The Shadow’s Gotten Blurry

When the first person tells you that your ASL interpreter got drunk at senior prom, you think it’s a joke. You think it is some strange metaphor meant to describe her behavior.

“I know. She can really act like she’s drunk sometimes,” you reply.

“No, she was. She was drunk.” You can barely lipread the person who tells you. They’re in the middle of a tightknit group of giggling high school seniors at a cafeteria table. They giggle so much their lips stretch and distort with amusement. You were never part of their group. You were never part of any group, in high school. You hope for another stretch of seconds that they’re playing a joke. A clique is trying to fuck with a loner who didn’t go to prom.

You summon your best I-get-the-joke-now face, your brow furrowing along with an elaborate eyeroll. You feel it fall off when nothing changes.

Someone else comes over to the clique, and you. He lives several houses away from you. This does not mean he is more trustworthy. But you know his mother raised him not to tell lies.

“She tried to grind on me,” he says. You feel the cold knife of certainty pass through you, from the head down. He doesn’t appear traumatized or shocked, though; a smile unfurls across his face. It is all fun and games to him, but, to you, it feels like a car accident you are chained to.

You have worked with the same ASL interpreter for nearly four years now. People attach your interpreter to you, and you to the interpreter; the two of you show up to your classes together. You only separate at lunch. People call her “your person.” She is almost three times older than you. She joins in the applause at school assemblies while you stay silent. She talks to people your age with her mouth, her words, her smile. You resent her exuberance. You barely have the energy to lipread; when you do find energy to socialize, it is manic and scary, like a possession.

You have asked her if she can do her job without constantly socializing. You asked her to figure out a more straightforward arrangement. It would be best for you both.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she’d replied. “I can do what I want.”

The clique’s giggles loop in your mind. It is Monday: homeroom starts off the day. You wait for your interpreter to show up with a dread in your stomach that anchors you to your chair. She typically shows up minutes late, a fact you resent especially today.

She enters the classroom, late. Her yellow hair is pressed straight. She wears a black cardigan; she often moans about how the typical requirement for ASL interpreters to wear black is too austere and cramps her style. You want to ask her questions. You want her to be honest with you, but she pretends like it is any other day. She asks about your weekend. The words tangle together inside of you.

She peers at you. Her mouth hardens, “Did you hear I was drunk at prom?”

Shock of heat in your throat. You nod.

“That’s not true. I was just having a little fun. You weren’t there, so I was having fun.” She is a terrible liar. Those words, the uncertain staccato of her voice, and the refusal to look at you straight in the eye are as good as a confession.

Throughout the day, more people tell you about prom. No one offers an account where your interpreter is sober. A choir girl laughs about the interpreter’s dancing in the library. Your newspaper classmate grimaces at the interpreter when she enters the room. A theater fanatic hesitates to answer your question, “The interpreter wasn’t drunk at prom, was she?” She sidles away from you, as if your emotions are palpable and she doesn’t want to feel them.

The interpreter explodes at you in study hall, signing cruel and fast, “Why bother listening to anyone when no one here likes you?” You do not respond. You are so close to the end, to everything ending. You are so, so close.

The school day ends. You leave the building and get on the bus route to home. You get a bus row to yourself. Early summer sunlight slices through tree branches and tree leaves. You will be out of high school soon, it’s only a matter of weeks.

The interpreter will shape your thoughts of high school. You know this. You resent this. Your entire life, your entire existence, is defined by people who aren’t like you. They barely bother to know you. You press your forehead against the vibrating bus window and will the entire day to be unmemorable. The interpreter is a shadow that towers over you. Near the end, she swallows you whole. But not for long, you think. Shadows move past you. You will be by yourself, after.

After you graduate, her behavior haunts you. When you work with ASL interpreters in college, she materializes in your mind’s eye. You feel like you should apologize for asking interpreters to do something, even if it is important. You feel strange about socializing with them. They don’t require socialization. They are fine with sitting quietly in the corner. They are fine with not talking with anyone. They don’t need anything, only the job before them.