No one speaks. No volunteers. Why not? Then I wonder: Is it because of me? Is it because I stared at her yesterday and made her cry, and now everyone thinks she’s weird? I start to feel sorry for her.
The seconds stretch like minutes, each sharp tick… tick… tick of the wall clock ringing painfully in my ears. I consider how she must feel.
She probably hates me for what I did to her, for embarrassing her like that. And I can’t stand the thought of someone hating me. The art museum visit would be a chance to win her over, to prove that I’m a nice guy, a guy people like if they get to know me.
“I’ll go,” I say.
“Great, thanks, Will,” says Mrs. Everbrook. “This will be for the news section.”
A few minutes later, I hear someone approach and sit down at the desk beside me. I wait. Nothing happens. And then I feel a single finger brush the outside of my hand, requesting my attention.
“I’m sorry about yesterday,” she says. “It’s Cecily, by the way.”
“I know. I know your voice,” I mean. “Sorry. It won’t happen again.” I say.
“You mean because you’re wearing sunglasses today?” she asks.
So she noticed. I absently push them up the bridge of my nose.
They feel clunky and awkward on my face. They are as tall as my thumb on the front and the sides, only tapering at the part that sit on my ears. It’s like a megaphone calling attention to my blindness. But yesterday I realized that what Mom has always told me was correct: I should always wear my sunglasses. My eyes do make people uncomfortable. People like this girl Cecily.
“Yes, that’s why I’m wearing them.”
She shifts in her seat.
“If you want, I can drive us,” she offers. “To the museum.”
“You have a car?”
“My mom does. How about maybe we go tomorrow?”
“It’s a date,” I say, immediately cringing at my word choice.
As I head from journalism to lunch, I wonder if I will be able to sit with everyone from yesterday. I mean, if they decide they don’t want the blind kid joining their table on an ongoing basis, it would be oh so easy for them to just happen to sit at a different one. I’d have no way of ever knowing where. Or why.
At the school for the blind, the loners moved silently, rarely giving away their voiceprint and remaining mostly unknown to all but their roommates. The opposite, having everyone recognize your voice, meant you were either notorious or popular. I happened to be popular.
At this school, though, I have no idea how many people have even noticed me so far. And if they have, it’s probably only because I’m an anomaly.
I notice how much less obstructed my path is now that I’m walking alone, as opposed to when Mr. Johnston was guiding me through the hall yesterday and my cane was folded and hidden in my back pocket. Then I was merely a new student. Now I’m obviously a blind new student.
I walk to the same table as yesterday and set down my lunch bag.
“Hey, guys,” I say, pretending I’m confident, that I’m not worried I might be speaking to an empty table.
“Yo,” says Whitford.
“What’s up?” says Ion.
“You’re back!” says Nick.
They’re still here, I think with a great sigh of relief.
“How’s your second day of mainstreaming going?” asks Nick.
“I like how that can be a verb or an adjective,” says Ion. “You are mainstreaming at a mainstream school.”
“Or a noun,” adds Whitford. “The mainstream school will funnel you into the mainstream.”
“Exactly why this place sucks,” says Nick. “Mainstream always equals suckitude.”
There’s a gap in the conversation, but I sense that it has continued in a wordless exchange of facial expressions. I read the braille label on a Tupperware container from my lunch bag. Carrots. Mom always packs carrots. I think she secretly believes my eyesight can be salvaged if I just consume enough beta-carotene.
Eventually Ion says, “So what do your parents do, Will?”
“My mom is a professional helicopter parent and country clubber. And my dad’s a doctor.”
“What kind of doctor?” asks Nick.
I was afraid he’d ask this. I try to avoid answering directly. I don’t know Nick all that well yet, but I already know that if he finds out, he’ll have a field day.
“Like, you know, sick people come to his place of business, and he makes them feel good,” I say.
“A statement that could also describe a prostitute,” says Nick. “I mean, what kind of medicine does he practice?”
I’m cornered. “He’s a urologist,” I admit.
“No!” says Nick in a tone of gleeful mock disbelief.
“Oh, grow up!” says Ion.
“A urologist? Like he—” says Nick.
“Yes,” I say.
“So he’s gay?” Nick asks.
“Seriously?” scolds Ion. “Just because you’re a complete dick doesn’t mean you have to be a homophobe.”
I say, “He did create me with my mom, so I don’t think—”
But Nick’s on a roll now. “I don’t get why any medical student would choose urology, you know? Like, why not plastic surgery? Now there’s a job for you. Play with boobs all day and get paid big bucks for it.”