My eight-year-old little brother was making an effort to meet new people and involve himself at school, CF or not, and the most I’d done was spend some extra time chatting with Nina. As his older sister, didn’t I have a responsibility to set a good example for Connor? Show him I was making the most of our move to Colorado too?

So instead I settled for saying, “Maybe.”

Maybe if I could hang out with someone like Nina during this student fair thing it might not be so bad, though I certainly saw enough of Engelmann during the almost eight hours five days a week I was required to be here.

There was this glimmer of hope in Beau’s expression, those dimples slowly appearing as he smiled and said, “Okay. Cool . . . see you . . .”

As I left the library, I couldn’t decide what I was supposed to think about Beau trying to learn sign language to “talk” to me. His signing was basic, but there was no doubt he’d been practicing with how fluid his movements were becoming. I had to appreciate the effort, but what was he expecting? That he could just learn a few signs online and suddenly we’d be best friends? It was one thing to learn and use ASL, and something totally different to understand the people and culture ASL belong to.

I pulled my phone out of my pocket before sitting on the curb outside the main doors to wait for Mom. I sent a text message to Melissa to get her advice.

Hearing boy is trying to learn sign to talk to me . . . what am I supposed to think of this??

Melissa’s reply was almost instantaneous, in choppy English like a lot of Deaf people use when their first language is ASL.

Hearing boy cute??

I huffed out a sigh as I waffled over my reply. Of course, that would be Melissa’s first question.

Very tall, very green eyes, . . . and dimples, I finally replied.

So, he cute then, Melissa texted back.

Yes, but he is a HEARING boy!

So? If he learn sign what it matter?

I was saved from texting anything else when Mom pulled up to the curb. Instead of getting into the front seat like I normally would, I opened the door to the back, already knowing what I would find.

Connor was stretched out across the backseat, dozing with his head pillowed on his arm, looking a little paler than usual. I felt my insides twist when I looked at the portable oxygen tank on the floor at his feet and the cannula inserted in his nose to make sure he was getting enough air.

BAD APPOINTMENT? I signed to Mom when she leaned around in her seat to face me.

She gave a grim smile and a small shake of her head. OK, she signed. MOVE HERE HARD FOR HIM. DOCTOR SAY NEED TIME FOR HIM FEEL BETTER.