“Aww, Mom, do I hafta wear this? It’s stupid!”
Tracer fidgeted again as his mom straightened out the frock coat. He hated the way it looked: it was dark green on the outside, and the bowtie was light yellow. He was supposed to be corn. Tracer hated corn. At least looking like it.
“Moooommm, this is stupid! Why do I hafta wear this? It’s ugly.”
His mother stopped in front of him, still adjusting his suit. Tracer knew she didn’t mind his protests, but it still hurt him when she smiled, stood on her toes, and kissed him on the cheek. She told him he looked like his father, and that all the girls would think he was handsome.
He thanked her for lending him the suit and watched as she left his small room. The house was very quiet despite the fact he had a younger brother obsessed with obnoxiously loud video games. He was getting ready, too, with their mom’s help. But even in the deep quiet, his mom wouldn’t understand if he called after her now to say he only cared about one girl to think well of him. The first reason he didn’t was because there was no way on God’s green earth that he would let his brother hear that. The second was that his mom wouldn’t understand anything he said at all.
She was deaf.
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