“Then consider this your mind’s formal invitation to rejoin the group,” says Mrs. Everbrook.
But I have no interest in class. I just want to be with Cecily, just look at her, head to toe, examine every inch of her appearance. I try to pay attention to Mrs. Everbrook, but can’t help searching the room at the same time with my eyes. I soon figure out how to locate Cecily’s desk. She’s like a magnet, drawing me in. And it’s not just Cecily. How does anyone ever pay attention in school, when there are so many other wonderful and confusing images—hundreds, thousands, millions of pixels—constantly surrounding them?
I almost laugh when I hear the words in my mind: I am still referring to “them,” the sighted people, as if they are some other group. As if I am not one of them. But I am now. I am a sighted person. It’s not us versus them anymore. It’s we.
But still, my performance and understanding is severely limited compared to the average person. There remains a gap. Maybe I’m not quite one of them. Not yet. And for that reason, I’m not able to pick out Cecily among the vibrating contours of the room.
Despite my inability to find her face across the room during class, I manage to catch up with Cecily after the bell rings. She walks me to the cafeteria before her next class, and we make plans to hang out after school.
With one last look at her face until the end of the day, I turn in to meet my friends for lunch. First thing after sitting down, I tell Nick, Ion, and Whitford about my quest to understand faces, and say that if they are all right with it—and I admit this is weird, so if they aren’t, it’s totally cool—I would like to examine each of their faces up close. But they are all quite eager, as it turns out. Maybe this is why Facebook is so popular: Deep down, everyone wants to put their face on display.
It’s not only the first time that I’ve looked at any of their faces but also the first time I’ve touched them. Before today, each of them has been just a voice, a personality.
I start with Nick. I already know that the basic physical descriptions of appearance you hear about—eye and hair color—are the same for Nick and me. Brown eyes. Short brown hair. So I’m surprised to find that upon close inspection, we look quite different. Why do people limit their descriptions of a face to these few attributes when there are, seemingly, an infinite number of more interesting, more subtle differences? His nose is smaller, I think. His forehead is different from mine. Maybe its shape? Or color? I can’t quite tell. But one thing I am confident of: This face is quite unlike the one I examined in the mirror last night.
Next is Whitford. From Nick’s description, I know he’s black. But I’ve never seen skin of a different color than my own. Bringing his face close to my eyes, I can immediately see the difference in pigmentation between Whitford’s face and Nick’s. Whitford’s is obviously darker. And yet, not “black” as I’ve learned the color to be.
For all the attention race gets, for all the wars that have been fought over it, all the atrocities committed and hatred based on differences in skin tone over the centuries of human history, I would honestly have expected something… more. The contrast is obvious, yes, but the difference is marginal. The shape of his face is essentially the same as the others I’ve seen. Basic features—mouth, eyes, ears, nose. All there. What’s the fuss about?
I wonder how this must look to the other kids in the cafeteria, if they are watching. The blind guy pulling his friends’ faces right up to his unseeing eyes. Because they don’t know I can see. They must think this is super weird. I mean, even I think it’s kind of weird, and I know what’s actually going on here.
Finally we get to Ion.
“I’m not wearing makeup,” she warns.
“You never wear makeup,” says Nick.
“I just thought he should know,” she says defensively.
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.”
“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.”
“The truth,” says Ion, “is that before this year, she didn’t even hang out with us outside of academic team practice and competitions. She’s a totally different person now, and you know what? It’s because of you. So why would we tell you something about her that might mess that up?”
These reasons make sense, I guess, but I am still hurt for some reason. Maybe because it feels like my friends were looking out for themselves more than me in this situation. They actually talked about telling me and then deliberately decided not to. So obviously the birthmark issue was a big deal to them, and they chose to keep it a secret. Which makes me wonder if Cecily made the same decision, and if so, why?
CHAPTER 26
Cecily drove her mom’s car to school today and offers to give me a ride home. As we sit in the front seat in the school parking lot, I hear her insert the key. She turns the ignition. The engine revs a few times and sputters out.
“I’m redlining,” she says with a sigh of frustration.
“What does that mean?”
“It’s, like, when the gas gauge gets really low, the dial goes below this red line. It just means the tank is basically empty. We’re running on fumes.” She turns the key again with the same result.
“Why didn’t you fill it up this morning?” I say irritably.
“Gas is expensive.”
“So maybe you should’ve taken the bus.”
She pauses. “Is there something wrong, Will?”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“About what?”
“You know what.”
“No, I don’t.”
She turns the key again, and the engine roars to life. I hear her shift the car from park into drive.
I think back to the Candy Land Incident. And to all the times I’ve ever been lied to, bullied, and tricked for being blind.
“You didn’t tell me about your birthmark,” I say flatly.
She puts the brakes on and
shifts back into park. The engine idles, but she is silent for a moment.
“You never asked.”
I say, “You should’ve told me before, anyway.”
“Before what?”
“I don’t know. Earlier on.”
“Do I have a responsibility to tell you all my flaws?” she snaps. “Should I have also told you that my closet is a mess? That I broke my mom’s vase when I was five years old and never told her? If you put all your flaws on display right up front, no one will ever like you.”
“That’s not true,” I say.
“It’s absolutely true, and that’s why no one has ever liked me before. Because I wear my biggest flaw right on my face. It’s not like I set out to trick you, Will.”
“Your biggest flaw? So you do think it’s an important part of who you are?”
“Well, of course—”
But I interrupt. “That’s what I don’t understand. If it’s that big a deal, why wouldn’t you tell me about it?”
She doesn’t answer.
Eventually I ask, “But what about when I was getting the operation? Didn’t you know that I would eventually be able to see you?”
“I hoped you would eventually be able to see me, Will.”
“Then why didn’t you—”
“I hoped you would be able to see me for who I am inside. I believed that you were different from everyone else. You didn’t judge me for my appearance.”
“So you thought I was that shallow? That just knowing about your birthmark would’ve ruined our friendship?”
“I just… didn’t want to risk messing anything up between us.”
A piece finally falls into place in my mind. “So the birthmark… that’s why you’ve always been bullied?”
“Yes,” she says quietly.
“And that’s why you didn’t want to try out for the announcements? That’s why you didn’t think anyone would vote for you?”
“Yes.”
“Did it never occur to you that as your close friend, I might want to know this key bit of information so I could be there for you?”
Love and First Sight Page 15
