Chapter Text
Jimmy’s least favorite period of the day is lunch.
For most of the school day, he’s in the special education classroom. He’s learning at an average pace, but the school can’t afford to hire an interpreter for more than two days a week, so he does most of his work by reading the textbooks by himself. It’s not too bad, and the noise of the other children doesn’t bother him at all, so he’s fine sequestering himself in a corner to work quietly all day.
He hates lunch, though, because then he has to go to the cafeteria.
The cafeteria is always confusing. He has to go through the lunch line each time, and they never put signs on the food telling him how many he can take of something or warning for allergies, so he has to use his best judgment to try and figure out if he can have two rolls or if the gumbo has shrimp. He’s been yelled at far too many times by the cook for not obeying unwritten food rules.
Sometimes he feels like he needs a massive sign on his chest that reads, I’M DEAF. PLEASE WRITE THINGS DOWN . That might save him some lectures he can’t hear. Unless there aren’t any written signs around because nobody else can read.
Then he has to go sit somewhere, and of course they’ve decided to give the disabled kids the busiest lunch period. There’s almost never an empty table, so every day he has to squish onto the end of one with kids that he doesn’t know and never will know. Even if they introduce themselves, he can’t hear their names.
Every day, he just hopes he can avoid Sam. Which is difficult, seeing as every other day, Sam shares a lunch period with him.
They used to be table mates, back when they were five or six. They got along fine, as far as Jimmy can remember. Sam got him into trouble once or twice at recess, but Jimmy’s sure he got Sam into trouble as well. They were friends, he supposes, and he isn’t sure when the switch flipped.
After several years of no more acknowledgment than a nod in the hallway, Sam started messing with him when they were twelve. He used to know Jimmy’s locker code, somehow, and he would take his things out and hide them around the school. He throws rocks at him as he walks home from school. He pours salt on Jimmy’s food. He trips him in the hall, he pretends to stab him with scissors (and sometimes accidentally makes contact), he beats on his head with drumsticks.
It kind of sucks, honestly. Jimmy’s not even sure if Sam knows that he’s Deaf or if he just wants to bully him, thanks to Jimmy’s status as a special kid. Unlike some of the others, Jimmy is fully capable of reporting the bullying.
He hasn’t. He’s seen rumors about the things Sam has done, things far worse than tripping him or tearing up his homework assignments. He doesn’t want to aggravate him more than he already has just by existing.
At the table Jimmy finds himself at today (and he’s already exhausted, the lunch lady yelled at him and he has no idea why), he hunches over his tray of food when Sam walks past. He just keeps his eyes down, and Sam passes, distracted by talking with one of his friends, and Jimmy’s pretty sure he’s in the clear when a kid that he’s seen once or twice sets down a tray across from him.
It’s . . . it’s a new kid, a messy-haired boy in a red sweater, who hangs out with Sam and his other friend. Jimmy assumes he’s a freshman, but Sam is a sophomore, so he’s not sure how this kid got mixed up with him so quickly.
The boy says something with a wry quirk of his lips, and Jimmy shrugs. The kid seems to take that as a valid answer, so he sits down, sticks his hand out.
“I’m. . . .”
Yeah, Jimmy’s got no clue what that name was. “Jimmy,” he says, shaking the proffered hand. “Are you friends with Sam?”
The kid grimaces. Then he says something, something that could be I guess you’re a carrot then or I kissed your ugly cat or something like that. Jimmy’s not great at reading lips, and especially not when he’s in a loud room where the only thing he can hear is a distant rumble of undefined noise.
He keeps talking, so Jimmy just kind of nods and hums occasionally, picking at his food. It isn’t very good food. Typical cafeteria lunch—and it’ll just get worse soon enough. Rumor has it that a war is going to break out soon, and Jimmy’s not looking forward to school lunches on rations.
At some point, all the kids around him start getting up, so Jimmy does too, taking his tray back to the tray receptacle. The kid who had sat with him waves, then heads off down a different hallway.
He starts joining Jimmy for lunch every now and then. Jimmy always starts the conversation, confident in that at least, greeting him and asking how he is. Then he lets the kid talk for the entire period. He doesn’t have the heart to tell him he’s Deaf—he’s one of Sam’s friends, after all. He’d probably join in on messing with him if he knew, and Jimmy’s just too tired to deal with that.
So Jimmy enjoys the next couple of weeks with this other boy keeping him company at lunch, and it doesn’t quite feel like friendship but he thinks it might be something close.
Until Sam catches them.
Sam says a lot of things that day, standing over the two of them and glowering. He grabs the boy’s arm and drags him away, says something while looking at Jimmy through the corner of his eye—
The kid’s face twists and he shoves Sam, but goes with him anyway, giving Jimmy an apologetic look. Jimmy shrugs, turns back to his food.
That afternoon, Jimmy’s joined by a familiar face on his walk home.
It’s the kid again, Sam nowhere in sight. He smiles apologetically, says something.
Jimmy shrugs. That apparently isn’t a good answer, though, because the kid stops, grabs Jimmy’s sleeve to stop him, too.
Then he says something that Jimmy knows all too well, because it’s something he gets asked all the time. He can easily read the way his lips move, the question that they form.
“Can you understand me?”
“No,” he says honestly. “Sorry, I’m Deaf.”
Incredulity crosses the kid’s face. He says something that’s probably along the lines of why didn’t you tell me, and Jimmy shrugs again.
“People usually notice.”
He returns to walking, hands stuck in his pockets against the chilly air. After a moment, the kid passes him his communicator.
I feel like such an idiot, I’ve been talking to you for weeks.
Jimmy chuckles. “Yeah, sorry. I’m gonna be honest, I don’t even know your name."
He takes the communicator back, types out a response.
Grian. Do you have hearing aids?
“Nope. I sign, but nobody else does.”
I’ll learn.
“You don’t have to.”
But the next day at lunch, Grian clumsily signs, “How are you?”
And Jimmy smiles. Just a little bit.