Love and First Sight(44)

I listen to the sound of a sealed envelope being torn open. And then silence. I strain to hear, waiting for the names. Instead there’s the sound of a sheet of paper being crumpled up, and the sound of Xander’s footsteps as he leaves the studio.

“Sorry about that,” says Victoria calmly. She smooths out the ball of paper. “Your cohosts next semester, chosen by schoolwide vote, will be… Will and Cecily. Congratulations to the new hosts.”

I’m shocked. The whole school elected us, chose us, voted for us.

After the announcements are finished, Mrs. Everbrook says, “Well, class, let’s give our new cohosts a round of applause!” and I hear the patter of clapping around the room.

At the start of third period, journalism, I approach Cecily.

“I’m sorry about last night. I’m still getting used to all this,” I say.

“It’s fine. Take all the time you need.”

“Thanks,” I say. I pause, then add, “So, hey, we won.”

“How about that?” she says happily.

I hold up my hand. A blur of movement suggests she’s moved out hers. I bring my arm down and, in a surprising miracle of accuracy, our palms connect.

“High five,” I say. “Or was that a low five? I can’t really tell.”

She giggles. “Wanna do something to celebrate?”

“I thought we just did,” I say.

“I mean, in addition to that midlevel five,” she says.

“What did you have in mind?”

“Today happens to be the last week of the van Gogh exhibit. Wanna go after school?”

“Sure,” I say.

At lunch, Nick, Ion, and Whitford pile all their bodies and arms around me in a tangled hug of celebration.

“How does it feel to be a winner?” asks Ion.

“Amazing,” I say, flashing a thumbs-up.

? ? ?


After school, Cecily takes me to the PU art museum. The security guard recognizes us.

“Back for more, huh?” he says. “You can still touch the paintings. Just make sure no one sees you.”

“Actually,” I say, “I had an operation. I can sort of see now.”

He’s momentarily speechless. “You can see?”

“Yep.”

“Then why are you still wearing those glasses?”

“I can’t see that great yet. Just sort of colors and shapes.”

“Wow, I never heard of nothing like that.”

“It’s pretty rare,” I say.

“Well, I’ll be,” he says. “I think you’ll be the first blind person to ever see a van Gogh.”

Cecily guides me to Les Alyscamps, the painting with the road in it that I touched last time, when she taught me about perspective.

“Okay,” she says. “We are standing in front of it now. You can take the mask off.”

I do. It’s so bright in here it stings my eyes.

“What am I looking for?” I ask, trying to ignore the pain of the intense light. “How can I recognize the painting?”

“Um, it has a road, some trees—”

“Whoa, slow down. Let’s start with basic shapes.”

“Okay. The painting is a rectangle on the wall about ten feet in front of us. Does that help?”

“Yeah.”

I search my field of vision for a rectangle. The colors shift and shimmer as I move my head.

“Ah! I think I found it!”

“Really?” she asks gleefully. “What do you see?”

“It’s white, mostly. Almost entirely white. But there seem to be some colors in one part.”

She sounds disappointed. “White?”

“Why? Is that wrong?”

“There’s no white in Les Alyscamps.”

“Hmmm… I don’t know. I guess I’m getting my colors confused.”

“Actually, maybe something else. Can you point at the edge of the painting for me?”

“I can try.”

I lift a hand into my field of vision and wave it. I see a flash of white. But it’s not the same as the white of the painting.

“What color is my skin?” I wonder aloud.

“Sometimes it’s just called ‘flesh.’ But if I had to describe it, I’d say like a tan or a very light pink.”

“Tan,” I repeat, waving my hand.

I bring it closer to my face and see it grow larger. I can’t decipher its construction; it’s not shaped like any of the toy blocks I memorized yesterday. It’s difficult to comprehend or describe. Apart from knowing, intellectually, that I’m holding my own hand in front of my face, I don’t think I could recognize it. But still, it is fascinating. My whole life I’ve relied on my hands to be my eyes, my connection to the world of space. And now I can actually see them, those fingers, those tactile probes.

“Will?” says Cecily.

“Huh?”

“The painting?”

“Oh, sorry, right.”

I point my hand so it lines up with one edge of the rectangle of the painting. “Here’s one side.” And then up. “That’s the top.”

“Okay, let me stop you right there,” she says.