Love and First Sight(22)

I exhale in relief. She raised her hand.

“I’m going to go ahead and pair you off as cohosts,” says Mrs. Everbrook.

“Tripp and Connor, you guys are buddies, right? I’ll make you the first pair. And Cecily and Will, you did great work covering that van Gogh exhibit, so I’ll put you together.”

Mrs. Everbrook goes over some rules about the audition process, including what to wear. Then she gives us the rest of the period to work on our journalism assignments.

I hear Cecily’s footsteps approach and listen as she slides into a desk beside me.

“So we’ve got a problem,” she says.

I turn my head toward her, alarmed.

“I don’t own any button-down tops.”

“What?” I say, not used to hearing a girl describe her wardrobe as our problem.

“Were you listening? Mrs. Everbrook says that’s what we’re supposed to wear. Nothing else works well with a clip-on microphone.”

“Oh, right,” I say. “Well, come to think of it, I don’t think I have any button-downs other than white dress shirts. That’s what my mom always tells me she buys. But Mrs. Everbrook said white looks bad on camera, right?”

“Yeah.”

I sigh. Shopping for clothes is basically my least favorite activity.

“Well…” I say hesitantly. “Maybe we could go to the mall together? Help each other pick out an audition outfit?”

I realize how absurd the phrase “help each other” sounds. Like she could use my help picking out an outfit.

“Can you go right after school today? Might as well get it over with as soon as we can.”

“Sure.”

“I just have to get back for a quiz-team practice thing at five, though.”

“No problem,” I say. “How long can it take?”

? ? ?


Malls are full of hazards: unimaginably large parking lots, shoulder-bumpingly dense crowds, shin-bangingly low fountains. And escalators.

Ugh. Escalators. When it comes to motorized floor transport, elevators are pretty annoying, but escalators are much worse. They are one of those rare obstacles that make me kind of wish I had a guide dog to help. But today I don’t need one. I have Cecily.

I tell her, “Okay, put my hand on the rail and tell me when to step forward. On a count of three.”

She does.

“One… two… three,” she says. I step. “Oh, no, no, no, you’re on a crack, move back, move back!”

I step backward, only to land on the flat part of the moving floor, which is steadily sliding out from under me. I feel myself losing balance, tipping… but Cecily stops me from behind and shoves me upright.

“There,” she says. “Now you are standing on a step. Hold still.”

I notice the feeling of her hands against my back as I regain my balance. Her palms and fingers are small but firm against the fabric of my shirt.

As we go up, the scrolling motion of the escalator reminds me of Whitford’s braille terminal.

“Listen, Cecily, if you’d rather have another cohost, I can drop out of the audition,” I offer.

“No, you can’t drop out,” she says.

“I don’t think you need me anymore,” I say. “You can do this on your own.”

“No,” she says. “I mean, neither of us can quit. I already tried to switch partners.”

That feels like a slap, but before she can explain, she tells me we are at the top of the escalator, and disembarking requires both of us to concentrate.

We go into a Forever 21—it has a small men’s section, Cecily says—and she picks out a few shirts for me to try on and finds some for herself before heading for the fitting rooms.

“It’s a long line,” Cecily warns.

We stand in silence for a while, stepping forward every few minutes.

“What’s wrong?” she asks.

“Nothing,” I say.

“You seem upset.”

“I’m fine.”

“Why don’t you tell me what’s wrong?”

“What do you care?” I snap, displaying more anger than I mean to.

“I’m… your friend. I’d like to help.”

“How could I not be upset? You just told me you tried to dump me as soon as you heard we were paired together today.”

She’s quiet for a while. Synthesizer-heavy pop music pulses out of speakers above us.

“Will, I asked to be switched to a different partner because I want you to win.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I told you. I’m just not the kind of person people would vote for to be on television first period every day. But it doesn’t matter anyway. Mrs. Everbrook said once we raised our hands, there was no dropping out, and once she assigned partners, there was no questioning her ‘infallible matchmaking.’”

I say, “No way. You’re the one who would carry this team. As a blind person, I consider myself an exceptional judge of the human voice. And you, Cecily, have a lovely voice.”

We listen to the next five tracks of ceiling music in silence. But the beats sound happier than before.

“Jeez, it’s almost five o’clock,” says Cecily.

“Already?”