I hand the note to Serena when she arrives at the vending machine.

She opens it up, arches her brows. "What's this?" she asks.

Cannon left it on my desk, I tell her.

She hands it back to me. Did he say anything?

I shake my head.

What's he sorry for, being in your classes?

Guess so. Highly doubt he's apologizing for what happened ten years ago.

We begin walking to the car. I shoot a glance at the back wall of the cafeteria when we pass it. It's empty.

So he doesn't want to switch schedules.

Guess not.

So there's no way he's going to actually learn ASL since it's not what he wanted.

Guess not.

What if you teach him?

I look at my best friend's beautifully sculpted head as if there are three of them. Why would I do that.

She shrugs. Might make both of your lives easier.

You just said he probably doesn't want to learn.

Maybe he'd be willing if someone helped him.

He made my life miserable. Why should I help him? I had to learn it myself, and I actually needed it to survive.

I'm just saying, she continues, although I didn't ask. He's going through a really hard time right now. Wouldn't you want someone to reach out a helping hand if it were you?

I huff. Why don't you teach him, since you're so obsessed with him!

We're at the Prius now. Calm down, kitty cat, she signs before we climb into the cab. I know you're upset. But look at that note! He made a small effort. He said he's sorry.

I look down at the note in my hands. I play with it, allowing my fingers to fold and unfold it at will. Serena realizes I'm not going to sign anything else, so she starts the car and backs out of the up-front spot that we'd managed to reclaim.

Serena drops me off at home. Love you, I tell her.

Loved you first, she signs back. We never, ever fight.

Mummy's car is in the garage, but I go to my room without stopping to tell her hello. I unplug my iPhone from its charger. Open up Facebook. Search Cannon Kane. I find a few Cannons, but none of them are the droid I'm looking for. Not surprising; kids my age don't really use Facebook. Next I check Instagram. I find his account, but it's private. Can't stalk him unless I request to follow him. That'd be embarrassing. His profile picture is outdated — his hair is shorter. He's looking away from the camera candidly, pouting. Must be from a couple of years ago.

I think to try Twitter, but I don't think Cannon's all that political. I'm sure he has a Snapchat — we all do — but, again, I'd have to request to follow him. I find him on TikTok, but he hasn't made any posts himself. Honestly, he's not the type.

I don't know what I'm looking for, really. Maybe I thought I'd find some helpful information.

As a last effort, I search his name on YouTube. My droid has an account. It holds exactly one video, uploaded six months ago. The video is titled "Just f*$%ing around". The video still is of a long-haired Cannon holding an electric guitar in his lap. I press play. He picks at the strings. I don't know if he's playing a melody. Inferring from the title, he's not playing much of anything in particular. It's not very long, only around a minute and a half. He looks up once — only to shut the camera off. I pause it when he does. And I see him for the first time all semester. There's a person behind those eyes. A living soul, Serena would say. A spirit.

Not anymore.

Whoever he was before, he'll never be again.

My mother appears in my opened bedroom doorway, still in her work slacks, tall, auburn-haired, and beautiful. "What are you doing?" she speaks and signs at the same time. She's never been able to break this habit.

I hit the lock button on my phone. Nothing.

"How was your quiz in art?"

I think she put some on the quiz that we never studied.

"I'm sure you did better than you think." She's probably right. I usually do. "How do you feel about ordering Chinese for dinner? Daddy's working late."

Sounds good.

"You want the usual? Chicken lo mein?"

Extra eggroll please.

"I'll call it in in a few."

When she leaves, I unlock my phone and swipe up on the YouTube app to close it out, embarrassed that I'd even been searching him in the first place.

🌼🌼🌼

In the morning, an excited batch of nerves twist in my stomach. I know there won't be another note on my desk. I know it is an unreasonable thing to feel this way about. But there's that ever-so-slight chance of possibility.

I must have a visible pep in my step, because Serena asks, Think he'll leave another note today? Either that, or she actually can read energies.

