“Well, I… I mean…” I stammer.
“It’s cool. I always say what everyone is thinking but knows isn’t appropriate to share out loud,” says Nick. “Obviously Whitford sounds white. I mean, jeez, it’s right there in his name. Whitford. WHITE-ford. But no, good sir, our friend Whitford is a genuine African American.”
“This is uncomfortable for everyone and amusing for no one,” says Whitford dryly.
“Think of him as a young Tiger Woods,” adds Nick.
“So uncomfortable…” says Whitford.
“Except without the girl addiction. And dressed even more preppy,” concludes Nick.
Sighted people are always doing this: Imagining they are translating vision into words for me, but they’re really just describing one image by comparing it to another image, neither of which I have a point of reference for.
“And finally, I’m your host, Nick, a clever lad with mild premature baldness and the potential to either graduate valedictorian or drop out of high school. I haven’t decided which yet.”
“Nice to meet you all,” I say.
“So how does a wacky gang like us end up as friends?” continues Nick. “I mean, this lunch table packs the sort of uncanny diversity you normally only see in TV commercials, am I right?”
“I don’t watch commercials,” I say.
“I don’t, either,” says Nick. “Thank God for DVR.”
“No, I meant because—”
“I know what you meant, Will. Jeez, I thought we were at a point in our relationship where we could joke about things like that. I mean, after the intimacy of our initial physical contact—”
“Okay, whatever,” I say. “I’ll bite: How did all of you become friends?”
“Will, I don’t want to make you nervous or anything,” says Nick. “But you are currently seated with the Toano High School varsity academic quiz team, defending district champions and regional runner-ups!”
“Varsity?” I ask.
“No,” says Whitford. “We’re just a club. Nick always tries to make us sound like a sport because he’s bitter about being born white, which means he lacks the natural athletic prowess stereotypically associated with a black man such as myself.”
“Don’t kid yourself, Whitford,” says Nick. “You’re a nerd, too.”
“I’m a geek,” says Whitford. “There’s a difference.”
“Well, thanks for letting me eat with you guys,” I say, realizing I have forgotten all about the lunch Mom carefully packed into braille-labeled Tupperware containers. “I’m new here, and I don’t know anyone, so—”
“Hey, it’s the least we could do,” says Nick. “I shouldn’t have been silent like that when you asked if there was anyone here. I mean, we’re the academic quiz team. Answering questions is what we do.”
But even the defending district champion academic quiz team would have trouble answering the number of questions I get from my parents after school.
CHAPTER 3
I’m waiting at the edge of the curb.
“Right here, William!”
It’s Mom’s voice, startlingly close. Maybe two arm lengths. Yet I’m unable to hear the familiar hum of our family station wagon.
My hand reaches for the door handle, but my fingers jam into hard metal. I press my palm against the car, searching for the lever.
This goes on for a second or two, and I still can’t seem to find it.
Mom says, “Surprise, honey! New car!”
She claps a few times, as if I need additional auditory cues that she is excited. She’s been doing that since I was a baby, going out of her way to signal excitement to me when it just ends up making me feel like a toddler. And I think she still sees me that way: the same little boy who went off to boarding school in kindergarten. She doesn’t realize I’m grown up now.
“We got a Teslaaaaaaaaaa!” Mom says in a talk-show-announcer voice.
Apparently I’m supposed to be excited about this, but mostly I just feel dumb because, like, where’s the door handle? I grope around for a while, and finally she notices my struggle.
“Just a little to the left, honey,” she says, returning to her normal voice.
I locate it and climb in.
“Your father finished early in the operating room today, so we just went out and bought it!” exclaims Mom.
“It was the new less-expensive model, and it will reduce our carbon footprint and save on gas,” says Dad. “And we can install a bike rack on the roof.”
“What do you think? You like it?” asks Mom.
I sniff as I feel us silently accelerating away from the school.
“It certainly smells like a new car,” I say. “But it’s electric?”
“That’s right,” confirms Dad in the same voice he’d use to describe his favorite road bike. “Zero emissions, no fuel costs, and it can run for hundreds of miles on a single charge. Cool, huh?”
It’s so weird to hear your parents describe something as “cool.”