Love and First Sight(49)

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.”