The main thing I notice about her, both from sight and touch, is her hair. It takes up a lot of space around her head. It is, I think, what people mean when they say “frizzy.”
I also note that bringing her face near mine feels different than it did with Whitford and Nick. It feels… less appropriate. But overall, her face is similar to most other faces I’ve seen. Except for Cecily’s.
CHAPTER 24
Thursday afternoon, Cecily and I sit on my bed to work on homework. I use my laptop, while she reads from books and writes in notepads. I scratch a few stickers on the wall and make her guess the flavors with her eyes closed.
At some point, we end up lying side by side, our faces about a hand width apart. I finally understand what it means to look “into” someone’s eyes. You look at a face. But eyes? You look into them.
I double-check and confirm the existence of that darker-colored skin surrounding her eyes and stretching across her forehead.
“Hey, Ces?” I ask.
“Yeah?”
“It seems like your skin is colored differently on the top of your face. Am I seeing that right?”
Her voice shrinks. “You noticed?”
“I guess. I mean, I just don’t understand what I’m looking at. Is it common? That skin color? I don’t have many faces to compare yours with, so I don’t really know.”
She’s silent for a weirdly long time.
“It’s a birthmark,” she finally says, in almost a whisper.
“Oh, like the one I have on my hand?” I say. “Mom always tells me about it. I’m not sure which hand it’s on,” I say, offering my palms.
She pauses, searching. “It’s right here,” she says, touching a point on my right hand.
“So does this one look like yours?” I ask.
Her voice is tense. “I guess. But mine is much bigger.”
I hold my palm in front of my eyes, searching for the darker area.
I move my hand away, returning my gaze to her. Now that I know it’s there, the discoloration on her face stands out. The entire top half, everything above her nose, is a dark purple. Based on my new knowledge of Skittle colors, I think the most accurate name for this particular hue would be “grape.”
“Well, you’re beautiful to me,” I say.
I immediately regret using that word, beautiful. If she knows how I really feel, how I like her but can’t be with her, it could get really awkward between us.
She lets out an unexpected gasp, like she just surfaced after being underwater for several minutes. “Really?”
Even if I’ve said more than I should have, I can’t take it back without wounding her. So I agree.
“Yeah, of course. I mean, why wouldn’t you be?”
“It’s just… it’s such a large…”
“Everyone has birthmarks, right?”
“Yeah, but mine is—”
“No big deal is what it is. A birthmark doesn’t affect whether I think you’re beautiful.”
She’s silent. I get the sense this birthmark issue is a big deal for her.
“You were worried about what I’d think when I saw it?”
“Of course.”
“Why? Did you think it would change our… friendship?”
“I mean… I didn’t know…”
“Jeez, I’m not that shallow. Besides, I can still barely see. I mean, you could be horribly disfigured, and I wouldn’t know the difference!”
It’s my go-to blindness joke, this bit about XYZ could be right in front of my eyes, and I wouldn’t know it. But she doesn’t laugh. Like she usually would.
“Lighten up, Ces.” I poke her. “I mean, it’s like—what do they call it?—a beauty mark?”
“I guess,” she whispers.
“It’s like that. This is just your beauty mark.”
She doesn’t say anything.
? ? ?
Soon after she leaves, Mom calls me downstairs for dinner. Dad, apparently, had to do an emergency surgery, so it’s just the two of us at the table. I still eat by touch and feel, not by sight. No use making a mess.
“Mom,” I say, “I have a question.”
“What’s that, sweetie?”
“Have you ever noticed,” I say, gathering my words carefully, “that Cecily has a birthmark on her face?”
She sets down her fork. “Why do you ask?”
“Well, have you?” I press.
Her voice drops. “You saw it, then?”
“So you have seen it?” I ask.
“Well, it’s—”
“It’s what?” I demand.
“It’s quite, um, you know…” she stammers.
“Large?” I suggest.
“Yes, that would be one way of putting it.”
I think for a moment. “How common is something like that?”
“So it’s a birthmark?” she asks.
“I thought you said you had seen it?” I ask.
“I have seen it,” she says. “I just didn’t know it was a birthmark, that’s all.”
“So how did you know what I was talking about?” I ask.
“Well, like you said, it is a rather large”—she pauses—“um, I guess the word might be disfigurement.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I say, feeling suddenly defensive of Cecily. “Did you seriously just call it a disfigurement?”
“Sorry, maybe that was the wrong word,” she says.
“Why do you make it sound so negative?” I ask. “She can’t help it if she was born with it.”