“It was nice,” I say flatly.
And it’s for this reason—Cecily’s face—that I don’t wear the eye mask underneath my glasses to school on Thursday. I keep my eyes closed while I’m walking so I don’t get dizzy, but I want to be able to open them during journalism class and examine her from afar for all of third period. Which is exactly what I am attempting to do, and I am reasonably certain I’ve finally located her when Mrs. Everbrook says, “Will?”
“Yes?”
“What do you think?”
“Um…” I consider bluffing with a vaguely generic answer (“I agree with what most people have been saying but disagree with others…”) but figure Mrs. Everbrook will see through it since she was apparently able to tell that I wasn’t paying attention in the first place. “Sorry, my mind was elsewhere.”
“Then consider this your mind’s formal invitation to rejoin the group,” says Mrs. Everbrook.
But I have no interest in class. I just want to be with Cecily, just look at her, head to toe, examine every inch of her appearance. I try to pay attention to Mrs. Everbrook, but can’t help searching the room at the same time with my eyes. I soon figure out how to locate Cecily’s desk. She’s like a magnet, drawing me in. And it’s not just Cecily. How does anyone ever pay attention in school, when there are so many other wonderful and confusing images—hundreds, thousands, millions of pixels—constantly surrounding them?
I almost laugh when I hear the words in my mind: I am still referring to “them,” the sighted people, as if they are some other group. As if I am not one of them. But I am now. I am a sighted person. It’s not us versus them anymore. It’s we.
But still, my performance and understanding is severely limited compared to the average person. There remains a gap. Maybe I’m not quite one of them. Not yet. And for that reason, I’m not able to pick out Cecily among the vibrating contours of the room.
Despite my inability to find her face across the room during class, I manage to catch up with Cecily after the bell rings. She walks me to the cafeteria before her next class, and we make plans to hang out after school.
With one last look at her face until the end of the day, I turn in to meet my friends for lunch. First thing after sitting down, I tell Nick, Ion, and Whitford about my quest to understand faces, and say that if they are all right with it—and I admit this is weird, so if they aren’t, it’s totally cool—I would like to examine each of their faces up close. But they are all quite eager, as it turns out. Maybe this is why Facebook is so popular: Deep down, everyone wants to put their face on display.
It’s not only the first time that I’ve looked at any of their faces but also the first time I’ve touched them. Before today, each of them has been just a voice, a personality.
I start with Nick. I already know that the basic physical descriptions of appearance you hear about—eye and hair color—are the same for Nick and me. Brown eyes. Short brown hair. So I’m surprised to find that upon close inspection, we look quite different. Why do people limit their descriptions of a face to these few attributes when there are, seemingly, an infinite number of more interesting, more subtle differences? His nose is smaller, I think. His forehead is different from mine. Maybe its shape? Or color? I can’t quite tell. But one thing I am confident of: This face is quite unlike the one I examined in the mirror last night.
Next is Whitford. From Nick’s description, I know he’s black. But I’ve never seen skin of a different color than my own. Bringing his face close to my eyes, I can immediately see the difference in pigmentation between Whitford’s face and Nick’s. Whitford’s is obviously darker. And yet, not “black” as I’ve learned the color to be.
For all the attention race gets, for all the wars that have been fought over it, all the atrocities committed and hatred based on differences in skin tone over the centuries of human history, I would honestly have expected something… more. The contrast is obvious, yes, but the difference is marginal. The shape of his face is essentially the same as the others I’ve seen. Basic features—mouth, eyes, ears, nose. All there. What’s the fuss about?
I wonder how this must look to the other kids in the cafeteria, if they are watching. The blind guy pulling his friends’ faces right up to his unseeing eyes. Because they don’t know I can see. They must think this is super weird. I mean, even I think it’s kind of weird, and I know what’s actually going on here.
Finally we get to Ion.
“I’m not wearing makeup,” she warns.
“You never wear makeup,” says Nick.
“I just thought he should know,” she says defensively.