Wouldn't that be a miracle, I sign.

You should leave him one.

What?

Yeah. It could be like you guys's thing.

She hadn't waggled her eyebrows, hadn't grinned, hadn't done anything else to signify that her sentence was suggestive. She just genuinely means it. Still. I've never been one to let things go. What makes you think we need a thing?

You may be the only person he's communicated with at school all semester. He's not willing to talk. Not willing to learn sign language. But he's obviously willing to write.

I don't understand why you're pushing me to help him.

Because! she insists. The universe has put you in a position to help someone in need. Shouldn't you?

I always thought I was the kind of person who would help someone. So why is it so hard for me to find it in myself to help Cannon?

I think it would be really good for him, she continues, reading the doubt on my face, I'm sure. It could be the thing that kick-starts him wanting to communicate in class. She gives me a knowing look, a look that only a person who has spent their days with you for six and a half years could give you. I think it could be good for you, too. Before I can feign ignorance, she signs: Don't think I don't remember.

So I guess I'm writing Cannon Kane a note today.

The kids in English look mostly confused about Cannon's arrival. They whisper about him. It's been nearly twenty-four hours; I'd thought the entire school would've known by now. He saunters to his new desk, three behind me and two to the right, never once looking in my direction. I'm somewhat relieved; I don't know what I'm to write anyway. Something deep down in my gut twitches, tells my brain that maybe he'll leave a note for me at the ending of class like he had yesterday, that it was silly to think he'd bring one with him to homeroom, one that he's written before school had even begun for the day.

I find it particularly difficult to concentrate on today's reading selection. I have to read each paragraph over again twice to digest it. I can't believe I'm letting this make me so anxious. Something so trivial. Serena's words play back in my mind. Shouldn't you?

I don't. Not first period.

Not in second, either, where he takes an empty desk across the room.

In gym, she asks if I had. No, I tell her. He's not seated near me.

She asks if I will.

I don't know.

In physics, an extra desk has been pulled in. It is seated off to the side and not in grid with the others. I go to my desk, and Merinda follows me in. She taps me on the shoulder so that I turn around. I drop my bookbag first.

Your seat has been reassigned, she tells me.

What.

Ms. Mink has suggested that since you have me, that you sit in the extra seat, that way I can stand off to the side of the room and not block any other student's view.

I don't have to ask who is replacing me in my front row desk. Has there been a complaint that you are blocking their view? Come now? Fifty-five percent into the school year?

Merinda signs nothing. She just looks at me guitily.

This is discrimination against the hard of hearing, I tell her.

Please don't be difficult about this, she pleads. It really does make the most sense.

I begin to sign my comeback, something about how I'm never difficult, but Merinda turns. Ms. Mink has called her name.

"Is she okay with the new seating?" Ms. Mink asks Merinda.

Merinda turns back, signing the words I've already read.

I oppose the seat reassignment to the fullest possible extent, and it is now of utmost importance to me that I complete my studies in a timely manner so that I may overthrow the entire system, I sign.

"She says she doesn't mind," says Merinda to Ms. Mink.

I take a seat in Siberia, which is what my fourth grade teacher called the seat in the back corner of the room where she would banish students to who had caused trouble. She thought the isolation would be enough to deter them from causing further trouble, but the same three kids took their turns in Siberia every week. Merinda takes her new spot in a chair near the corner of Ms. Mink's desk. She appears regal and fair, as if her seat has always been here, six feet to the right.

I'm looking down at my textbook when I see Cannon trudge in from the corner of my eye. He stops. He stands in place for a moment. Someone is probably directing him to his new desk. My old desk. He sits in it. I remember the note. Now would've been a better time for me to have recieved an apology.

It's possible, I guess, that he shoots me an apologetic glance. I don't look that way, though, so I'll never know if he did or not. He probably didn't.

