now hear this

Jemma wasn't sure why it took her so long to realize there was a sign language interpreter standing in the front of the room during every single session of ENG 425 (Jane Austen as Social Commentary), but when she did, it was mid-October and the leaves were red and gold outside the windows of Angell Hall. She wondered if he'd been there the entire time, and then immediately thought of what Fitz would say. "Typical Jemma, head in the clouds… or in your books."

But Fitz wasn't there. His summer internship with Dr. Damian Fellowes, a distinguished lecturer, and, according to Fitz, "one of the brightest minds of our time," had turned into a fall semester abroad. Along with two other students, Fitz and Dr. Fellowes had packed off to France, where they would be working on perfecting certain types of neural stimulators. It was a once in a lifetime opportunity, and deep down, Jemma was glad Fitz had taken it.

It was the first time in their college careers they'd been separated, though, and Jemma found herself profoundly lonely. She spent her nights tucked away in her dorm room, a tiny attic single she'd crammed with books, and her days attending class and working at the university's main library, where she shelved books for hours at a time. Her life seemed to be passing in a blur, studying and eating bad cafeteria food and working and sleeping and above all, missing Fitz, any of which could have explained why she'd been so clueless to the presence of the man who had apparently been standing directly behind the professor during every class three times a week, for an hour and a half at a go.

The professor, a diminutive woman with silvery hair pulled back in a neat bun, had expressed her wish for the small class to become more of a social group where learning took place, and had thus arranged their chairs in a circle, so that every student could see the others. It was a section entirely full of women, which made Jemma feel even stupider that she'd completely missed the interpreter: he was the only man in the room.

As the rain slapped against the windows of the classroom and the red and gold leaves bobbed in the afternoon wind, Jemma studied her classmates, trying to figure out which one was the cause for the interpreter's presence. It was harder than she thought it would be, because though the class was small, there were a handful of students who rarely spoke, or had yet to speak. One was a ditzy-looking blond, but as Jemma watched her closely, she never once looked at the interpreter or the professor. Another was an angry-faced redheaded with close-cropped hair and a jean jacket studded with a multitude of brightly-colored buttons, but as Jemma continued her observation, her classmate leaned over and whispered to the girl next to her. Clearly neither was the interpreter's raison d'etre.

Finally, when Jemma had almost decided that the interpreter was nothing more than a figment of her overly-caffeinated brain, a girl two seats away shifted in her chair and tucked a strand of her long, dark brown hair behind her ear, exposing for Jemma to see a hearing aid – the earmold glittery violet and the behind-the-ear amplifier a darker shade of purple.

Jemma couldn't remember ever seeing the girl before, but, like the interpreter, she knew the deaf girl had been there all along. It was puzzling, though – why hadn't she noticed?

At the end of the class, the professor stayed behind to talk with a few students who were unhappy with their grades on the paper handed back that day. Jemma, who had gotten top marks as usual got up at the same time as the deaf girl, hoping to follow her out into the hall, but they were both swept up in a crush of students. Jemma tripped with her papers and books in her hands, the deaf girl accidentally had her books shoved to the floor, and in the series of moments following the scramble to grab their respective books and folders, Jemma realized that somehow both girl and interpreter were gone.

Jemma found it bizarre how disappointed she was, and she found it similarly bizarre that she became absolutely excited to realize that she would only have to wait two days for her next opportunity to see the oddly-matched pair.

And what would Fitz have said about that?

"Typical Jemma – falling in love with a girl who doesn't even know you exist."

She hated when Fitz was right, and she especially hated it when the Fitz in her head was right. It was somehow even more annoying, and it somehow made his absence all the more palpable.

Skye unlocked the door to her dorm room, pulling off the hood of her raincoat as she entered. Water dripped onto the tile floor; she could feel it as the drops hit the toes of her boots.

