Jessi's Secret Language by Ann M. Martin Page B

free tickets to opening night, so I’m inviting Mama, Daddy, Becca, Grandma, Grandpa, and you guys.”
    The club members began shrieking, “Opening night! … The ballet! … Going to Stamford!”
    I’d never heard them so excited.
    I took their reaction as a yes.

My personal feeling about the principal’s office is that it’s better not to be in it. For any reason. What could happen is that someone passes the office, sees you there, and spreads rumors about your being in big trouble, when in fact you’re just handing in a late insurance form or something.
    Despite my thoughts, I had to go to the principal’s office early one Thursday afternoon. I had a note from my mother giving me permission to leave Stoneybrook Middle School an hour early that afternoon. When the school secretary read Mama’s note and saw why I was leaving early, she started gushing. “Oh, what a lovely thing to do! Why, I think that’s wonderful. Simply wonderful.” She made out a pass and handed it to me saying, “You kids today! You’re so nice and thoughtful. No one gives you enough credit.”
    I had to agree with her on that one.
    At 1:25 that afternoon I was waiting on the sidewalk in front of school. At 1:30, Mrs. Braddock pulled to a stop in front of me, and I climbed into the front seat.
    â€œReady?” she asked, smiling.
    â€œReady as I’ll ever be.” I began rehearsing a speech with my hands. “What’s the sign for costume?” I asked. I realized that this was not a good question to ask a person whose hands were gripping the steering wheel of the car you were riding in, but I asked anyway.
    â€œI’ll demonstrate at the next red light,” Mrs. Braddock replied. And she did.
    The ride into Stamford took awhile, and we talked and rehearsed the entire time. At last we were driving into the city. Tall buildings everywhere. I recognized the street my ballet school is on, and the street Daddy’s office building is on. Finally we pulled into a parking lot with a big sign in front that said PARKING FOR SCHOOL FOR THE DEAF . We found a space and parked, and then Mrs. Braddock led me inside an old, old building that looked like it might once have been a mansion, somebody’s home.
    â€œIt’s run pretty much like any other school,” Mrs. Braddock said as we walked slowly down a brightly lit corridor. “The kids go to art lessonsand gym classes. They eat in a cafeteria. The differences are that the classes are quite small — usually not more than eight students, at least in the lower grades, and that the children start here at a very young age. Matt was two when he entered, and the teachers began lessons in signing right away. His classes were much more intense than regular nursery school classes.”
    We were walking slowly because I kept trying to peek into classrooms each time we passed a doorway.
    â€œThe younger classes are on this floor,” said Mrs. Braddock. “Matt’s is at the very end of the corridor.”
    We reached the last door in the hallway and paused beside it.
    â€œThis is one of the two second-grade classes,” Mrs. Braddock told me. “The children here are all seven years old, but they have different degrees of hearing difficulty. Some are profoundly deaf, like Matt. A few have some hearing. Several of them can speak. The children receive lots of individual attention. They all know how to sign, but those with speech are also given speech lessons. A few are learning lip-reading. Matt may try that when he’s older, if he wants to.”
    I nodded, trying to peek into the classroom.
    â€œSince some of the children can hear, and some are learning speech and lip-reading,” Mrs. Braddock went on, “make sure you speak — slowly and loudly — while you’re signing, okay?”
    â€œRight,” I replied. (Mrs. Braddock had mentioned that before.)
    â€œWell …