Love and First Sight(51)

I hurry to lunch so I can ask my friends about Cecily’s birthmark. Get some answers.

“You guys remember a couple months ago, when Whitford found a chicken nugget in his lunch that looked like Jesus?” I ask.

“Yeah, that was fantastic!” says Nick, laughing at the memory.

“You all really wanted to describe it to me. How come?”

Whitford says, “You were curious as to how we could all be in agreement that it looked like Jesus when no record of his appearance actually exists.”

“No, I mean, before I asked about that. When you first found it on your tray, Whitford, you immediately started telling me about it. How come?”

“I guess… it was fascinating. And highly improbable. I wanted you to know about it.”

“Right,” I say, having made my point. “So how come you never told me about Cecily’s birthmark?”

The rest of the cafeteria chatters on in the background as my friends go silent. My question hangs there, unanswered.

Finally Nick says, “See, I told you he was going to figure it out!”

“Figure what out?” I ask.

“That she’s, you know,” he says, struggling for words.

I can fill in the blank myself.

“Disfigured?” I offer, hoping they will disagree with Mom’s word choice.

“No, no, no,” says Nick. “It’s not like that.”

Okay, not disfigured. That’s good. “What’s it like, then?” I ask.

“She’s just… um,” Nick says, “not attractive in the traditional sense.”

“Nick!” snaps Ion.

“What?” Nick says. “That is a polite way of putting it.”

Ion exhales in frustration.

“After I had the surgery, didn’t you guys know that I would see it?”

“Sure, but when we first met you, we didn’t know you were eventually going to have eyesight,” says Ion.

“For the record,” says Nick, “I said we should have told you from the very beginning. Back when you first met her, I told Ion and Whitford that we should tell you. Like I’ve always said, I’m your surrogate eyes, bro.”

“We weren’t as tight with you back then,” offers Whitford. “If it’s any consolation, if you met her now, we’d definitely tell you.”

“Thanks, that’s a huge consolation,” I say sarcastically.

“I’m just saying,” replies Whitford.

“You guys always said she was really pretty,” I say.

Ion says, “Of course she’s pretty, Will. She’s just different. You might even say, you know, special. Like, in a good way. Besides, you said it didn’t matter.”

“What didn’t matter?” I ask.

“What she looks like. When you asked if she was pretty, I asked you if it mattered. You said no.”

“It doesn’t matter to what I think about her,” I say. “What matters is whether you guys tell me the truth when I ask a question.”

“The truth,” says Ion, “is that before this year, she didn’t even hang out with us outside of academic team practice and competitions. She’s a totally different person now, and you know what? It’s because of you. So why would we tell you something about her that might mess that up?”

These reasons make sense, I guess, but I am still hurt for some reason. Maybe because it feels like my friends were looking out for themselves more than me in this situation. They actually talked about telling me and then deliberately decided not to. So obviously the birthmark issue was a big deal to them, and they chose to keep it a secret. Which makes me wonder if Cecily made the same decision, and if so, why?





CHAPTER 26


Cecily drove her mom’s car to school today and offers to give me a ride home. As we sit in the front seat in the school parking lot, I hear her insert the key. She turns the ignition. The engine revs a few times and sputters out.

“I’m redlining,” she says with a sigh of frustration.

“What does that mean?”

“It’s, like, when the gas gauge gets really low, the dial goes below this red line. It just means the tank is basically empty. We’re running on fumes.” She turns the key again with the same result.

“Why didn’t you fill it up this morning?” I say irritably.

“Gas is expensive.”

“So maybe you should’ve taken the bus.”

She pauses. “Is there something wrong, Will?”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“About what?”

“You know what.”

“No, I don’t.”

She turns the key again, and the engine roars to life. I hear her shift the car from park into drive.

I think back to the Candy Land Incident. And to all the times I’ve ever been lied to, bullied, and tricked for being blind.

“You didn’t tell me about your birthmark,” I say flatly.

She puts the brakes on and shifts back into park. The engine idles, but she is silent for a moment.

“You never asked.”

I say, “You should’ve told me before, anyway.”

“Before what?”