thinking she may as well get another before she dives back in. At this point in the afternoon, there aren't many other people in the cafe; it's easy to notice a familiar (or semi-familiar) face, like that of her new roommate at the Home. Rosie had overheard the staff talking about accommodations for the other girl, something about installing a new fire alarm with a flashing light, since the new girl wouldn't be able to hear the old one. That she's deaf makes Rosie uncertain about how to proceed with saying hello; was it ruder just to wave, or to start off with a note?

After a bit of deliberation, she tears a blank piece of paper from her notebook and writes, trying to keep her penmanship as clear as she can. Carefully, even a bit hesitantly, she approaches where the other girl's sitting, trying to catch her eye and smile before she lays the paper on the table.

Hello, I'm Rosie--we're roommates at the Home. Please tell me if this is an awful way to say hello. The people at the Home said you're not able to hear so I didn't just want to start talking to you, but maybe that might've been better. I'm not sure.

Sorry, I talk an awful lot. Or...write, in this situation.

The paper is a surprise, but as she reads it, it becomes plain that it's a welcome one. Regan had recognized the girl, but she'd sort of pretended not to see her. After reading the message, though, and the deliberation that had clearly been behind it, she feels a little bad for that.

Regan grabs her pencil, then beneath Rosie's message, writes her own.

Hi Rosie. I'm Regan. This is a good way to say hello if you don't know how to sign. I'm sort of glad that I don't have to explain that I'm deaf and that I can't read lips. It's hard to say that, and makes me feel isolated.

Would you like to sit down?

It's a relief when Regan starts writing her own message back. Rosie smiles, glad she'd gotten that part right at least. When she reads the other girl's response, she tries to do so a little more actively, maybe, than she might have otherwise; nodding along as she might have if they were speaking, frowning a little in sympathy when she gets to the part about feeling isolated. It's not the same at all, but it reminds her of how difficult it had been to communicate in Anterwold, how she'd struggled to understand what was being said and make herself understood in turn. At least she'd been able to hear them, even if at first it had sounded like nothing more than bits of so many languages run through a mangle.

She nods again, more decisively, in answer to the question before she starts writing a longer response.

Yes, I would. I need to get my bookbag and things from where I was sitting, but I was just over by the window, so it's not as though I have to go very far. Rosie pauses, breathing out an embarrassed laugh. The cafe was only so big; it isn't as though either of them had been sitting in Siberia. Before turning the paper around, she adds another line.

I'm sorry I don't know how to sign--is it easy to learn?

Regan smiles as she reads the message, and gives Rosie time to gather her things while she writes her own.

You don't have to apologize for not knowing how to sign. Most Hearing people don't, I think, unless they have a family member, or job as an interpreter. It's pretty easy to learn, though. The trickiest part, I think, is remembering to use facial expressions, because expressions can change some signs from meaning one word to meaning another word. I'm going to have an interpreter when I go to school. It'll be my first time mainstreaming in a public school instead of a Deaf school. Maybe, if we both go to the same school, we can try to set up a language club for ASL?

She debates erasing that last sentence. It's a self-preservation thing, mainly. She doesn't want to get her hopes up that Rosie might be her friend, only for them to end up hating each other for some reason. Maybe Rosie will think her nose is stupid, or her hair is ugly.

But Regan takes a bracing breath and turns the page to face the other girl once she's seated across from her. No going back now. Besides, she could use a friend here.

Once she sees Regan start to write again, Rosie walks back to her old table, picking up her bag and scooping her notebooks and French textbook under one arm. She tries to ignore the feeling she's done something thoughtless, essentially walking away in the middle of their conversation. No matter that Regan had given her permission, of a sort, or that the circumstances of their communication meant that it was less strange to get up and do something while the other girl wrote, instead of sitting there just watching her put pencil to paper.

Still, Regan doesn't look unhappy, once Rosie's returned to their table, which is an encouraging sign. Hesitant, maybe; reading over whatever she'd written, letting out a sigh before turning the paper back, but not angry or upset by any accidental rudeness Rosie might have shown. She reads over the short paragraph, a bright, pleased smile crossing her face when she gets to the question at the end.

