Words Ch.1 -Dave

*-Dave-*
I sit in my room, studying. Geometry has never been more boring. It's the weekend, and I should be out doing something. But, because I’m the world’s most intense loner and have the highest grades in my entire school… I am at home. I don't even have a cell phone because I would never need it or use it… or even want it. What's the point? I don't understand texting. Not to sound mean or anything, but what’s the use of a conversation that consists of nothing more than

-hey
Hi-
-what’s up?
Nm u?-

Because, you know, that sounds so very intelligent.

I’m not a loner by choice. I could very easily be a “social butterfly”. I’m not shy. I’m not stupid. I’m not even that mean (unless you’re being annoying). And, if I do say so myself, not that bad looking. The only problem with me is that… I just don’t have anything to say. Words used to hold meaning and passion, but now… I want nothing with them. Words hurt. They lie. And they steal. But, I still find them precious.

So I don’t even try to make useless conversation. People think I’m just ignoring them when they approach me with nothing else but “Hey.” They think I’m being intentionally rude, and I don’t blame them. It’s a quirk of mine. I can’t make myself throw away words, breath that could be better used for something other than “Hi.”

The only time I will speak to someone is when they ask me for help. “Hey, what did you get on question 7?” They’ll ask. I will reply because I’m bettering their life in some small way and I am a firm believer that there are no stupid questions… only stupid people who can’t understand the answers. I know I must sound like a complete jerk right now but I promise you, I’m really not.

People think words are like a toy, something that can be used and thrown about in whatever way they see fit for them. Words are like a treasure for me, because I receive so few. My mother is deaf. My father is dead. I have no siblings to speak to or of. So it came naturally to covet what I couldn’t truly own.

I finish question 45 when I hear the bell downstairs. My mother rings it when she wants to get my attention, since she can’t yell my name. I sit my pen down on the desk and straiten my shirt. She probably wants me to come talk to her. I haven’t been downstairs all morning, not even for breakfast. It’s only 10:30 and already I’ve finished a biochemistry project and a speech for Mr.Jack.

Mr. Jack is the theater and debate teacher at my school. He is my favorite teacher. He respects words. I write plays, speeches, and the like for the school. He never tells anyone that I write them because he knows I don’t want anyone to know. He’s the only one who understands all this. And, he doesn’t think I’m weird for it.

I push my chair into my desk (which replaces the television I once had and never used) and turn to my door. It holds my favorite quote on a poster. “That’s what careless words do. They make people love you a little bit less. –Arundhati Roy, The God of Small Things” It pretty much sums up how I feel about useless words. I push the door open and walk down the stairs. They screech in protest as I continue downward.

The stairs let out into the hallway, which leads left into the kitchen, right into the living room, and forward to the library. I find her at work in the kitchen, making the usual breakfast of bacon and biscuits (she hates eggs). I walk up behind her and softly tap her shoulder. She’s smaller than me, in fact she’s smaller than a lot of the shorter girls in my grade. I stand a full foot taller than her. I still don’t understand how I came out to be tall as I am. It must have been my father.

She turns to face me and gives a warm smile. Which makes me smile. I love my mom. She’s the only one who puts up with all my crap and still manages to love me. Somehow. She ruffles my black hair and pushes up my glasses. “Good morning, love.” She signs. She has always called me love for some unknown reason. Unfortunately I picked up on this habit sometime when I was young, before I realized how much I was misusing words. I would accidently call my teacher or my friends love accidentally… and it always landed me in an awkward position…

She slides the bacon out of the frying pan and onto one of the pink plates she’s so fond of. She carries it to the table. It has room for 8 people but it only holds us. The only reason we can afford such an amazing house is because my grandfather (on my mother’s side) insists on us living in such nice conditions. We could easily keep a nice, small house by ourselves. Despite what many may think, deaf people can do almost all of the jobs the world has to offer them.

My mother and I have a deal. I work in the summer and she works in the winter. I would honestly rather take all year and not let her work, but she wants me to keep my grades high, so I do. I make sure to get a free ride in college to lighten our load as much as possible.

We sit down and fill our plates with fluffy biscuits and warm bacon. I spoon out some of her homemade black currant jelly into the center of one of the biscuits. We live in the mountains, a good way out of town. A small stream runs through our property and we are surrounded by coniferous forests on all sides. It’s a good place to find the wild berries for such confections.

We eat, as usual, in silence. When we’re done I start on the dishes. I expect mom to go to the library and work on her novel like she usually does, but she stops in the doorway. She signs my name and I turn to look at her, drying my hands, “Yes, mom?” I sign back. “Why don’t you go do something today, with your friends?” she asks. Which ones? I ask, mentally. I don’t sign anything back. “All you do is stay in your room. I’m worried.” She insists.

I sigh, I need to go out, even if it’s for no other reason than to please her. “I’ll go out tonight. Alright?” I say. She doesn’t look convinced, but she walks out of the room and into the library.

I finish up the dishes and get ready to go out. I figured I’d go to my favorite bookstore and the candy shop to get something for Mom. My closet was pretty much monotone blue. I don’t know why I liked the color so much. It really is boring… now that I’ve learned differently.