Song for a Whale Read online

  I didn’t remember standing up, but when the video ended and Ms. Alamilla started talking, I had to look down to see Mr. Charles. Everyone’s eyes were on me as I slid back down into my chair. My textbook was on the floor—I must have knocked it off my desk when I stood up. I left it at my feet.

  “Can you imagine that?” Ms. Alamilla asked. “Swimming around for all those years, unable to communicate with anyone?”

  Yes.

  She said something else about frequencies, but I wasn’t paying attention anymore. I looked through Mr. Charles, as if I could still see that whale on the screen.

  Blue 55 didn’t have a pod of friends or a family who spoke his language. But he still sang. He was calling and calling, and no one heard him.

  He hadn’t always swum alone. Long ago, when the loudest sounds in the ocean were the songs of whales, he’d had a pod.

  Those first whales had tried to talk to him. Every day they worked to change their songs to something like his.

  He returned their calls, but his sounds meant nothing to them.

  He heard the other whales. But nothing he sang back made sense. They thought he didn’t understand.

  They communicated to one another past him, through him, across him. Like he was a coral reef or a kelp forest they passed by. But he heard all of it.

  He understood them when they despaired, giving up on ever hearing him, and when they lamented he would never be able to contribute to the pod. He couldn’t warn them of a coming predator or announce the scent of waters that were good for feeding.

  Yes, I can, he bellowed. There, waves full of krill. He turned to show them the way. He sang his message, struggling to match the sounds of the whales around him. But the sea grabbed his song and dragged it away, too high for the others to reach.

  One night, when he awoke to float to the surface for a breath, he found himself alone. After so much time, with so many songs unheard, his family had left him.

  He called out Where are you? and What will I do now? knowing no answer would come, knowing the sounds held meaning only for himself.

  At lunch I sat at a table with other people, but still alone. I could actually read lips all right—not that I’d ever tell Ms. Conn. No matter how good I was, there’d be no way to catch everything. Too many sounds look the same, and in a group of people, it’s impossible to pick up more than a word or two here and there. It’s even worse if they’re eating. Some kids tried to remember to look at me when they talked. Then they’d get into a conversation with everyone else, too fast for me to keep up. A couple of the kids knew the sign language alphabet and would spell out sentences letter by letter. That took forever, so I’d tell them to just go ahead and write it. Whenever I spelled something back, they didn’t catch it anyway, unless I slowed down so much that by the time I got to the end of the sentence, they’d forgotten the beginning.

  Some people at my table were in my science class. I was still thinking about the whale called Blue 55, and wondered if they were too. It didn’t look like anyone was talking about him. I wanted to ask if they thought he liked swimming around by himself or if he wanted friends. Maybe he’d tried singing like the other whales and couldn’t do it, or he was happy singing his own song.

  Nina walked by with some of her friends and waved like she wanted to tell me something super important. Even when I understood her, she never said anything important. But she had seen the Blue 55 video, and obviously she was interested in sign language. I took a deep breath and decided to give it a try.

  As clearly as possible I signed to her, “What did you think of that whale?”

  Nina pointed at my lunch and signed something that made absolutely no sense. I couldn’t even figure out what she was trying to get at.

  Maybe the message was jumbled because she was excited and signing too fast, as if her hands couldn’t keep up with her brain.

  I held up a hand to try to slow her down. Numbers and letters were easy enough to understand, so I shook a letter B to sign “Blue,” then tapped the air twice with a five handshape. Blue 55. I shrugged a little and raised my eyebrows with a question. It should’ve been perfectly clear I was asking, “So, what did you think of that whale?”

  Somehow, she still didn’t seem to get it, and I didn’t understand whatever she was trying to say. Nothing that looked like “whale” or “ocean” or “song.”

  I gave up and turned to Sanjay, who was sitting across from me and talking about a new level he’d unlocked in a video game or something like that. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Nina signing even more furiously. Her friends backed away to avoid getting smacked in the face by her flailing arms. Even though she was the one making a scene, I was getting the attention. Sanjay pointed to tell me I should be looking at Nina, but I waved him off, as if I were dying to know the rest of his video game story. I took a quick glance to see if Nina had given up yet. My face burned as she moved in closer. Great. This girl couldn’t recognize a hint if it ran up and set her hands on fire. I reached into my backpack and ripped a piece of paper from a notebook.

  “What’s everyone doing this weekend?” was the first thing I thought of to start a new conversation. Nina was right next to me. I knew this not from looking at her, but from the breeze created by her hands waving at the side of my head. Finally I turned to look, because everyone was pointing by then. What I witnessed was amazing. Not even one sign made sense. I signed to Nina, “I don’t understand you,” then turned back to the group. Still she didn’t give up. She leaned over, forcing me to see her, and signed with her hands right in my face. I couldn’t take it anymore. My face burned hotter. Everyone looked at me like I was the dumb one for not understanding.

  I pushed her away and signed, “Leave me alone!” I didn’t mean to push her so hard, but she ended up crashing into the people at the next table and landing on the floor. Nina’s mouth was open wide, as if she were yelling. She must have been making a lot of noise since people from all the way across the cafeteria stood up for a better view. The lunch duty teachers made their way to our table then, their faces full of concern. One of their mouths formed the words “What happened?”