Yes! I go to Petros High, so if you enroll there we should definitely start a language club, she writes. And if Regan decides on Darrow High instead, she just might look to see if Petros already has a sign language group anyway. Wherever you go, it's good you'll have an interpreter. Were all the schools where you're from schools for the deaf? I never saw any in Oxford, where I'm from--it was all just

Rosie pauses just before she finishes that sentence with normal schools, realizing just in time how that might sound to the other girl. School, she writes instead--not much better, maybe, but an improvement on simply leaving the sentence unfinished.

There were Hearing schools, too. My brothers went to one. I was supposed to mainstream there but I didn't get the chance to before coming here. I do kind of wish there were a Deaf school here, but I think it'll be okay.

She doesn't tell Rosie about the creatures. Not yet, anyway. There's no need to scare her off, or make her think Regan is crazy. Maybe once they become better friends, she can ease her into it, but for now, no.

Oxford is in England, right? Do you miss it?

Though she doesn't know any more about Regan's relationship with her brothers than the other girl knows about Rosie's relationship with her own, Rosie still feels a stab of sympathy when she sees them mentioned. It's difficult to be separated from family, even family you might not miss overmuch on any given day.

Yes, in England, she writes, then stops, tapping the eraser end of her pencil against her lips and considering her answer to Regan's other question. To say no is no more honest than saying yes would be; the true answer lies somewhere in the uncertain middle.

There are some things I miss and some things I don't. I had a neighbour there who was sort of a friend and I miss him (and his cat, even though Jenkins was always a bit grouchy), and I miss having a proper cup of tea, and I miss the parks and how beautiful the university buildings are. Every so often, I even miss my old school, even though the teachers here are much nicer and my classmates aren't all girls, like it was back home. Rosie draws a little smily face next to that, a simple dash of lines, before turning the paper around again.

Regan smiles as she reads that. That makes sense, she replies. I miss home and don't at the same time, too. It's weird. That's a bit uncolorful, but it's still the truth. She's not sure how to articulate the complicated feelings she has about it all, especially with a perfect stranger, so 'weird' it is.

I'm from the midwest. United States. I'm very boring, haha. Nothing cool like England.

Rosie laughs at that, even though she knows Regan won't be able to hear it. I've never been to the midwest, or to America at all, so it sounds very cool to me. Much cooler than someplace that's just...home. When she'd thought about the adventures she might take, none of them had included the middle of America--a place she can really only picture as a lot of farms and very little glamour--but having never been there, who's to say there's not something grand about it?

I suppose it's a matter of perspective; we're interested in the places that aren't what we're used to. I suppose that means we ought to find Darrow very interesting indeed. She pauses in her writing and allows Regan to read it, punctuating her last sentence with a wry smile. Anyplace that yanked people out of their usual lives deserved a less kind descriptor than just interesting.

Once it seems as though Regan's read what she's written thus far, she picks up her pencil again, adding another few sentences. Is there a sign for wherever in the midwest you're from? The city name, or the state?

Regan likes Rosie, she decides. It's hard not to like someone who can make jokes and admit that anywhere can be cool if it's not where you're from.

There isn't really a sign for the state. Just the fingerspelling for it. I'm from Iowa, so it's... She waits until Rosie looks at her and signs it to her. But when my family and I talk about it, we use a name sign. It's... She shows that, too, so that Rosie can follow along a little better.

"Iowa," she echoes, spelling out the state name more slowly and with less grace than Regan. But she spells it, her first word in a new language, and that's a triumph all its own. She doesn't try to copy the other sign the girl shows her; something about it seems private, maybe just the fact that her now-absent family used it back wherever Regan's from. But just to have managed Iowa is enough to make her grin, bright and open, at the other girl.

Oh, that's brilliant, she writes. Thank you for showing me--wait, how do you say 'thank you'?

Regan smiles, and she signs it, rather than write it down. She also shows her 'You're welcome' to round out the little lesson.

It's so cool that you're interested in learning, she writes. I hope I don't end up overwhelming you!

It's been cold lately in a way that seems to speak of impending snow, but Beverly isn't fazed by that in the slightest. Even having somewhere to live that she actually likes, staying with Hopper still almost seemingly too good to be true, she's never been much for being cooped up indoors for very long. So it is that, bundled up in a coat and scarf and gloves, she's ridden her bike out to the park, stopping by a picnic bench to check her phone, considering texting Eddie or Richie to see what they're up to.

