Beau looked up as Jackson gave him a friendly jab to the side, wanting him to participate in the conversation. He raised his eyebrows when he noticed I was watching him, and I couldn’t look away fast enough before he signed, WHAT’S WRONG?

NOTHING, I signed back. I kept it as basic as possible when I signed, J-A-C-K-S-O-N TALK A LOT.

Beau frowned, shaking his head as he signed, DON’T UNDERSTAND.

I pointed to Jackson and moved my hand up by my mouth to mime someone blabbing their head off, and that time Beau understood. It looked like he was trying not to start laughing with the way he pressed his lips together tight, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

YEAH, Beau signed, nodding his head toward Jackson. THAT HIS FAVORITE THING.

Jackson hadn’t missed all the pointing we were doing and looked uncomfortable as his eyes moved back and forth between me and Beau. When he leaned toward Beau, I caught a bit of what he was saying, which was something like, “Can you not . . . me . . . right here.”

Whatever Jackson was saying, he was clearly a bit annoyed.

“Don’t worry . . . we just . . .” Beau said, but the apology was ruined by the smirk on his face.

I went palms up, doing my best not to smile too. This was the amusing bit about two people knowing a language—or at least some of a language—and using it around other people who had no idea what was being said.

Nina put a hand to my shoulder then, and I looked up as she pointed to the ceiling. The bell must’ve rung since everyone around us was getting up from the table, collecting their trash and backpacks. I realized Beau and I had just been sitting there, smiling at each other, and I didn’t know why.

I quickly averted my gaze and gathered up my things, ready to make my escape. My next period was art, a class I thankfully did not share with Beau. I wasn’t an artist by any stretch of the imagination, but it was the only time during the school day I was able to fully relax.

I waved good-bye to Nina and went off to class with Kathleen, who’d been waiting by my locker for me. Class was held in an art studio somewhat like a warehouse, with concrete floors and high ceilings, years of students’ artwork covering every inch of the walls.

Kathleen began to interpret as the teacher, Ms. Phillips, got to her feet, walking around her desk to come to the front of the studio.

TODAY WE DO SELF PORTRAIT, Kathleen signed as Ms. Phillips spoke. DRAW WHO YOU THINK YOU ARE.