She chuckles. “The colors work together; they don’t compete. It’s not like the cafeteria. You know how it is at Thanksgiving dinner when there’s all those smells from so many dishes, but they mix together into something wonderful?”
I imagine the scent and find my mouth watering. “Mmm, yeah.”
“Or you could use sound as an example. The hallway at school is noisy, right? A cacophony of noises banging together. But a sunrise is more like an orchestra. Many different instruments harmonizing to create beautiful music. Does that make sense?”
I catch the wonder in her voice, and that, more than the words, lets me understand her meaning. “Yeah, actually, it does.”
“So can you imagine a sunrise now?” she says hopefully. It makes me cringe a little, how earnestly she believes I am capable of imagining a sunrise. I don’t want to disappoint her. But I don’t want to lie to her, either.
“Honestly?”
“Honesty would be preferable.”
“In that case, no.” I try to say it playfully. I want to soften the blow of disappointment for her.
“Come on!” she says, touching my arm imploringly. “Just try.”
“It’s impossible,” I say. “I’m sorry. I really wish I could.”
After a beat, she asks hesitantly, “Can you imagine me?”
“Yes. I can.”
She seems pleased by this. “How?”
“I’ve sensed you. I’ve felt your arm when you guide me. I’ve heard you speak, smelled your perfume tonight…”
I’ve kissed two girls in my life. One at the school for the blind. One at blind camp. My understanding is that people usually close their eyes just before contact is made, which makes kissing the closest Cecily and I can ever come to having an identical, shared experience: both of us feeling our lips touch, both doing so without sight.
“Do you want to touch my face?” she asks. “Would that help you see me?”
“Yes,” I say. “It would help a lot.”
She sits up and places my palms against her cheeks. I run my fingers over her skin, sensing the smoothness of her forehead, the texture of her eyebrows, the delicacy of her eyelashes, the resoluteness of her nose, the smallness of her lips, the downward angle of her chin.
She’s beautiful. There’s no doubt about it. And I want to tell her that. I’m so tempted to blurt it out. And—I want to feel that face against mine.
But I can’t. Kissing would only make things complicated. Really, really complicated. What would we be, cohosts with benefits or something?
I remove my hands from her face and lean back in the grass.
I hear Cecily’s camera.
“Photographing the sunrise?” I ask.
“Of course,” she says with a note of humor in her voice. “I need some hype-worthy photos for my collection.”
CHAPTER 14
On the Monday after homecoming—the day I’m supposed to make a decision about my operation—Mrs. Everbrook calls me over to her desk.
“Will, I understand you have a mighty interesting opportunity,” says Mrs. Everbrook.
“What do you mean?”
“The experimental surgery.”
I’m confused. “How do you know about that?”
“Your mother called me this morning, said we should run a story about it.”
I feel my skin grow hot all over. “My mom called you?” Of course Mom wants the paper to run a story about it. To get me to choose the operation because of peer pressure.
“Yep. Figured I should check with you first.”
I groan. “I can’t believe her. She’s so… so…” I struggle for words. “No, don’t print an article.”
“It stays between us, then. You and Cecily have that bus driver interview today, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Then hop to it.”
But a thought occurs to me. One way or the other, I do have to decide today. And in front of me is one of the few adults that I trust to give me unbiased advice.
“Mrs. Everbrook, before I go…”
“Yes?”
“Do you think I should do it? The surgery?”
She pauses for a moment, considering her answer. “I think you’re the one who will have to live with the decision. So no one else should make it for you.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Everbrook.”
“Here’s your hall pass,” she says. I reach out, and she puts the slip into my hand.
Cecily guides me as we begin our walk to the side parking lot to meet the bus driver. All the other students are inside classrooms, so our footsteps echo in empty hallways.
“My B-scan results came back a few days ago,” I say. “I’m a candidate for the operation.”
Her pace seems to slow for a second as she takes this in.
“Don’t you still need a stem cell donor?” she asks.
“They already found one. I have to decide today if I want to do it.”
She says nothing. The only sound is the squeak of our rubber sneaker soles.
Eventually I say, “I sort of expected you to be excited. If it worked, I could see colors and nature and everything.”
“Yeah, no, I’m really excited for you,” she says unconvincingly.
“But?”
“But nothing. It sounds great.”
We walk through a set of doors.
“I can hear it in your voice. You think it’s a bad idea.”
“Not bad, just risky.”