Unique-Firecracker-4

Chapter one: Before I could stop it

Oct 31^st in my bedroom

I am confused. Is this normal? Is my head playing tricks on me? It must be. I started laughing before the little kid told the joke. It was just a natural thing. I could swear I heard the joke before she said it! I am not going to tell anyone else about this, only you, my journal. I can 't tell anyone else. It 's silly. A trick of the brain. I will look back later on this journal entry and laugh. But—I could almost swear....

It began before I could stop it. I was four years old, to be exact. I was four years old when a plane blew up in the airport and killed my parents and little sister. Somehow I survived the terrorists though my nightmares still caught them every once in awhile. They were the impersonation of everything evil and terrible in my life.

Growing up, I missed my family a lot, people I could not remember. I could only remember remembering, and all I could remember remembering was the feeling of being held. But I still missed them. I missed the invisible man I thought of as my father, Abe Larose. I still imagined what he was like and strove to be like him, even if I had no real idea what he was like, because Chaz never said. I missed my mother, Jeana, because she was the only person I did not feel silly around, even in my thoughts. I was always her baby boy to comfort and cuddle, even when the problem was a silly one. I missed my baby sister though, perhaps even more. I imagined that Carry would have toddled after me as I cleaned the kitchen. She would have crept into my bed so I could read a fairy tale to her. I imagined protecting her at school, helping her with homework, and generally, being the fawning older brother.

But I could not really remember any of them, not faces, not words, not even the feeling of being held. All I had was Chaz Larose, a cousin on my father's side. And I never really had him in the first place, because I never wanted him.

Chaz was my impersonation of a slob. His face was never shaved perfectly, his shirt never clean, or his lips ever without a cigarette. He took me in to get the money from the government, and he made no secret about it. He threatened me with trips to the country or even trips to the orphanage, but I knew he would not because that money from the government for my “special needs” was what bought his cigarettes, and he could not get rid of those. I stole his money sometimes. No one ever told me not to, and eventually I realized it should have been mine to begin with, so I took it more.

I had survived the attack on the plane, but I still came out stone deaf. By the time I was 6 I was fluent in sign language that an instructor had taught me – then she left, thinking my cousin would be good enough help. I did not want his help. Even when I was 6 I did not obey him, did not like him, did not listen to him, and I stayed away from him as much as possible, even though we lived in the same house.

School was an awful experience the first few years. People called me names that I could not hear and could not understand. They laughed at me. They pointed to my ears, but it looked like they were pointing at my head, and I always imagined that it looked strange or out of place. I cried nearly every night, telling myself I did not need friends, but I wanted them more than ever!

I finally got one in Bernie Gaines. The first time he approached me, I tucked my head in and tried to walk past, but he signed, “Not so hot?” and my stomach jumped a little.

It took me a moment to reply, “I am fine. How do you know sign language?”

“My grandmas is deaf. We spend a lot of time at her house. What is your name?”

I felt like gates were falling every second.

“Alan Duke Larose.”

“I am Bernie. How did you get deaf?”

He wanted to know! I told him and he signed back his apology. Then he invited me to my first football game and promised to dictate the game for me in sign language. I finally had a friend! He was my only one for years.

My hearing was completely and absolutely gone until I was 8. It was then I first understood the nickname I carried at school, “Ally.” I still did not quite understand why other children laughed at it until later. But I distinctly remember first hearing a kid who came up behind me to taunt as usual. He called, “Ally! Hey Ally!”

I did not know what he was saying, but I knew without realizing it, exactly where he was standing and in two seconds he was sprawled out on the tile floor, gaping and flabbergasted. I got in some trouble, but when I threatened boys for calling me names, they believed me and stopped.

I had to learn how to talk all over again. I hated it.

My hearing was still very faint at first and sometimes, like when I first got out of bed and at night before I climbed in again, I could hear nothing, supposedly because I was tired and was not trying to hear. Chaz did not know sign language well and did not care to learn much more than he knew, phrases like, “go away,” and “get me the soda” and “I'll punch you.” But I already knew he yelled at me several times a day when I could not understand him. Now, if I tried — I could hear him. I would cover my ears and run to my room, which is probably what Chaz wanted anyway.

My hearing improved steadily. Bernie taught me a lot about talking, about what signs sound like what sounds, and he also taught me about football. Whatever else I knew, I taught myself.

Hearing again brought a whole plethora of feelings and experiences. I listened to music like no one else ever has. I would find a song that I simply loved and play it over and over and over to hear every in and out. I memorized the very boom of the bass, the small click of drums, the synthesizer, the scratches on the violin bow, the missed string in a guitar strum, every part of the song. I also stayed up late making noises to myself. And the day I learned to whistle was a great day!

It was watching a football game at Bernie's house that my ears first played tricks on me, at least that I can remember.

We were so close to a touchdown that would win the game, so close! The quarterback faded back a few steps, reared back and shot the ball. It landed neatly into the hands of the wide receiver, number 31 and he took off running. Bernie and I were on the edge of our seats, popcorn forgotten, and reveling in the game. 31 got closer to the touchdown line and was only yards away when a suit of muscle and pads suddenly threw itself at him and Bernie and I were certain this was the down – but suddenly I jumped to my feet and began to cheer. A second later the wide receiver danced elegantly into the in zone. Bernie and I were on our feet, dancing in a circle, throwing popcorn in the air and we only stopped when we were panting and pooped.

Bernie fell onto the sofa and I followed, both of us grinning broadly.

“What's up with you?” Bernie suddenly asked. “What on earth did you start cheering for when that truck was about to knock him down?”

“I thought he'd make it.”

“You couldn't be sure.”

“He did, though.”

“Oh yeah, I think you are cheering for the other team and just pretending to be my friend!”

I threw popcorn at him.

But I did not forget it. Why had I cheered?

I was a deep thinker, even at 11 years old. I thought and thought and replayed the scene in my mind, much like I replayed music, trying to figure out every detail of the scene.

I replayed it until I heard things I had not been aware of at first. Slowly now....the pass, the catch....running....cheering....then the touchdown. I finally understood, late that night as I stared up at the ceiling. I had heard cheering. I was sure. It could not have been Bernie, but it had sounded like Bernie. It was as if someone had had better reception and got the game quicker and cheered right before we saw what happened. Perhaps his dad in his office? No, the office was too far away in the house, and the cheering had not sounded like him. It had sounded like Bernie, and like myself. I was mystified. Why did I hear cheering before the touchdown? It kept me up that night, but the next morning it was forgotten.

The second time it happened was on Halloween that year. I had gone trick-or-treat-ing with Bernie for awhile, and then we came back to grab something to drink before we headed out again.

I was sitting on the sofa as Mrs. Gaines opened the front door to give a few little witches candy. In a cooing voice that I associated with mothers, she asked, “Do any of you have a joke for me?”

A girl spoke up, “Knock knock!”

“Well, who 's there?”

“Phillip!”

“Phillip who?”

It was here I gave a little chuckle to myself. Not because I knew the joke or saw something on TV that amused me, but I heard the little chick say, “Phillip my bag with candy!” before it happened. As I was hearing it, the kid actually said it, “Phillip my bag with candy!”

I was completely confused. That night while munching on chocolate (I had given everything but my chocolate and gum to Bernie) I pulled out a notebook and wrote:

A Journal of Hearing Ahead, Alan Duke Larose