There was the same messy outline of a person in the middle done in black, and if it weren’t for the person’s outstretched hand holding two neon blue hearing aids, you wouldn’t have been able to tell the person was me. The other hand was covering the eyes, blocking out the explosion of bold colors covering the rest of the canvas and dripping down around the person like rivulets of water.

It seemed like the best way to describe one major thing in my life—how all I had to do was take out my hearing aids, close my eyes, and the world was mine. There were no limits to my imagination when it was just me and the universe. And I was only seventeen; in what world was I supposed to know who I truly was at this point in time? So the misshapen outline of myself made sense.

ALL DONE? Beau signed when I came over to him.

I signed, YES, in response.

Beau inspected my painting for another few moments, and I just stood there, gnawing on my lip, wanting him to look away already. I was beginning to feel too vulnerable like this, having Beau examine my self-portrait so closely. Here he was looking at a representation of what I’d truly come to think of myself, and I was just waiting for him to come up with some criticism of it.

All he ended up signing was, BEAUTIFUL.

THANK YOU, I signed back awkwardly.

Mom came over to see us off, still all smiles. When Beau had his back turned to open the front door, she signed, CAREFUL, like maybe she thought I needed to be on high alert because I was going to work on some school project with a boy.

PROMISE, I answered back.

I waved good-bye to Connor and sprinted out of the house after Beau, laptop tucked under my arm.

LIBRARY, RIGHT? I signed to Beau once I was buckled up in the front seat of his car again.

Beau had this funny little look on his face when he glanced at the clock on the dashboard and shook his head.

LIBRARY CLOSE NOW, he signed, nodding toward the clock. TIME 4.

You’ve got to be kidding me, I thought, looking at the clock too and seeing that it was currently 4:03.

“You’re not actually suggesting we go back inside to do this project, are you?” I blurted. I was sure there was a note of panic in my voice even if I couldn’t hear it. “I mean, my mom . . .”

Beau pressed his lips together tight then, and I realized a beat later it was because he was trying hard not to smile. This was so not funny. My mother wasn’t a helicopter parent by any means, but she had perfected the art of hovering to the umpteenth degree.