“What do you mean?” I ask, playing dumb.
“Well, you know, many individuals with, um, your condition wear sunglasses. Are your people maybe sensitive to sunlight?”
“I think you are getting us confused with vampires,” I say, and leave it at that.
He does his fake laugh-snort, but I know he’s still desperately curious. Probably also wants to know if I can have dreams. Whatever. He can Google it later.
I don’t wear sunglasses for the same reason I left the school for the blind: The vast majority of the world doesn’t wear sunglasses indoors, and I want to fit in. I’m not trying to fake anything, but there’s no reason to call attention to what makes me different.
I ask Mr. Johnston to leave me at the doorway to Mrs. Everbrook’s classroom, and then I walk to the same desk I sat in during Honors English. I already know the route, after all.
When the bell rings, Mrs. Everbrook addresses the class.
“Boys and girls, welcome to journalism. This is unlike any other class you will take during high school. We don’t have textbooks. We don’t have tests. We don’t have lectures. We work together to write, edit, print, and distribute a newspaper, and you will be graded based on how well you contribute to that goal.”
I hear quick footsteps as someone walks in late.
“Do you have a note for being tardy, Xander?”
“No.”
I recognize the sound of his voice from the morning announcements that played on the television in English during first period.
“Then don’t let it happen again.” She continues to the class, “As I was saying. In my English classes, you all are always asking me how diagramming sentences will help you in the real world. Well, I’ll let you in on a little secret: It probably won’t. But everything we do in this class is real world. We’re running a real business funded by the real money from the ads we sell. Our end product is a real print publication. Plus, as the school’s most esteemed group of student journalists from each grade, some of you will play a role in producing the morning announcements show at the start of every day. You can even audition to be one of the hosts if you want to try to end the three-year streak of our tardy friend Xander and his cohost, Victoria.”
I hear her get up from her desk and step in front of it.
“This is your staff handbook and our publishing schedule for the year. Take one and pass it on.”
Something heavy thuds onto a desk several arm lengths in front of me. Sheets slide off, and I hear another thud, this time a little closer, on the desk in front of me. Paper is removed, and the pile hits my desk. It’s not like I can do much with a printed handbook, but I don’t want to stand out for not taking one, so I tug at the top sheet, and it pulls with it a stapled packet about ten pages thick. I pick up the remainder of the stack, which is big and heavy enough to require both hands, rotate in my seat, and drop it on the desk behind mine.
Only, there’s no thud. I suppose if you calculated the acceleration due to gravity, you’d find that the time the stack traveled to reach the floor was inconsequentially longer than it would have had to travel to reach a desk, but in that millisecond, I live a thousand lives and die a thousand social deaths. The thump when the pages finally hit the ground—since apparently I am at the end of a row—is followed by the racket of pages bouncing and sliding off the pile.
The class erupts in laughter. After all, they don’t yet know that I can’t see. If they did, they probably wouldn’t find it funny.
“Calm down, everyone, all right, that’s enough,” says Mrs. Everbrook. She’s coming toward me, and she squats to rake up the pages. “That could happen to anyone on his first day at a new school. This is Will. He’s… well… as you can tell, he’s… a transfer student. So be nice to him.”
She sets a soft hand on my shoulder as she walks by and returns to her drill sergeant voice.
“Now, some of you”—she pauses and repeats herself, projecting to various sections of the room—“some of you took this class because you thought it sounded easy… or maybe even fun. Well, it’s only fun if you like hard work, because it certainly ain’t easy. And yes, I know ain’t isn’t proper grammar, but we ain’t in English class anymore. This here’s journalism. So if you’re looking for an easy A, go to your guidance counselor today and switch to one of those ‘fun’ electives”—she makes fun sound downright offensive—“like finger painting or basket weaving or yearbook or whatever they are offering these days.”
There are some snickers, but they are interrupted by a shriek from directly across the room.
“Stop staring!” shouts a female voice.
I hear a chair push back with a screech before someone runs by me and out into the hall, crying.