Love and First Sight(3)

“Yes, William, I—I…” he stammers.

“Listen, sorry, I appreciate your help,” I say. “Can you guide me to the teacher?”

“I’m right here, William. Or do you prefer Will?” asks a female voice standing maybe two arm lengths away.

“Most people call me Will,” I say.

“I’m Mrs. Everbrook. I’ll take it from here, Larry.”

“Very well,” says Mr. Johnston. “William… er, Will, I will meet you at the end of this period to escort you to your next class.”

He shuffles out.

“The bell hasn’t rung yet, boys and girls,” says Mrs. Everbrook. “Until it does, you can go back to texting underneath your desks and I’ll go back to pretending I don’t notice you have your cell phones out of your lockers.”

Unlike Mr. Johnston’s, hers sounds like a voice people listen to.

“Will, there’s a desk open immediately to your right,” she says. I sit. She continues, “I was told you’d be in my class, so I’ve already talked to the library, and they can get you all the books we’ll be reading this term. Do you prefer braille or audiobooks?”

“Braille, please. And thank you. For talking to the library, I mean.”

“No problem. Whatever else you need, just ask. I’m happy to help. Otherwise, you get the same treatment as everyone else. This is Honors English, and I expect honors-level work from you.”

“Thank you,” I say. “That’s very nice.”

“You may change that opinion after I grade your first paper. No one has ever accused me of being nice. But I try to be fair.”

“Then I hope this request appeals to your sense of fairness: I type notes into my phone during class so that it can read them back to me later. Is that all right?”

“Fine by me. Just don’t let me catch you texting your girlfriend during class.”

If I had a girlfriend, I think.

I dated several girls back at the school for the blind. But it would be different here. Dating a girl without a visual impairment, I couldn’t help but be beholden to her. Dependent. Needy.

“Oh, no girlfriend, huh?” she asks.

“How can you tell?”

“Your inability to see doesn’t stop your face from speaking what’s on your mind.”

“Hmmm. Well, I did meet a girl downstairs this morning. She seemed nice.”

“Anything else?”

“She was also very apologetic.”

“I don’t care about the personality of your crush, Will. I mean any other accommodations you need?”

“I wear one earbud in my ear.”

“Because?”

“My phone reads everything on-screen to me—the names of apps, the selections on menus, all that. The earbud will let me hear the phone without disturbing the class.”

“How about that? Anyway, it’s fine. You can use your headphones. Just don’t—”

“Let you catch me listening to music in class? Got it.”

“I was actually going to say anything other than country.”

“What?”

“Don’t let me catch you listening to anything other than country music during my class.”

“I’m not into country, so I guess I’ll just be listening to you teach.”

“I like you, Will. I think we’re going to get along just fine.”

Which is good, because it turns out I have her again for third period. And that class begins with a major social disaster.





CHAPTER 2


In between each class, Mr. Johnston takes me by my locker so I can learn the route from each classroom. On my locker, the school has replaced the standard spinning numerical padlock with one that opens when you press in a certain combination of up, down, right, and left on the face of the lock. Like unlocking a cheat-code with a controller on an old video game system.

On the way to third period, Mr. Johnston asks why I’m not wearing sunglasses.

“What do you mean?” I ask, playing dumb.

“Well, you know, many individuals with, um, your condition wear sunglasses. Are your people maybe sensitive to sunlight?”

“I think you are getting us confused with vampires,” I say, and leave it at that.

He does his fake laugh-snort, but I know he’s still desperately curious. Probably also wants to know if I can have dreams. Whatever. He can Google it later.

I don’t wear sunglasses for the same reason I left the school for the blind: The vast majority of the world doesn’t wear sunglasses indoors, and I want to fit in. I’m not trying to fake anything, but there’s no reason to call attention to what makes me different.

I ask Mr. Johnston to leave me at the doorway to Mrs. Everbrook’s classroom, and then I walk to the same desk I sat in during Honors English. I already know the route, after all.

When the bell rings, Mrs. Everbrook addresses the class.

“Boys and girls, welcome to journalism. This is unlike any other class you will take during high school. We don’t have textbooks. We don’t have tests. We don’t have lectures. We work together to write, edit, print, and distribute a newspaper, and you will be graded based on how well you contribute to that goal.”