face and expression and gesture and manner. But though she could read the words, this reflective Brooke was the hardest for her to understand because she couldn’t see her eyes. And without her eyes, her sister’s words, though understood, had no meaning. When Brooke looked up, her eyes had taken on a rare serenity, looked a little like the eyes Leah saw when she looked into the mirror.
“The language of his face and body and hands—” she said, then paused. “And his lips.” She was looking directly at Leah but seemed not to be seeing her.
Leah tilted her head, trying to understand.
Then Brooke’s eyes regained their fire and laughter. “But his words were all bullshit!” she said, shaking her head. “When he tried to say sweet things, they came out all wrong. He said my hair was ‘like hay’! Like hay! When I protested he got all hurt and mopey and muttered ‘But I like hay.’” She rolled her eyes in disbelief. “And when he decided he liked Cindy more than me, his words went from stupid to more stupid, as if I’d still want to go with him to the pool or the arcade ‘as friends’. What kind of idiot does he think I am?”
Leah stared at her, taking it all in.
Brooke noted her sister’s rapt attention, saw that gaze for once in all its complexity and intricacy and responsibility. So she returned to her earlier assertion. “If I’d been deaf I wouldn’t have had to hear any of those dumb words. There’d be only his face and hands, and those luscious lips.” She smiled dreamily.
Leah raised her eyebrows and wrinkled her forehead in protest.
“I know, Leah. I know. The words come eventually. Whether you hear them or not, they still come.” She leaned forward and pressed her forehead against Leah’s. She spoke from that proximity, her mouth near touching Leah’s nose, her syllables fluffing Leah’s bangs, trailing across her cheeks. “But can’t you let me pretend?”
Leah arched her eyes in teasing consideration then shook her head once, her skin rubbing against Brooke’s forehead.
“I know,” Brooke said. “It’s dangerous to pretend about boys.”