He maps the face by making a photographic grid of it.
He then builds the face piece by piece on canvas, using oils, acrylics, ink, graphite, or colored pencils.
According to him, it’s always about the face.
Only about the face.
Because the face is a road map of life.
I text Jayvee. Our conversation begins, as always, with Atticus Finch.
Me: Let’s say Atticus Finch is your father.
Jayvee: Am I Scout or Jem?
Me: Either. Or Jayvee. Jayvee Finch.
Jayvee: Of the Filipino Finches. Continue.
Me: Let’s say there’s an illness that runs in the family, and when you were little, Atticus decided you shouldn’t be tested for it.
Jayvee: Atticus is usually right. Is there a cure?
Me: Not really.
Jayvee: Am I questioning Atticus now that I’m all grown up and womanly?
Me: Maybe.
Jayvee: How old am I now?
Me: Our age.
Jayvee: I’d assume old Atticus had his reasons. He’s Atticus Finch, after all.
Five seconds later:
Jayvee: But there’s something to be said for making your own decisions.
How to Build a Robot
by Jack Masselin
Collect as many Lego pieces and other materials as possible.
Draw up schematic of design.
Ignore “how to build a Lego robot” websites because this is for Dusty and he deserves something original that has never been created before.
Rewatch The Day the Earth Stood Still (the original, not the remake) for procrastination-designed-as-inspiration-gathering purposes.
Take everything you can find of any value from the scrap yard.
Order missing parts (if impossible to find at scrap yard)—microcontroller, breadboard, circuit board, battery, jumper wires, gear motors, power jack, speaker, infrared receiver, rotation servos, various brackets and hardware, motorized scroll saw, etc.
Create sketches that will tell the robot what to do. Basically, program its brain.
When I was six, I climbed up on the roof of the house, trying to be a superhero. I was Iron Man in my Iron Man suit, only in reality I was wearing a T-shirt and a pair of swim trunks, which meant that instead of flying I dove headfirst into the earth and cracked my skull open. Sixty-seven stitches. Did I recognize people before that? I can’t remember.
Give it a good brain. A complete, fully functioning, normal, regular brain.
ONE WEEK LATER
* * *
October first is a Tuesday. I play sick and hide the keys to the Land Rover so Marcus can’t take it to school. When a tall boy with shaggy hair comes into my room and starts yelling at me, I figure it’s him. “I know you’ve got the keys, you faker.”
I cough loudly.
He starts digging through my shit—bookshelves, drawers, closet. He’s picking my jeans up off the floor and searching the pockets.
I hack away like I’ve got tuberculosis until a woman appears at the door and wants to know what in the Great Fanny Adams is going on.
In answer, I cough myself ragged, which makes her point to the door and tell the tall/shaggy boy to get the hell downstairs. NOW. The woman says, “Do you need anything before we go?”
“I’ll be okay.” I don’t actually mean to, but I sound like a martyr. I cough a little more.
And then she’s gone, and I lie still, listening to the leaving sounds that are happening downstairs.
I hear the front door slam, and I lie there another minute. I hear a car engine kick in, and then I’m up and at the window, counting the bodies down below. The woman climbs into one car with this little kid, and a man with thick dark hair gets in another car with the tall/shaggy boy. I watch them pull away and turn in opposite directions at the end of the block, first one and then the other. Like that, I fly into motion. I’m grabbing the keys from beneath the mattress, pulling on clothes, running down the stairs, shoving a bagel in my mouth, jumping in the Land Rover, and heading across town to Libby’s.
Libby’s neighborhood is street after street of these new houses that look identical, one after the other. There’s nothing to distinguish her house from the rest of them except for the girl who lives there. She’s waiting for me on the curb, wearing this purple dress, and it reminds me of something an actual woman would wear, tucked here, loose there, fitted there. Her hair is down and lit up by the sun.
I can see beauty. The more symmetrical the face, the more average the person looks to me because there’s this sameness to them, even if other people think they’re hot. A person has to have something unique about them. Libby’s face is symmetrical, but her beauty has nothing to do with sameness. I recognize it as she swings the door open and climbs into the car. She’s graceful, especially for someone so large. She kind of swoops in like Tarzan, kicks off her shoes, and wiggles her toes. Her toenails are purple too.
I say, “You look great.”
She cocks her head at me. “Are you flirting with me, Jack Masselin?”
“I’m just stating the obvious.”
She pulls her hair off her neck, and I want to say Don’t do that. You’ll disappear before my eyes. But then you can tell she rethinks it—maybe she remembers that I’ve told her this before—and lets it fall back around her shoulders.
Then she hands me something wrapped in Christmas paper and about fifty bows. “Happy birthday. If you can’t tell, I like Christmas paper best.”
“You didn’t have to do anything.”
“I wanted to. Open it.”
I tear off the wrapping and the bows go flying. She picks one up and sticks it to her hair, right over her left ear. She picks up another and sticks it to the knee of my jeans. I pick one up and stick it to the end of my nose and then stick one on the end of her nose.
She says from behind the bow, “Open, please.”
It’s a book. We Have Always Lived in the Castle by Shirley Jackson. At first, I’m thrown. I wonder if she knows. She must know I was the one who sent this to her at the hospital. I look at her, but she’s got this wide, open smile on her face, and I can see that no, she doesn’t know.
I flip through the book. It’s not the same copy I sent her years ago, but it’s still well worn and well read.
“I wasn’t sure what to get you because what do you get the boy who has everything, including face blindness? So I thought I’d get you something I love. It’s my favorite book. You don’t have to read it, but the girl, Mary Katherine—Merricat, they call her—she reminds me of, uh, me, I guess. And … I don’t know. I thought you might relate to her too.”
“I’ll read it.” I smile at her. “Thank you.”
She smiles at me. “You’re welcome.”
And we’re having what feels like a moment. Suddenly, the air isn’t just filled with bows; it’s filled with some sort of electric current that links her seat to mine.
She does the impossible—slices through the current by speaking first. “So are you ready for this?”
“As I’ll ever be.”
At first I’m amped. I talk her ear off, telling her about every online test I’ve taken and this guy with prosopagnosia named Bill Choisser who lives in San Francisco and is an old bearded dude who wrote a book about face blindness, which he’s posted on the Internet for all to read. All about the impact being face-blind has on school, work, relationships, life.
But the closer we get to Bloomington, the quieter I get. I can feel the air going out of me. What am I going to find out? Will Dr. Amber Klein be able to help me? Should I be going to New Hampshire instead to see Brad Duchaine? What if this whole trip is a waste of time? What if they tell me I’ve got some serious illness? What if I find out it isn’t face blindness, but cancer of the brain?
“I can almost feel you thinking right now.”
I look at her.
“Did you forget I was in the car with you?”
I’m so deep in the forest of my mind that yeah, I almost did.
“Sorry.”
We pass a sign: BLOOMINGTON … 10 MILES. I feel my stomach drop and land somewhere around the gas pedal.