“You’re right. Sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”
Annoyed, I finish my food quickly and excuse myself.
CHAPTER 25
Friday morning in journalism class, I peer out from under my sunglasses and try to look at some of the other kids sitting across the room near Cecily. It seems like the more my vision improves, the worse my eyes feel. It makes sense—it must be the demands I put on them each day as I learn to recognize more stuff. Like how I’m getting better at picking out the oval shape of faces. But again I notice that no one else looks like Cecily, with a face that’s two different colors.
My entire life, people have gone out of their way to describe for me what they see. And the more unique-looking the object—be it a person, building, car, weirdly shaped chicken nugget, whatever—the more eager they are to tell me about it. So it’s all the more surprising that none of my friends ever mentioned the existence of such a distinctive characteristic of Cecily’s face.
Just before the bell rings, Mrs. Everbrook calls us over to her desk.
“Everything all right?” she asks. It’s clear from her tone that she can tell it’s not.
“Yeah, fine,” I lie.
“All right,” she says. “Well, since you guys will be taking over for Xander and Victoria, I wanted to remind you of our New Year’s tradition. Every January, on the first day of spring semester, the coanchors share a little thought about New Year’s resolutions. Nothing long, only about a minute or so. You’ve got plenty of time, but I thought I’d give you the heads-up so you can be thinking about what you’ll say.”
As we are walking out of class, Cecily asks me, “What is your resolution going to be?”
“I have no idea,” I say.
? ? ?
I hurry to lunch so I can ask my friends about Cecily’s birthmark. Get some answers.
“You guys remember a couple months ago, when Whitford found a chicken nugget in his lunch that looked like Jesus?” I ask.
“Yeah, that was fantastic!” says Nick, laughing at the memory.
“You all really wanted to describe it to me. How come?”
Whitford says, “You were curious as to how we could all be in agreement that it looked like Jesus when no record of his appearance actually exists.”
“No, I mean, before I asked about that. When you first found it on your tray, Whitford, you immediately started telling me about it. How come?”
“I guess… it was fascinating. And highly improbable. I wanted you to know about it.”
“Right,” I say, having made my point. “So how come you never told me about Cecily’s birthmark?”
The rest of the cafeteria chatters on in the background as my friends go silent. My question hangs there, unanswered.
Finally Nick says, “See, I told you he was going to figure it out!”
“Figure what out?” I ask.
“That she’s, you know,” he says, struggling for words.
I can fill in the blank myself.
“Disfigured?” I offer, hoping they will disagree with Mom’s word choice.
“No, no, no,” says Nick. “It’s not like that.”
Okay, not disfigured. That’s good. “What’s it like, then?” I ask.
“She’s just… um,” Nick says, “not attractive in the traditional sense.”
“Nick!” snaps Ion.
“What?” Nick says. “That is a polite way of putting it.”
Ion exhales in frustration.
“After I had the surgery, didn’t you guys know that I would see it?”
“Sure, but when we first met you, we didn’t know you were eventually going to have eyesight,” says Ion.
“For the record,” says Nick, “I said we should have told you from the very beginning. Back when you first met her, I told Ion and Whitford that we should tell you. Like I’ve always said, I’m your surrogate eyes, bro.”
“We weren’t as tight with you back then,” offers Whitford. “If it’s any consolation, if you met her now, we’d definitely tell you.”
“Thanks, that’s a huge consolation,” I say sarcastically.
“I’m just saying,” replies Whitford.
“You guys always said she was really pretty,” I say.
Ion says, “Of course she’s pretty, Will. She’s just different. You might even say, you know, special. Like, in a good way. Besides, you said it didn’t matter.”
“What didn’t matter?” I ask.
“What she looks like. When you asked if she was pretty, I asked you if it mattered. You said no.”
“It doesn’t matter to what I think about her,” I say. “What matters is whether you guys tell me the truth when I ask a question.”