Dad was staring intently at a family photo on the wall, the one taken last Christmas, when Grace was still a tiny baby. The photographer took thirty-eight photos that day, and Grace only stopped wailing for one of them. Mom and Dad chose it without hesitation, even though Finn's eyes were closed and I looked like I was having a seizure.

"Where's Grace?" I asked.

"Asleep."

"Finn?"

"In the bas.e.m.e.nt, I think. Practicing his guitar. Or something. I don't know."

Another day, another relaxed, flowing conversation with Dad. I leaned against his desk, took the weight off my unsteady legs. "Thank you for doing that," I said finally. "You didn't have to."

Dad smiled ruefully. "Yes I did. I've gotten used to you and me arguing, but seeing you and your mother going at it just kills me."

I wanted to ask if it hurt him that he and I argued so much, but I couldn't. What if he said no? "I'm sorry things are like this," I said.

"Are you really?"

I didn't know what to say to that, so I looked away, studied the books stacked in piles on his desk-dictionaries, encyclopedias, journals on obscure topics that most sane people haven't even heard about. It was the recurring image of industriousness Dad had portrayed my entire life, but nothing seemed to have moved since the last time I'd been there. Did he actually read any of those books? If not, what did he do during those increasingly drawn-out evenings when he disappeared to the sanctuary of his office?

Only one book was open, its bright white pages out of place amid Dad's predominantly musty, yellowed collection. I leaned over and peered at the photographs of hand and arm gestures. Below each one, a caption translated the sign language into English.

"Whose is that?" I asked, not for a moment considering the most obvious explanation of all.

Dad hurried over and closed the book, and I just had time to catch the t.i.tle before he placed it under the desk: The Complete Idiot's Guide to Conversational Sign Language The Complete Idiot's Guide to Conversational Sign Language.

"Good t.i.tle, huh?" he asked flatly. "A complete idiot . . . that sounds like me."

My heart was doing somersaults, but I didn't know what to say. The book was an olive branch, a chance for us to close the gap, but in all my life Dad had never appeared so vulnerable.

"Are you teaching yourself?" I asked finally, trying to tone down the excitement in my voice.

Dad shook his head. "No. There's a course at the community college. Tuesday evenings." He pulled another book from under the desk, this one called Master ASL Master ASL.

I flicked through it, but I didn't really care about the book's approach, or the quality of the writing. All I cared about were the signs, and the thought that Dad might someday know them. I wanted to drill him with a million questions, but this was my turf, not his, and he still seemed reticent to talk about it.

"How are you finding it?" I asked.

"It's . . . not easy. But I'm getting there." I wondered whether he was talking about our heart-to-heart chat as well as the rigors of learning sign language, but either way, he seemed worn out.

"Thank you for doing this. It means so much."

Dad's head and shoulders slumped. "Don't say that."

"Why not? It's true."

"Because I should've done this years ago, instead of always making excuses. When you started to lose your hearing I tried to learn with Finn, but he picked it up so much quicker than me. And compared to your mom I felt stupid and clumsy. In the end I honestly convinced myself that it would be better for both of us if I didn't even try. But I was missing the point. All that time I think you just wanted me to meet you halfway."

I nodded. "That would've been nice, yeah."

"I feel like I owe you the best part of a decade, and I'm trying to play catch-up. Only I don't know how that's supposed to work."

"You're improvising well."

Dad laughed. "G.o.d, Piper, I feel like I'm only just getting to know you now, for the first time."

"You know me."

"No, I don't," he sighed, refusing to play along with the easy lie. "Not really. And it's unforgiveable."

I stepped forward, gave him the briefest of hugs. "Well, I forgive you anyway."

Dad summoned a smile. "Thank you." He turned away and pulled a stack of papers from his bookshelf; the t.i.tle on the front page read Financial Aid & Fees Financial Aid & Fees. "It says that more than eighty-five percent of students who apply for financial aid receive a.s.sistance. If Gallaudet is what you really want, we'll be able to make it happen."

I flicked through the stack and caught a glimpse of the university's nineteenth-century buildings, familiar from years of browsing the website. It was was what I wanted, but it still seemed so far off. what I wanted, but it still seemed so far off.

"You have to trust us, Piper," said Dad, sensing my concern. "We want what's best for you."

We want what's best for you. Who would have imagined that his idea of best might one day coincide with mine?

"What about Mom? After today she might not be so thrilled about helping with this," I said.

Dad shook his head. "She will. You two are just going through a rough patch, that's all. She feels like you've shut her out."

"No way."

"Hey, I'm not saying she's blameless, but she just can't keep up with everything. She never wanted to work every hour of every day, and I think she'd do anything for things to go back to the way they were." He looked at the family photo again, straightened it carefully.

"But if she'd talk to me, I'd-"

"No." Dad turned to face me, shaking his head decisively. "That's the problem, see? You've moved on without her her, not the other way around. You need to make the first move here."

"I don't know if I can."

"You can. Just talk to her . . . do that thing you do, okay? You've always been our rock, the one who holds things together-our own Pied Piper. Right now we could really do with some more of that magic."