Before she gets a chance, she spots a girl she doesn't recognize but who looks to be about her age headed down the path. Once, she might have looked away and not acknowledged anyone else, too used to being at the bottom of the metaphorical social barrel, but now, she smiles, lifting one gloved hand in a wave. "Hi."

The girl waves back, a small smile on her own face. She seems willing enough to leave it at that, at least for a moment. Then she burrows into the backpack on the ground by her feet and pulls out a notebook and pencil. Flipping to an empty page, she writes something down quickly, then she turns it to face the girl.

I'm not being rude. I can't hear. Hello.

It seems, at first, like a puzzling response, though Beverly doesn't let on as much beyond a slightly furrowed brow. Once she sees what the other girl has written, though, it makes sense. Her eyes widen a little, and she nods in recognition, faltering for just a moment as she tries to figure out how best to respond. Her phone winds up seeming easiest, an instinct that she wouldn't have had even just a few months ago. Opening her Notes app, she types a quick message.

Hi! Sorry, I'm not sure what the best way to talk is -- are phones good or is there something better?

She holds the phone out in turn, then, the screen facing the other girl and her expression friendly.

Typing on the phone might be faster, but Regan's already committed to using her notebook, so after she reads the girl's message, she lowers her pencil to the page again.

If you know how to sign (in ASL) then that would be better, but if you don't, then this is fine. Most Hearing people don't unless they have a reason to. She looks up at the girl before turning the page to face her, and adds, I'm Regan. I like your hair.

On one hand, Beverly can't say that she's ever had a conversation like this with someone in person, writing back and forth out of necessity. On the other, it isn't really all that different from texting; she's just showing what she's written instead of sending it. Easy enough, and she decides quickly, easily, that it's not like she wouldn't just not talk to someone because they can't hear her. It seems like the kind of dick move the kids she went to school with back home would have pulled, and that's not her. If a few sentences are telling enough, then Regan seems nice, and for her own part, Beverly can roll with this.

Thanks! I'm Beverly, she types, already smiling before she finishes and holds her phone back out. It's nice to meet you. I don't think I've seen you around before?

I've only been here for a few days, Regan writes, And I've been sort of all over the place, looking at all the cool things. It's pretty different from where I'm from. A dinky town in the midwest haha.

She feels a little bashful as she turns the page to face her, and this time it's because she regrets clarifying where she's from. It's not like Beverly will suddenly hate her just because she's midwestern, right? It's not like she'll judge her for being from a small town instead of a city like Darrow.

Right?

I totally get that. I'm from a small town in Maine, nothing like this at all. Beverly grins, nose wrinkling a little as she holds her phone back over. She's been here long enough now that she's gotten pretty used to it, but she remembers how mind-blowing it had been at first, suddenly being in the middle of a big city, never mind one almost thirty years in the future. That's always a strange detail to drop into conversation, though, and she doesn't want to make this too weird too soon. If Regan has only been here for a few days, then she's probably had a lot to take in already, and Beverly doesn't know what she might have found out yet.

That's a relief, and Regan feels her shoulders relax a little. It's so weird, here! And I've met people from different timeframes and even different worlds and they tell me that there's magic where they're from. It doesn't feel real sometimes. Like I'll just wake up and suddenly be back home and this is all a weird dream.

Okay, she'd gotten a little rambly there. It's a relief, though, that it sounds like Beverly is from a place sort of like hers. The culture shock of coming to a fairly large city is hard to explain to someone who's from a city, and now she and Beverly have something concrete in common.

For all that Beverly doesn't think she's ever really sat and conversed with anyone like this, it's not all that different from texting as she gets into it, easy to fall into a rhythm. Regan is easy to talk to, too; Beverly likes her instinctively, nodding along as she reads what Regan has written before typing out her own response.

Right? It's crazy. Like something out of a sci-fi movie or something. I thought I knew weird, and then I got here. She doesn't often like to talk about home a lot, or about the fact that she hopes she doesn't wake up to find this was all a weird dream, but she doesn't want to be disingenuous, either. Things got pretty crazy back there for a while, but it's nothing compared to what happens in Darrow on a regular basis.

I think I like it, though, Regan writes. It feels weird to say, like she's somehow betraying her family. But it's still the truth. She turns it to show Beverly, then makes a face and continues, Is that awful? I feel like a bad daughter for even thinking it. But it is kind of better here.

She still struggles with how much she wants to tell her, but at the very least, she can say that much.

