I don’t answer. Finally I feel the car start to accelerate, and we turn out of the parking lot.
I turn my gaze out the window. I hear the sound of cars passing by, but the speeds are too fast for me to differentiate the shapes of the vehicles from the background of the road and passing buildings. What a joke that is. I want to take in the world, appreciate it all while I still can, but my eyesight just isn’t good enough. So instead I get a partial glimpse through a tiny crack in the wall between the blind and the sighted, and soon that crack will seal shut completely.
Now it will be so much worse. Now I have an understanding of how much nuance I’ve been missing out on. I won’t return to blindness with a full appreciation of what it means to see, but I will return with a full appreciation of what it means to be blind.
Just a few weeks ago, in fact, it seemed like I held everything that I’ve ever wanted in the palms of my hands. My life was on track. My plans were coming together. I had fledgling eyesight, even possible romance. But now, just like that, I’ve lost both. I’m left holding the empty shells of my desires, and I have to tell you, it all really sucks. Where do I go from here?
So I’m going to go back to being blind, but with a greater distrust of sighted people. How can a blind guy function without trusting others? Even with my wits and training, I still have to rely on the canes and GPS gadgets that other people make for me and sell to me, and on the occasional kindness of strangers when these things fail and I get lost.
I think for a second about how I’m supposed to share a New Year’s resolution on the first day we’re back at school in January. Presumably the resolution is supposed to be something, like, optimistic. But at the moment I’m feeling pretty glass-half-empty.
But hey, I’ve got a 50 percent chance, right? The flip of a coin. No reason not to at least try the meds.
“We need to stop by the pharmacy and get these new prescriptions,” I tell Mom as we drive.
I hold out the prescription, and she snatches it immediately, probably taking her eyes off the road to read every bit of information she can extract. I’m sure it’s a difficult task—based on what Dad always says about doctors’ handwriting, I’d guess Dr. Bianchi’s scribbling is about as legible to Mom as it would be to me.
The traffic slows to a stop at an intersection, giving her time to decipher the instructions. She asks, “Why are your meds changing?”
“Standard procedure after the operation,” I lie.
“Hmmmmm,” she says as if she’s not sure she believes me.
“Can we just go to the pharmacy?” I ask impatiently.
“Of course, Will. It’s right up ahead.”
? ? ?
The next morning, the last day before winter break, it still feels weird being in the same room as Cecily during journalism class. But I’m also starting to wonder if I got angry over nothing in her car the other day. After all, I still think she’s beautiful, birthmark or not. It wasn’t like she set out to hurt me by deliberately deceiving me. So maybe I acted too hastily. Maybe there’s still a chance to salvage this. Maybe we can at least go back to being friends. I mean, this is the last day of the fall semester. After the break, we’ll become cohosts of the announcements. So it’s probably time to reconcile.
As Mrs. Everbrook explains a new strategy for soliciting ad sales, I take occasional glances across the room at Cecily. I’m curious to see how she looks to me today, with this new perspective bolstering my judgment. When I look more carefully, though, I realize that I’m not looking at Cecily but at an empty desk. She’s not here.
Where is she? Is everything okay? I feel a pang of jealousy, thinking about people who can covertly text under their desks.
Instead, I ask Mrs. Everbrook for a hall pass to use the restroom. I lock myself in a stall and send a text.
Ces, are you OK? Where are you?
I wait there for as long as a person could reasonably need to take care of business but get no reply.
It’s agonizing waiting until lunch to ask my friends if they know why Cecily is absent.
“None of us have seen her,” says Nick. “I don’t think she showed up today.”
“I’ve texted her, but she won’t reply,” I say, wishing for the thousandth time I could take back the words I said in the car. “Can you guys try?”
“I already did,” says Ion. “She didn’t reply to me, either. Whatever it is, I guess she doesn’t want to talk about it.”
“Hold on—maybe Mark Sybis knows. He lives next door to her,” says Nick. “Yo, Mark!” he shouts, apparently to a nearby table. He speaks loudly to cut through the chatter of the cafeteria. “Have you seen Cecily?”
“Batgirl?” says a voice. “Nah, man, the car wasn’t in her driveway this morning, neither.”
Wait, Batgirl? Was this the guy who called Cecily Batgirl because she was walking with me in the hallway?
“Did he just call her Batgirl?” I ask, gritting my teeth.