Knowing we’re short on time, I turn to Cecily.
“Tell me if this is too weird,” I say. “But want to just share a room to save time? I can’t, you know, watch you or anything.”
She hesitates for a moment. Okay, maybe too weird.
But the employee cuts in.
“I’m sorry, we have a strict one-person policy.”
“Well—I’m blind,” I say.
“Oh,” she says. “I guess that’s all right, then.”
People will accept blindness as the rationale for all sorts of exceptional behavior.
“Cecily?” I ask.
“Yeah, I guess that’s a good idea. It’ll be faster, like you said.”
From the reverb of the door clicking shut, I judge the fitting room to be about two arm lengths across.
“I don’t need the mirror, obviously, so you can stand in front of it,” I say.
“Okay,” she says.
We shift around in the small space, bumping into each other.
I listen to her slide her T-shirt over her shoulders and drop it on the floor. I’m not going to lie: I am immediately on high alert, my senses piqued.
When referring to bikini models or whatever, I always hear that certain parts are “left up to the imagination,” and those are the parts that are especially intriguing.
Well. Just think if it was all left up to the imagination.
When I suggested we share a fitting room, I was just trying to save time. I didn’t anticipate I’d be so, well, turned on by the experience. After all, I can’t actually imagine what I’ve never seen. But now… the idea that I’m standing so close to this girl who is in the process of changing shirts… mere inches away from my own body…
I try to control my quickening breath, hoping she doesn’t notice. I don’t want her to think I’m a perv or something. And I don’t want her to think I like her, you know, in that way. This is just hormones. I’d feel this way under these circumstances with any girl getting undressed mere inches from me. Wouldn’t I?
CHAPTER 11
The news comes the next day when Mom picks me up from school.
“Will!” she shouts as soon as I get in the front seat of the Tesla. “I have the best news! Dr. Bianchi’s office called. Your B-scan showed you are a candidate for the surgery!”
“Wait. Why did you talk to them? I told you I wanted to handle this myself.”
“I thought you would be excited,” she says coolly.
“Don’t try to turn this around on me. We had an agreement.”
“I haven’t even told you the best part yet.”
I know she’s hoping I’ll take her bait—Oh, now I’m excited, Mommy, tell me the good news, please, please!—which is exactly why I say nothing.
Eventually she gives in. “Fine, I’ll tell you anyway. They have a stem cell donor!”
I can’t help myself. “Really?”
“Really.”
“Already?”
“Already.”
“How long do I have to decide?”
“What do you mean, decide?”
I pause as it sinks in. “Don’t tell me you already scheduled the surgery.”
She says nothing.
“You did, didn’t you?”
I hear her shift uneasily.
“Didn’t you?”
“I’m sorry… I didn’t… Why would you need to decide anything?”
I’m furious. This is my decision. Not Mom’s. I can’t believe she would just schedule it herself. Or actually, I can. I can totally believe it. It’s just like her.
“We had a deal!” I say. “I’m canceling it.”
“Will, you will do no such thing!” she snaps.
“Try and stop me,” I say. I tell Siri to call Dr. Bianchi’s office. A receptionist answers.
“Hi, this is William Porter,” I say.
“Will! Stop this immediately!” Mom says.
“My mother spoke with your office earlier to schedule an operation. I’m going to need some time to think about it first—”
“William Porter, hang up that phone!”
“So I would like to put that operation on hold.”
The receptionist confirms my request and says they can give me time to decide, but that if I want to move forward with this opportunity, I need to get back to them by Monday.
“One more thing,” I say. “Please make a note on my account that my mother, Sydney Porter, is not authorized to speak with your office on my behalf.”
The receptionist explains that since I am a minor, I can’t prevent my mother from speaking with their office about me.
But since Mom is hearing only one side of the conversation, I reply, “Great. Thank you for making a note of that.”
The receptionist counters that she did not make note of that, as she said, I am a minor— “All right, thanks, bye!” I say, and end the call.
The car is quiet for a while.
“You didn’t have to do that,” says Mom eventually. She sounds more hurt than angry.
“We had a deal. You went behind my back.”
We ride the rest of the way home in silence, without even normal car noises to cut the tension. Teslas—making awkward car rides even more awkward since 2008.
? ? ?
Dad gets home soon after we do. There’s a knock on my door.