Though Beverly understands full well that there are people in Darrow who miss home, who have good reasons to, it's almost a relief to read. She lets out a breath, shaking her head even before she types a response. Not awful at all. As weird as it might be here, it's way better than it was at home. She pauses a beat, thinking she'll leave it at that, but then adds on a whim, I'm glad it's not just me.

She holds the phone back out to Regan then, pleased if a little more self-conscious than the situation probably calls for. She's not great at making friends, mostly because she's never had any of them. While she still may not be inclined to talk about some of the reasons why she's happier here and what she left behind at home, though, she does feel a little more at ease for knowing that she's not the only one who thinks it's better here.

It's a huge relief to read, and Regan can't stop the smile that spreads, or the way her shoulders sag.

"Thank God," she says, but leaves it at that since she's still holding her notebook and pencil. Same here, honestly, she adds to the page. Hey, how weird does it get here? Everyone I talk to keeps kind of hinting that it can be messed up, but then they don't say how. It can't be worse than home, right?

Beverly wrinkles her nose as she starts to type. Uh, pretty weird... from ridiculous to creepy. On New Year's, there were gingerbread cookies that attacked people? And not to creep you out, but I'm pretty sure the Home is haunted. Her expression is lighthearted but apologetic as she holds the phone over. It feels kind of shitty saying so, but there's no sense in downplaying it, and it's probably better that Regan finds out sooner rather than later anyway. She wouldn't want to be in the dark about that sort of thing, and she doubts anyone else would.

That has Regan's eyebrows shooting up. She isn't sure how to take it at first, so she writes Literal gingerbread cookies? as if Beverly might mean people dressed up like them or something else. That's... pretty bizarre, honestly, and Regan's seen bizarre.

The idea that the Home might be haunted almost skates over her awareness, but she catches it at the last minute and frowns. She hasn't noticed anything, yet. Hopefully it stays that way.

Literal gingerbread cookies, Beverly types, nodding as she does in preemptive confirmation. It was SO weird. I mean, weird even for this place. Weird by her standards, too, and as hazy as some of those memories might be, she knows she has an unusual standard in that regard. Darrow's got its fair share of bizarre shit and then some, but a lot of people come from places where that wasn't the case already, at least from what she can tell, or if it was, it wasn't like this.

Not wanting to sound too ominous, though, she adds quickly, But most of the time, it's pretty normal? Like things are quiet for a while, and then they get crazy really quickly, and then they just get quiet again.

That's all a weird way to refer to a place, but at least Regan feels a little better prepared now. It seemed too good to be true that the quiet would last forever, anyway. It hadn't at home, either, and here... well, it's weirdly comforting that it's not different in that respect.

Is there usually any warning for that? she writes in her notebook. She draws a little emoji nervous face, with closed eyes and a squiggly mouth, beside her question.

Not really, Beverly types, including a little grimacing emoji after the words. But apparently there's usually something on New Year's. NOT usually weird attacking cookies, though. She's heard enough rumors that it's not always easy to separate fact from fiction. She doesn't want to go giving the wrong idea, but she doesn't want to let Regan go unwarned, either.

But even with all that, I like it here.

Things aren't easier, but at least Neil is getting more used to having Beau in his life. He's gotten into a routine with him, as much as he can with his erratic work schedule, and that certainly helps them both.

Still, it is an erratic schedule, and on days where he's worked, Beau tends to be more pent up. He's a good dog, and not destructive, but he's also very interested in everything when they finally get to go out. Sometimes he's like that even when Neil's on a day off, and can give him the attention he needs.

Today is a rowdy time. Neil's taken up running a couple days a week, and he always takes Beau with him--he remembers Billy doing it. He's had to take Beau off leash because he already tripped him once while he was on leash. But it does mean that he's a second behind when Beau veers away and goes to investigate something that Neil hadn't noticed.

When he realizes the dog's not right beside him, he stutters to a stop, looking around for him urgently. It takes him a moment to spot him, sniffing at a girl at a bench several feet away.

"Beau!" Neil snaps as he jogs back, taking the leash out of his pocket so he can snap it on when he's close enough.

For one harrowing moment, Regan sees the dog and pictures one of the creatures coming out at it. SHe doesn't even know if the dog has barked, or is making any noise at all. But there's a definite moment of fear across her face.

