I imagine various facial expressions and nods and eyebrow waggling filling in the gaps.
“That’s what you spent the morning talking about? Pretty selfish of her… Wait.” I can hear that Faith has turned to face me. “Does she even know? Didn’t you tell her?”
“Right,” I say. “Oh, Marissa, while you spent the summer crying over some complete stranger, my dad died and my aunt’s family moved here because my house is better than theirs.”
“So…” Faith says. “That’s something you just thought, or you actually said that?”
“Jesus, Fay. I’m honest but I’m not mean.”
“Some exceptions apply,” Sarah says.
“I have to go.” I unfold my cane. “With all these noobs in the way, it’s going to take a while to get to Trig.”
“Haven’t they assigned her a new buddy?” Faith asks Sarah as I tap down the hall. “Who is it? Didn’t Petra move to Colorado or somewhere?”
I’m grateful they can talk about my buddy without sounding awkward. It can’t be one of them—Faith is too busy socially (translation: popular) and Sarah doesn’t qualify because she’s not taking enough of my honors and AP classes. But there’s a girl from Jefferson who’s in all my classes, and she was willing, so the choice pretty much made itself.
As soon as I settle into my usual seat for every class—in the back right corner and reserved for me with a name card—it starts.
“So you’re blind, huh?”
I cock my head toward the unfamiliar male voice, coming from the seat directly in front of me. Low-pitched, a bit thick around the vowels. The voice of a jock, but I just keep that as a working hypothesis awaiting more evidence.
“Are you sure you’re in the right class?” I say. “Calculus for Geniuses is down the hall. This is just Trig.”
“I guess you’re in Kensington’s class? Isn’t it kinda early for this?”
I don’t know what this means, or who Kensington is. A teacher from Jefferson, maybe.
“Hey, douchebag,” says a male voice to the left of Douchebag. “She’s really blind.”
Interesting. The second voice is softer, and calm in a way you don’t often hear insulting big heavy jock voices. It’s familiar but I can’t place it.
“No, Ms. Kensington does this thing where you need to pretend—”
“I know, and she doesn’t hand out canes. Besides, it’s first period on the first day.”
“But if she’s really blind then why would she wear a blindfo—”
“Trust me, dude; just shut up.” Harsh words but said with a friendly voice.
For my scarf today I chose white silk with a thick black X on each eye. It was that or my hachimaki with Divine Wind written in kanji, but I didn’t want to confuse the noobs with a mixed message. Either way, I know I made a mistake leaving my vest at home.
I usually wear a frayed army jacket, arms torn off, covered with buttons that friends bought or made over the years. Slogans like Yes, I’m blind, get over it! and Blind, not deaf, not stupid! and my personal favorite, Parker Grant doesn’t need eyes to see through you! Aunt Celia talked me out of it this morning, saying it would overwhelm all the people from Jefferson who don’t know me. She’s wrong, it turns out. They need to be overwhelmed.
I hear shuffling and the creak of wood and steel as someone sits down hard to my left.
“Hi, Parker.” It’s Molly. “Sorry I’m late. I needed to stop by the office.”
“If the bell hasn’t rung, you’re not late.” I try to sound casual but actually let her know that being my buddy just means helping with certain things in classes, not life in general.
“Hey, so your name’s Parker—” Douchebag says.
“Awww,” I interrupt him with my sweet voice. “You figured that out because you just heard someone say it. And I know your name for the very same reason. Douchebag isn’t very nice, though, so I’ll just call you D.B.”
“I’m—”
“Shhh…” I shake my head. “Don’t ruin it.”
The silence that follows is the perfect example of the thing I love most about being blind: not seeing how people react to what I say.
“I—” D.B. says, and the bell rings.
“The stairs down to the parking lot are ahead,” Molly says.
I sigh inwardly. Actually, I’m tired; maybe I sighed outwardly, I’m not sure.
Classes let out a while ago but Molly and I worked out a schedule to do our homework in the library after school for a couple hours and afterwards I call Aunt Celia to pick me up. Molly’s mom is a teacher who also came over from Jefferson—she teaches both French and Italian—and they carpool.
“Good,” I say. “Those stairs have been there at least two years now. I bet it’d be really hard to get rid of them with the entire parking lot being five feet lower than all the classrooms.”
Silence.