Love and First Sight(2)

“Are you sure you don’t want us to assign you a full-time aide? The state would gladly pay—”

“I know, I know, but that’s not why I transferred here. Having a babysitter walk me around school every day is not going to help my street cred.”

Honestly, it’s not just about my street cred. I transferred because I want to prove that I can live independently in the sighted world. No dependence on charity. No neediness.

My parents sent me off to the school for the blind back when I was little. Right after the Incident. It was “for my own good,” to “protect me,” and blah, blah, blah. But if I want to eventually land my dream job, to make a name for myself as the Stevie Wonder of journalism, it’s not going to happen within the confines of the blind bubble—excuse me, the visually impaired community. I have to go mainstream.

I hear Mr. Johnston sigh. But when he speaks, there’s a hint of sympathy in his voice, as if maybe he was once young enough to care about his own street cred. Or maybe he still does. “Very well, William, to the front door we shall go.”

He guides me there.

“First I need to get my bearings,” I say.

“Well, the door is in front of you, the wall is beside—”

“No,” I say, pulling my iPhone out of my pocket. “I literally need compass bearings.”

My compass app tells me I will enter the building facing west.

Got it: west. (Seriously, how did anyone get by before talking smartphones?)

“Mr. Johnston, let’s head to English. If possible,” I say, “please walk in a straight line and tell me when we are going to change directions.”

“Very well.”

We walk twelve steps west, twenty-three steps south, and then turn west again. Mr. Johnston tells me we are at the base of a stairwell. I hear footsteps rushing by on both sides of us, students in a hurry to get to first period.

Up to this point, I’ve kept my white cane folded in my back pocket. No use drawing attention to myself if I don’t have to. But I’ll feel safer using the cane on stairs than relying on a vice principal with a lifetime total of three minutes’ experience guiding a blind person.

I pull it out and, with a quick flick of my wrist, snap the whole thing open. People have told me this looks like a Star Wars lightsaber turning on. That’s not a particularly helpful description for me, though. Which also makes me wonder why it’s called a “white cane” in the first place, since the people who use them can’t see its color.

Anyway, I reach out for the handrail, but my fingers grab something soft instead. A body part. Chest level. Boob alert.

“Oh, my God, I am SO sorry, I tooootally didn’t see you there,” says a female voice.

That’s what a white cane will do for you: Not only can you get away with copping a feel, the girl assumes it was her fault and apologizes for it. Let me assure you, random girl, you have nothing to be sorry about. Completely my fault. And my pleasure.

“No problem,” I tell her. “I didn’t see you, either.”

She doesn’t laugh. She is already gone before I say it, the sound of her footsteps lost in the shuffle.

I hate that. When I discover I’m talking to someone who has already walked away. Feels like when you tell some long story into your cell phone and you wonder why the person has been silent for a while and then you realize the call was dropped at some point.

At the top of this flight of stairs, Mr. Johnston tells me we are going to turn 180 degrees and go up another. I continue to climb with one hand on the rail and the other pencil-gripping my cane as it surveys the next step. Once we’ve reached the second floor, I fold the cane and return it to my right back pocket. I can feel how the fabric of my jeans has stretched around that shape, the form of my folded cane. For the first time, I wonder if this distortion is visible.

Footsteps drop all around us like a heavy rainstorm. As Mr. Johnston guides me eighteen steps east through the crowded hallway, he shouts, “Clear a path, people! Blind student coming through! Blind student coming through!”

Wow, thanks, Mr. Johnston. I’m sure this is gaining me so many popularity points at my new school. My election as Prom King is now all but assured.

We pause at the door to my classroom so I can dictate the directions into my phone. (“Enter building, walk twelve steps west, turn south, walk twenty-three steps…”) I’ll have Siri read them back to me after school until I’ve got the route memorized.

“Attention, everyone!” Mr. Johnston says as soon as we cross the threshold. His voice sounds pleased, maybe even surprised, by its ability to silence the chattering room. “This is Will, a student who has transferred to our school this year. He’s blind.”

Perhaps because this is English class, he adds a helpful definition of the word: “He can’t see anything… nothing at all.” He pauses to allow the gravity of my tragic situation to sink in. “Life is very difficult for him. Please offer him your assistance whenever you can, because—”

“You know I’m still standing right beside you, right?” I interrupt.

There’s a snort of laughter from the students, and Mr. Johnston’s arm stiffens against my fingers. It’s probably unwise to make fun of your guide, the guy who has the capacity to lead you, say, directly into a brick wall. But come on, I don’t need eyesight to know his speech was making the entire room squirm.