Then the dog is closer, and sniffing at her, and she lowers a hand to let it sniff at her fingers as well. She doesn't notice the boy, not until the leash appears in her line of sight and flashes as he clicks it onto the dog's collar.

She looks up and makes an apologetic face.

Beau sits patiently, watching the girl and sniffing her hand, and Neil's already talking a mile a minute. He's a big dog, over seventy pounds, and with that big blocky head he's obviously some kind of an American Terrier, and Neil knows that some people are very nervous about those dogs. She does seem a bit frozen about him, even if she lowered her fingers toward his nose.

"Sorry," he says. "Sorry, I have to let him off leash because he gets underfoot when I'm running, and I should have been paying more attention. He's still training, I'm still getting used to him. I'm so, so sorry."

Beau leans into Neil's leg, and he shuts up for a second.

When he takes a moment to breathe, Regan is staring at him. SHe hasn't even had a chance to grab her notebook, because he's just been talking, and she can't hear him, and she can't read his lips, but it feels rude to look away: in Deaf culture, looking away is as effective as a Hearing person covering their ears during a conversation.

It's easy to see the affect the dog has on the boy, though. She can see the pressure that it applies to the boy's leg, and can't help but smile. Regan holds up a hand to encourage him to wait, and pulls out her phone.

After a moment of typing, she turns the screen to face him.

I didn't catch any of that. I'm deaf.

He doesn't understand what's going on for a moment, with her just staring so intently and then pulling out her phone and typing. He stays quiet, even though he's confused, and makes sure to keep Beau on the leash, right against his leg; at least the run seems to have calmed him down a little bit.

He has to lean in close to read the small text on the phone. He'd been running, he didn't have his glasses, and screens were even harder than paper.

"Oh," he says, and then sort of fumbles. He's never met someone who was deaf before, and he's not really sure what he's supposed to do. Write, he supposes. He fishes his phone out of his jacket and types out a quick message; his font is set bigger than the girl's is, to see better.

Apologizing for dog. Getting used to him. Had him off leash to run.

It doesn't escape Regan that his font is so much larger than hers. But she does wonder why he's typing like that. Maybe English isn't his first language?

She quickly changes her font settings to match his, so he doesn't have to strain.

That's okay. What's his name?

Edited (lol html tagging) 2019-01-26 17:23 (UTC)

He would laugh if she asked; the truth is that even after almost two years, he texts only a little bit, and they tend to be more stream of conscious than anything, not conversational.

He appreciates her changing the size of her font, because it does make it easier for him to read and not have to get right up on the screen.

"Beau," he says, without really thinking, and the dog, at his leg, brightens happily. Gets up, turns in a circle, and then sits back down. Quickly, Neil corrects, and types into his phone instead, turning it to show her. Beau

Regan's arms go numb for a moment, from her shoulders to her fingertips. She swallows hard. She looks at the dog, then up at the boy. Her eyes turn sharp, angry and accusing, but her heart is racing.

Her hands shake a little as she types on her phone, and she stands when she turns it to face him.

That's. Not. Funny.

In the face of anger, any anger, Neil's first reaction is always to placate. To apologize and agree that it's his error that caused the situation. But there isn't an error--he said the truth, and he doesn't know why she's angry, which is a common enough thread in Neil's life.

He takes a step back, and starts the voice to text on his phone. He knows he'll have to fix a word or two, but it's mostly good with his precise, prep school enunciations.

"I'm not making a joke. His name's Beau. Mercutio Beau, Mercy Beau, just Beau. My friend named him. He was from Louisiana. He's gone now."

Neil makes sure that everything looks right and is spelled correctly, and then sort of shoves the text reading what he said in her face, taking another urgent shuffle back. At his feet, Beau moves in between them. He doesn't growl or bark. There's just seventy pound of red spotted Terrier between them, protecting them from each other.

Regan reads the message, then forces herself to read it again, more slowly. Her shoulders unclench, but she doesn't sit back down. She looks at the dog, then at the boy, then, once more, at his phone.

I'm sorry. She hesitates for what feels like a very long time, then takes a breath and keeps typing. I have a brother named Beau. He's gone too. I thought you somehow knew that and were messing with me.

Now that she's calmer, it feels silly to even think that. How could he possibly know anything about her or her family? But she'd seen the name on the screen and her brain had done whatever messed up math it needed to get to that point. She feels stupid, and the apology is clear on her face as she turns the phone around to show him.

