6
Peter
“What’s wrong?” Peter scribbled in his notebook, tore the page out and handed it to Christie. He knew his printing was still difficult to read, the letters barely recognizable at times, but he hoped Christie could read it. Four months ago he couldn’t even write his own name.
Christie read the note, looked into Peter’s eyes. She smiled. “It’s my parents,” she said. “We had an argument, that’s all.” She wiped the tears from her eyes and opened a tenth grade English book. “I’m so proud of you, Peter. I can’t believe how far you’ve come in such a short time. Your head is like a sponge soaking up everything I give you.”
The water wheel on the gristmill moaned as it turned slowly. A gentle mist sprayed them. They lay back on a blanket near the ancient stone foundation. She had brought Peter here instead of their usual place at the creek. Maybe here that nosey Velma Motes wouldn’t see them, wouldn’t have anything more to gossip about.
It was the first week of October. She and Peter had been studying together for going on four months.
Peter smiled back and took her hand. For a moment they sat in silence and looked at each other.
Christie broke the silence by saying, “We should get started.”
They were into ninth grade reading material, and at this rate, he was pretty sure he could catch up to her by Christmas. All his life everyone, and yes, even his own uncle, treated him as if he was stupid, incapable of learning. He knew it was all because he couldn’t talk or make a sound.
Making words was more difficult for him than learning to read. Many of the letters were difficult to make. Printing them was far easier than cursive. His hand couldn’t keep up with his thoughts, his mind racing so far ahead of what he could put down on paper. It left him frustrated and angry with himself.
A few weeks ago, Christie said something about teaching him to sign. He didn’t know anything about sign language so he went to the library that same day to see what he could find out about the subject. He checked out everything he could find on signing.
After browsing several of the books, he thought, This looks easier than writing.
“Today we’re going to practice writing in cursive.”
Peter took the book she had opened from her and closed it. He got up on his knees and looked at her for a moment. He took a deep breath and held up three fingers. He quickly made a fist with his thumb up, made a fist with his thumb down, held up his little finger, made a fist with his thumb held by his index finger, and then he pointed at himself.
“What are you doing?” Christie exclaimed. “Are you signing?” With her right hand, she pointed to herself, touched her forehead and waved her hand out. Then she made an oval with her index finger. “That’s all I know.” She laughed and added, “I’m not even sure what I tried to sign. Maybe you can teach me.”
