I text her what it said.
“Cool,” she replies. “So it’s reading you the names of the pictures. What does this one say?”
I listen to her next message and tell her what it said: “Smiling pile of poop.”
I wonder what that could possibly look like. And, for that matter, why would anyone ever send it?
Then she sends me three more. Siri reads me the message: “Small up-pointing triangle, large red down-pointing triangle, black left-pointing double triangle.”
I write: “?”
There’s a pause before Cecily replies with a long text: “Before today, I never noticed how roads look like triangles as they disappear into the horizon. I only saw roads getting smaller as they got farther away. Now, thanks to you, I’m seeing triangles everywhere.”
I smile. I open Facebook and send her a friend request.
There’s a knock on my door. My door, by the way, is covered on both sides with scratch-and-sniff stickers that fall more into the “odor” category than “scent.” Rotten eggs, gasoline, smelly socks, skunks. That kind of thing. Sort of an olfactory-based KEEP OUT sign.
“William, time for dinner,” says Dad.
“Okay, just a sec.”
I text Cecily, “Gotta go, family dinner.”
I get one more text from her before I head downstairs to dinner. “Just accepted your request. Glad we are officially friends now.”
CHAPTER 7
That Friday I sit alone at lunch. The academic quiz team is at an away tournament all day. So Cecily’s not in journalism, either.
But after school, Ion texts me to say that they won, so they’re going out for a celebratory dinner and would I like to join them?
I’ve never been to the restaurant before, so after Mom drops me off—I decline her offer to park and guide me in—I stand outside and hope someone from the group will arrive to show me inside.
A door swings open, dinging a bell. I recognize the next sound: the deliberate but controlled steps, treading gently, as if she’s trying not to leave footprints. I’ve never seen a footprint, of course, but my understanding is that the harder you press, the more of an impression you leave behind.
“Hi, Will, it’s Cecily.”
“I know,” I say.
“I was waiting inside and saw you standing here, so…” Her voice drifts off as she guides me inside, and we wait in the front of the restaurant, me still holding her arm.
Then I get a text from Ion. She’s so sorry, but Whitford is sick and she is going to have to skip the dinner so she can take care of him.
“That’s weird,” says Cecily.
“What?”
“He didn’t seem sick at the tournament today.”
Then Cecily’s phone buzzes. It’s a text from Nick. His mom is going out, and he has to babysit his brother.
Well, this is awkward. No longer is it a celebration dinner with five people. Now it’s like… a date.
And I mean, Cecily is a nice person and all, but dating is the last thing on my mind at the moment. I’ve had girlfriends before, and it was cool and everything, but it brings all kinds of drama. And I’ve got plenty of drama to deal with already, thank you very much.
As if she were reading my mind, Cecily asks, “Do you want a ride home?”
But I realize, if I go home, Mom will think my new friends stood me up. Cue the hints about returning to the school for the blind. So leaving early is far worse than a possibly awkward dinner with the photographer girl from journalism class.
“How about we just stay for dinner?”
“You sure?” she asks. “I mean, it’ll just be… you know, me.”
“Yeah, definitely,” I say. “We’re already here. Might as well eat.”
She guides me in a pattern of ninety-degree turns, left, right, left, right, around the tables in the diner. We end at a countertop bar with tall stools covered in smooth plastic. Across the counter, a mere arm’s length away, I hear the sizzle of meat on a grill and the hiss of boiling oil in a fryer.
I hear Cecily pop the lens off her camera and snap a few photos. There’s a whisper of plastic twisting over plastic as she adjusts the lens—zooming or focusing or something—and takes a few more.
I ask, “For Instagram? Hashtag food porn?”
She laughs a little.
“You’re on Instagram?” she asks, surprised.
“Yeah. I like the captions. Anyway, what’s your picture of?”
“Us,” she says simply.
“You and me?”
“Well, mostly you. The camera is covering my face. There’s a mirror across from us.”
“What I would give to have a mirror,” I say. “I’m constantly wondering if my shirt is on backward or if my hair is sticking up or something.”
“You’re not missing out. Mirrors just make people overly concerned about their appearance,” she says dismissively.
“Really? I’ve always assumed that if I could see myself in a mirror, I would be less concerned about my appearance. Because I wouldn’t have to wonder what I looked like anymore. I could stop worrying about it.”
“In my experience, it’s usually the other way around.”