Even though I was overwhelmed that Dad was learning sign language, I still wanted to say no. I wanted to tell him what a c.r.a.ppy thing it was to put the burden of responsibility on me. But he was gazing at me imploringly. In spite of my pink hair, my anarchic band, and my cutting school, he'd told me I I was the rock. And in my heart, I knew that he was absolutely right. was the rock. And in my heart, I knew that he was absolutely right.

I stopped at the doorway. "Thank you for learning to sign," I said.

Dad thought for a moment, then his brows knitted and he opened his right hand, held it palm up and swept it across his body in the sign for You're welcome. You're welcome.

And then he smiled at me for the first time in a year.

CHAPTER 40.

Mom's room was dark. She lay on her side in bed, hugging the comforter to her chin. Her breathing rose and fell with the perfect consistency of someone who was feigning sleep.

I turned on the light.

Mom fidgeted, but kept her eyes shut tight. After a moment, she produced a sound like a horse. I'm not sure what she thought it would achieve, but I almost laughed out loud.

"Lynn Vaughan," I said solemnly, "future Academy Award winner."

"I was asleep," she protested.

"No, you weren't."

She sat up, propped a pillow behind her. Her face was streaked with tears, mascara bleeding down her cheeks.

"You look awful, Mom."

"Says the girl with pink hair!"

It was such a perfect comeback that I couldn't help smiling, and then laughing. After a few seconds, Mom started chuckling too.

"You look like you swallowed radioactive waste," she said, and laughed louder through her tears.

"It's called Atomic Pink."

"Oh G.o.d, so you really did did swallow radioactive waste!" swallow radioactive waste!"

We were laughing hysterically as I slid onto the bed beside her and held her hand. It was warm, clammy, like a fever breaking, but she didn't take it away. We twined fingers, and I could feel the barrier between us melting a little.

"I'm sorry, Mom. I think there's a lot going on in your life right now that I don't understand."

She looked at our hands. "Ditto."

"I need you to know that the band was important to me. I don't know if it should've been, but it was. It was exciting. It made me feel . . . alive."

"I know it did, Piper. I wish I'd realized it sooner, that's all. I wish I'd had the energy to keep up with everything."

"Like what?"

Mom lifted our hands and kissed mine, then ran a finger around my nails: the nibbled skin, the split nails, the ma.s.sacred cuticles. She sighed, and then suddenly she was crying again, and I just didn't understand.

"I'm so behind the times. Months behind . . . probably years. How did I miss it?" As the seconds ticked by in silence, she rubbed my nail beds with her thumb, as if she might undo all those years of self-inflicted damage. "Just today, I was telling someone at work that things were kind of difficult between us, and she suggested I take you to a fancy salon this weekend so we could get our hair cut together. I thought it was such a lovely idea. I even went ahead and booked appointments for us."

"I'm sorry."

"No, it's fine. Although I must admit that I didn't have Atomic Pink in mind."

It suddenly dawned on me that she'd been staring at our hands the whole time. "Look at me, Mom. . . . Please."

Mom looked up, eyes flitting from one part of my head to another like she was searching desperately for any hair that might have survived the pink onslaught.

"I like it," I told her quietly, firmly. "I like the color and the style. And I like knowing that I can't hide anymore."

That really got her attention. "Why would you feel like hiding?"

"Because I don't fit in. I haven't fit in for years. I've been the nerd at the front of the cla.s.s, the one without many friends. But ever since I started with Dumb, people look at me differently."

"You know the teachers will look at you differently too, right?"

"Yes."

"And you're okay with that?"

"Maybe the teachers don't really know me any better than the students."

Mom ran her fingers through my hair, tucked it behind my ears. Half an hour before, I'd have batted her hands away, but I knew she was finally seeing me in the present, not as the girl I used to be, so I let her fingertips continue their gentle sweep.

"It's going to take me some time to get used to everything, you know?" she said finally.

"I know. Me too."

She nodded, continued gazing at me like she wanted to see right into my soul. It wasn't going to be that easy, of course, but at least she was trying.

"What would you say to Sleepless in Seattle Sleepless in Seattle?" she asked, referring to our favorite romantic comedy, a cheesy '90s chick flick with Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan.

"I've got homework."

She rolled her eyes. "Screw homework. You're already in so much trouble, just for once . . . screw it!"

I stared at her in amazement, then jumped up and slid the DVD into the player. Once I'd got it running, I sat beside her again, and this time crawled under the covers as well.

The movie started and I rested my eyes on the closed captions, but I didn't bother to read them. Somehow I knew that I'd be able to watch the movie a million times in my life, but I might never again nestle into my mother's side, feeling forgiven and so completely and utterly loved.

CHAPTER 41.

Dad had a plate of pancakes at the ready when he woke us the next morning, which was almost as surprising as the discovery that I'd spent the night in my parents' bed. He didn't even seem p.i.s.sed about having spent the night on the sofa, although I felt guilty when I noticed how much trouble he had standing up straight.

I expected him to beat a hasty retreat once he'd delivered breakfast, but instead he shuffled on the spot like a puppy waiting to be taken outside. "Um, I, well . . . Never mind."

"What is it?" I asked.

"I'll tell you in a moment. I don't want to scare you."