  A teacher helped Nina up. She rubbed her elbow where she’d landed but seemed fine otherwise. I stood up and swung my backpack over my shoulder. Even though the bell hadn’t rung, I headed to the principal’s office. That was where they were going to send me anyway.

  The secretary was picking up the phone when she saw me coming, and I waved to her on my way into Principal Shelton’s office. Ms. Shelton wasn’t there, so I went ahead and rearranged the furniture. I slid the black chair over to one side of the desk. Mr. Charles would sit there, so I could see both him and Ms. Shelton at the same time. I sank into my favorite chair and stared at the ceiling while I waited.

  Ms. Shelton came in and sat behind her desk, then held out her arms, as if she were saying, “Well?”

  I shrugged. No point in chatting until Mr. Charles got there. I reached up to the pendant I wore around my neck, the one made from an old Zenith radio knob. They used to emboss the wooden knobs with a raised Z-shape lightning bolt. In my room at home, I had a collection of antique radios. I did some repair work for Mr. Gunnar’s antique shop, and sometimes—okay, a lot of times—I ended up buying radios from him after I fixed them. I’d made the pendant so I’d have a piece of my collection with me even when I was away from home. While we waited I traced the jagged edges of the letter with my fingertip.

  Mr. Charles came in a few minutes later. “Welcome,” I signed as he took the seat across from me.

  I pointed to a picture on Ms. Shelton’s desk that I hadn’t seen before. “New grandbaby?”

  “Yes, that’s Henry,” she said after Mr. Charles interpreted my question. “Now, tell me what happened in the cafeteria.”

  Ms. Shelton knew what happened; I was sure of that. She always wanted to get my side of
the story. One of those things they teach in principal school—find out what happened, then question the kid to see if they lie about it. Mr. Charles interpreted between Ms. Shelton and me as I filled her in.

  “Nina was only trying to ask what you were having for lunch,” she said.

  I actually slapped myself in the forehead. All this because Nina wanted to know what kind of sandwich I had?

  “She was trying to make conversation with you, Iris. To be friendly.”

  “No she’s not,” I signed. “She’s trying to show off and pretend she knows something she doesn’t. She needs to keep her hands out of my face.”

  Ms. Shelton reminded me of the school’s zero tolerance policy for fighting. I tried to argue that I was only removing someone’s hands from my personal space, but it was no use. At school that counted as fighting.

  “This isn’t fair.” I slumped back in the chair and looked out the window at the parking lot.

  Mr. Charles waved to get my attention and interpreted the rest of what Ms. Shelton said.

  “The other students at the lunch table did say that you tried to get Nina to stop when she got so close to you. We’ll talk to her about respecting personal space. If it happens again, tell a teacher instead of shoving someone.”

  “Okay.” I left it at that. Ms. Shelton probably wouldn’t like it if I pointed out that shoving was a lot quicker than flagging down a teacher and scribbling a note to explain what was going on.

  I’d have in-school suspension for the next two days, starting right then. That meant I’d sit in one room all day, and my teachers would send my work there. Fine with me. Regular suspension would’ve been even better. At home I could fly through my schoolwork and then start on some radio repairs. That was probably why they didn’t do it—because they’d figured out it was too much like a vacation.

  Then Ms. Shelton slipped in the worst part. “And you’ll have to apologize to Nina when you return to class.”

  Maybe she’d forget about that.

  By the end of school day, I had a text from Mom. Get straight home after school. Of course Ms. Shelton had called to let her know of my sentencing. I biked toward home after school, but I wasn’t in a big hurry to get there. My parents had told me I’d be in Serious Trouble if I got sent to the principal’s office again, even though there was a whole month left of school. I wasn’t sure what they meant by “Serious Trouble,” but some things were better left a mystery.

  That morning I’d been working on a radio repair for Mr. Gunnar, a mint-colored Zenith from the 1950s. That was why I was a little late getting to school. I was so close to fixing it, but then I realized I didn’t have what I needed to finish the job. Mr. Gunnar wasn’t in a hurry—he always told me to take the time I needed to do the job right. But I couldn’t stand to leave anything sitting around broken. It chased me until I couldn’t ignore it anymore.

  The junkyard was on the way home. Sort of.

  At the gate of Moe’s Junk Emporium, I hopped off my bike even before it stopped rolling. My eyes scanned the dead appliances section as I ran up the sidewalk. Always so many dishwashers and washing machines. But there…There was a monster-size TV/radio/record player set. Not that it had a big screen; I mean, it was thick. You’d have to set it at least three feet away from the wall.

  I ran over for a closer look. Made by Admiral; in the 1950s, I was pretty sure. The set featured decades of dust that had sunk into the scratches of the wood cabinet, and tatters of cloth hanging from the speaker. Hopefully the insides were in better shape. The TV and record player weren’t much use, but the radio might have the exact parts I needed.

  I took out my phone to text Grandpa. It was the kind of thing he’d pick up for me before someone else grabbed it. I typed a few words before I caught myself. Sometimes I’d think of something to tell him, before remembering he wasn’t there to answer me. Then I felt bad for forgetting. Shouldn’t I always feel it? Missing him?