As usual, classes had been the usual humdrum of gaping, moving mouths conveying nothing of substance – at least, to her – and her all-consuming one-on-one relationship with her interpreter, her guide through the world of hearing, speaking college students.

He was a nice guy, but so far he was the only person she'd connected with whatsoever on campus. He didn't count as a friend, though, because he had a real life, a house in the city and a girlfriend who did something bureaucrat-y for a government agency. When she was done with classes, Mr. Coulson went home to his beautiful girlfriend (she'd seen pictures) and Skye went back to her dorm room, where she studied in silence until it was time to go to bed.

Professors were kind and accommodating, for the most part, but they didn't understand. Other students looked at her like she was some sort of alien, staring without shame at Mr. Coulson's rapid movements and her returning gestures. It had been awhile since she'd been ashamed to be deaf, but life at Barnham College was quickly upping the shame quotient, and consequently, she was alone.

Alone at meals, alone in classes, alone on the walks between dorm and caf and class, alone on the bus ride to the mall or the library, anywhere she could lose herself and forget, for one fleeting series of moments, that being deaf was abnormal.

She knew there were other deaf students on campus, at least a handful or so, because Mr. Coulson wasn't the only interpreter at Barnham. She'd seen pictures of the other two at the Disability Resource Center when she had dropped off her schedule for Mr. Coulson. And she'd met two other deaf students at her orientation; they'd shared and interpreter for those days. But at Barnham, even deaf culture was exclusive. Her experience with the other two students had left her feeling even more alien than normal. All she wanted was for someone to accept her for her, not for being the deaf chick or the girl who hadn't attended a residential school for the deaf or the interesting curiosity who came to class with what at first seemed like her very own bodyguard (Mr. Coulson might have been old enough to be her father, but he was still tough-looking and strong in ways she couldn't figure out how to express).

Skye sighed as she opened her school bag. She wasn't getting anywhere with her round-and-round thoughts, only getting more depressed. Might as well throw in some British lit for funsies.

But when she pulled Pride and Prejudice from her bag, she stared at it uncomprehendingly. The book she'd brought home was not her own.

Something like panic flooded her veins as she remembered that she and the mousy girl two seats over had collided with some of their classmates, both of them dropping their books to the floor. In the confusion the books had obviously been switched.

Damn it, Skye thought as she saw the tidy, precise handwriting inside the front cover, declaring the book to be the property of "Jemma Simmons, 428 Castell Hall."

And she lives in my dorm! Skye groaned inwardly. Perfect. Now she had no excuse for not taking the book back to its rightful owner and retrieving her own copy. No doubt someone who cared enough to put their name and address in the book, in case of just such a situation like the one that had occurred, was frantic with its loss.

She tried to think of other ways to get the book back to Jemma Simmons (428 Castell Hall), anything that would prevent her from having to walk up the stairs to the fourth floor, knock on a door, and then use both her limited ability to lip-read and her off-key, clearly-deaf voice to deal with Jemma Simmons and/or a roommate. She could email this Jemma Simmons, and then leave the book at the first floor desk. Or she could wait until Wednesday, when the Jane Austen class would meet again. Or she could light the book on fire, claim ignorance of its whereabouts if ever asked, and buy a new copy at the first opportunity.

Somehow she found that she could do none of those things. She kept looking at the book, at Jemma Simmons' precise, girlish handwriting, at the obviously well-loved raspberry-colored tapestry bookmark holding a place among the pages. She thought of how upset she would be if a similarly cherished possession was lost, and in the end she could only see Mr. Coulson, as though he was some sort of Mr. Miagi, giving her the right answer.

Don't be afraid, her mind-Coulson signed. Maybe you'll make a friend.

Skye grumbled as she pulled her boots back on. And maybe she'll mock my voice and call me a thief, she replied to mind-Coulson. Maybe she'll punch me.

Life is risk, mind-Coulson signed.

Skye rolled her eyes as she grabbed her keys and the book and let herself out into the hallway. I need to get a hobby.