I can't wait to see Serena at lunch so I can tell her of my most recent misfortune. Her eyes are bright and attentive when I begin my story — she thinks I've completed her task — but they dull by the time I reach the punch line.

I know you like to be difficult and blame it on discrimination when you don't get your way, but this really doesn't seem like the most terrible option. It makes sense.

Okay, so, that's the last time I tell you anything. I sign, having given up on anyone being on my side today.

Would you rather me not be honest? she challenges.

The answer is of course not, but I'm a liar. I'd rather my best friend take my side no matter what.

Well, you know I'm not that kind of friend. I tell you when you're overreacting. And, this time, I think you're overreacting.

I sigh and pick at my chicken salad sandwich. Serena really is the best ever, and everyone else suffers not to have her.

In Latin, I struggle to pay attention as I try to think what I will write in my note. There are so many things I wish I could say to Cannon, so many questions I want answered. I write up a few drafts. In one of them I begin by stating that this was my best friend's idea, and not my own. In another, I literally have the balls to ask why he won't speak. I crumble up all attempts. I'm a monster.

I know Merinda knows that I am not paying attention. But I also know she knows that I am trying to work through something, and so she will let me. It is not her job to make sure I absorb the information; it is only her job to relay it to me. I do look up every other minute or so. I wonder if anyone notices that she is signing to no one.

I start a new draft. Hey, it begins. Sorry about your mom.

Nope. Nope, nope, nope. I crumble this one, too.

By the end of class, I have given up. I find a strange sense of peace in this decision. If I don't write him a note, I can't accidentally say the wrong thing. Easy. Best decision I've ever made.

Except that when I get to American history, he plops down into the seat next to me. And I want to help him. I do. I might be the only one right now who can.

I tear out a piece of notebook paper. I set it on the right side of my desk. I take notes inside my notebook, folded and seated on the left side of my desk. I wait for inspiration to strike.

Abraham Lincoln wasn't really anti-slavery like your teachers will tell you, Merinda signs to me. This information is not on the projected presentation. He was actually pretty moderate on the issue. But he knew if he took a stand against it, it'd win him the votes. He was right. It did.

I nod, signaling that I got what she signed.

Abe was also a racist, I write down in my notebook.

I peek over at Cannon. His hair looks three shades darker today by means of oil. He has his notebook on his desk. Unopened. He stares at the projection. But he doesn't take notes. I doubt he listens. But it's a step up from sleeping, I guess. His eyes dart my way. Mine dart up to the projection. I feel my face redden. Now I feel like I have to pass him a note. So he doesn't think I was watching him because I feel sorry for him or because I'm checking on him. Or something worse.

I scrawl out a quick Hey. onto the paper. Fold it up four times. Wait until Merinda and Coach Warren aren't looking. Reach my arm out. Drop it on his desk. Bring my arm back. Wait in agonizing pain.

I immediately scribble out some notes so as to one: hopefully look cool and chill, and two: give my nervous brain something to do. I watch out of my peripherals as he looks at me. Looks at the note. Unfolds it carefully. Reads it. Looks at me. Looks back at the note. Reaches into his bookbag. Pulls out a pen. Answers me.

Dear God my heart is pounding. What if he tells me to leave him alone. What if he's angry and says something mean. What if he—

He passes the note back. The corner pokes my elbow. Merinda sees. She lifts a brow. But she doesn't sign anything.

I play it cool. Take a couple more notes. Act like every muscle in my body isn't aching to open it. My heart wants to also be on the desk. It is trying to escape my chest so that it can open the note itself. Is this mad rush the same thing my classmates felt when passing notes in middle school? If so, I can't understand why they ever did it and I am glad that I never had to. I never needed to pass notes to Serena because sign language is an act of silence. But Cannon doesn't know sign language. And that is why we are here.

I unfold the note more quickly than I intend to. Cannon has written back:

Hey.

____________

My pal drew how she pictures Daisy. She always be doing the most for me.