  After erasing the message I changed it to Wish you were still here. Even though he wouldn’t receive it, I clicked send before slipping the phone back into my pocket. He seemed closer then, like just sending that short message would somehow let him know I was thinking of him. I haven’t forgotten you. Sometimes I just don’t remember you’re not here.

  My brother, Tristan, could drive me back later to get the set, but it might be gone by then. If I asked Mom or Dad to pick it up, they’d wonder why I was at Moe’s instead of at home.

  I’d ask Moe to hold it for me. He knew me well enough by now, so it’d take just a minute to tell him I was interested in the set. But when I ran into the trailer that served as the office, Moe wasn’t behind the desk smoking a cigar like he always was. Some guy a little older than Tristan sat there, watching a TV show where people threw chairs at one another. The patch on his blue work shirt read “Jimmy Joe.”

  Jimmy Joe stood up and said something when he noticed me in the doorway. I never liked talking to people I didn’t know. This was an emergency, so I would. But by “talk,” I mean “write notes back and forth.” I hated the way people looked at me when they didn’t understand my Deaf accent. Since I didn’t know if I talked very well, I’d rather not do it. Plus, I never liked the way my voice felt. As much as I loved feeling sound from a radio speaker, vibrations in my throat annoyed me, as if they didn’t belong there. Kind of like how I loved electronics, but not on my own ears.

  At the desk I scribbled on a notepad: Can you save that Admiral set out there for me? I’ll come back for it later.

  He looked back at me after reading the note, and his face was a question. I pointed to my ear and then shook my head to let him know that these ears were as busted as everything else around there.

  His eyes widened like they did with most people. A second of panic like they’re not sure what to do with me or like I might explode in front of them.

  “Can you, uh, read lips? Or talk?” he asked, pointing back and forth from his mouth to mine.

  Maybe, I thought, but how about just reading that note in your hand? I tapped the paper he was holding.

  He recovered, then pointed out the window. “It don’t work.” His mouth was really wide when he formed the words. He was probably yelling. He shook his head and waved his hands to emphasize the point.

  I held back an eye roll. Of course it didn’t work. Even if it worked, it wouldn’t really work. Those old antenna TVs haven’t been able to get a signal for years.

  After taking back the note I wrote, For parts.

  When he read that, his eyebrows rose from scared to impressed.

  I’ll ask my dad, Jimmy Joe wrote back. Doctor appointment. He’ll be back soon.

  So Moe was his dad. From what I’d witnessed during my time as a junkyard customer, Moe started each day with a can of Budweiser and a Whole Hog breakfast sandwich from The Cattle Prod, in addition to the cigar, so a doctor visit was probably a good idea. Too bad he didn’t pick a more convenient day to start caring about his health.

  I added, Tell him it’s for Iris. Thanks! While Jimmy Joe read that, I tore another page from the pad, wrote my name on it, then ripped a piece of tape from the dispenser on the desk. Without waiting for a response, I ran outside and slapped the Iris Bailey note on the Admiral. It was almost mine. Even though I was in Serious Trouble, I smiled the whole way home.

  Tristan wasn’t home yet when I got back there, but more importantly, neither was Mom. I’d have a chance to work on my radios before she came in to lecture me.

  I ran upstairs to my room, where my radio collection filled shelves across three walls. I’d have to add a new shelf soon. Tools and electronics parts and wires covered the workbench I’d made out of an old door. My mom said it looked like a robot factory exploded in my room, but I knew where to find everything.

  Most people were surprised when they found out I fixed old radios, but that was because mos
t people don’t notice that sound moves. If it’s strong enough, it can move anything. Its waves can break glass or shake the ground or deafen a whale.

  Even if they’re not strong, sound waves tremble radios, too. That was why I didn’t need to hear one to know if it was working. With my hand on the speaker, the vibrations let me know if a radio was playing music or crackling with static or sitting there like a box of rocks.

  For me, listening to the radios was never the point. Each one of those sitting on my shelves was a reminder of something I’d done right. They weren’t working until I got my hands into them. Whenever I fixed something, I felt like I’d won a contest.

  I sat down next to my bed and touched the side of the Philco 38-690 cabinet radio like I did every day when I got home and every morning before I left. Of all the antique radios in my collection, this was my favorite. Since it was almost four feet tall, it sat on the floor instead of on a shelf like the others. It was from the 1930s and, in my professional opinion, the best radio ever made. Only three thousand ever existed.

  For a long time I’d only seen the 38-690 in pictures. Then one day there it was, behind the counter at Mr. Gunnar’s antique shop. My eyes almost fell out of my head when Mr. Gunnar said he was going to throw it away. Sure, it was in rough shape. Really rough. But I couldn’t let him get rid of it. I asked if I could take it as payment for a repair I’d brought him. He said that wouldn’t be fair, so he paid me and gave me the radio. Then I sort of felt like I was stealing from an old man. Even though he might change his mind, I told Mr. Gunnar what the Philco could be worth if I restored it. Maybe he didn’t know what he had.