He reads it and is very still for a moment. This whole method of communication is difficult, foreign to him, even as someone who does so much written word and did so much note passing at school. How can he express his sympathetic anguish in words?

Sorry, he types. And then, clumsily but at least articulating himself, he types out, How do you say his name?

One of his coworkers has talked about name signs because she's taking ASL at school. He knows how to spell in sign language, and that's about it. So he spells it out--B-E-A-U--rather clumsily, and then cocks his head slightly in question.

She can see it flash across his face: regret, apology, almost too empathetic for his own good. That settles it for her. She slowly sits, and she gestures vaguely to the bench beside her to invite him along.

She's learning that most people here know how to fingerspell, and that's encouraging. It means that ASL isn't a totally foreign concept to them, and she has the chance to communicate in more comfortable ways. She nods when he spells the name right.

"My name is Regan," she adds.

He joins her on the bench, and Beau casually climbs underneath, putting himself out of the way. Neil lets the leash go slack across his lap. He watches the way she moves her hands, taking his time to parse it out. A part of him wonders how miserable it must be to talk to everyone like they're stupid; that's a bit what it is, after all, dumbing down the way she'd talk normally so that other people can understand her.

He fingerspells her name in reply. Then, while saying it out loud, he recalls the name sign that Neil's coworker figured out: N and the sign for talk, a single rock forward and back to his chin. Then he spells it, a little more confidently, before doing the sign again. "Neil."

Regan can't help but smile a little at his name sign. "Do you talk a lot?" she asks. That's the only reason she can think someone would give him that particular name sign, anyway.

Neil only really gets you and talk out of what she says, and he laughs a little bit, nodding, holding up his hand with his fingers pinched close together. He pulls his phone out again, because it's easier to talk like that, even if it feels more impersonal.

Coworker is taking ASL. Gave me that sign. Most friendly w/ customers.

That isn't necessarily the truth, especially recently, but he tries to be bright and well-spoken and friendly to everyone that comes in, even if he's having a rough day. But he's been there for a few months now, and people seem to like his enthusiasm at work. He makes due.

You're most friendly or your coworker is? she asks. It's harder to understand the shorter sentences he's using, and she's tempted to ask if he'd rather write it down instead of using his phone. She's not sure it'll be faster, but if it feels more natural then she's willing to switch over.

Neil points to himself, because he had meant himself. He feels a little stupid about the whole thing. He knows how to be articulate, but he's bad with it without time to prepare. It's why he ends up sticking his foot in his mouth so often when he speaks, too.

There's a brief, awkward pause after Regan nods, and she turns to her phone again to try to change the subject.

You look young, but I don't recognize you from the home. You don't live there?

Neil looks, and then shakes his head, sort of smiling. He'll be twenty this year, but he knows he has a young face. He makes a desperate attempt to articulate himself, and it's not awful, but it takes him a lot longer to type than his short little bits and pieces.

I have a friend there. I didn't get assigned there when I arrived. No idea why. But I turned 18 just a little after I got here and I'll be 20 this year. Didn't even know there was a childrens home until I was in school last year.

Regan stares at his message for a moment. Then she turns her wide eyes to Neil's face, and the surprise is obvious. He's twenty? He doesn't look it. He looks so young. Regan feels herself blushing a little and she looks down at her phone to type on it so he doesn't see.

You don't look 20! I thought you were like 16 or 17.

Well 20 in July is the easy, quick correction, but Neil laughs, seeing her surprise before she looks away from him to type. He's fairly certain he surprises a lot of people, that he got his diploma back in the summer.

Are you 16 or 17?

I'm only 14, she answers, with a little grimace that says just how much she likes being fourteen. And she feels very young and dumb next to him, now that she knows he's almost six years older than her.

Neil feels a little silly for the question, now he's asked it and Regan's said she's younger than he supposed. They're on even keel now, both thinking the other was younger or older than they are. In his defense, Regan has a certain way. Even without a verbal voice, she comes across with maturity at least comparable to Rosie, or himself when he showed up.

He changes the subject, still a bit embarrassed that she seems put off by his age. How is Darrow so far? Different?

Very. The world kind of ended where I'm from. It's kind of a Thing to just say like that, but she says it anyway. It's different with a guy older than she is versus Rosie, who is practically the same age. She wants Rosie to like her. She'd like Neil to like her, but it's not the same thing.