Love and First Sight(6)

“It is the only explanation that makes—”

“Wow. So, Ion? Is that your given name?” I ask, trying to change the subject to something less volatile.

“Yeah,” she says.

“No!” says Nick. “Tell him the truth!”

“Why do you always have to tell people this story?” she asks.

“It’s endearing!” says Nick.

“It’s embarrassing. That’s why my parents started calling me Ion in the first place.”

“So your given name is…” I prompt.

“It’s Hermione, all right?” says Ion, eliciting peals of laughter from Nick. “Yes, like in Harry Potter. Only my parents were living under a rock and had never even heard of the books. It was, like, my great-aunt’s name or something. Anyway, after the first movie came out, it didn’t take long for my parents to get tired of hearing jokes about how my baby talk was probably a spell I was casting.”

“I can see how that would get old,” I say.

“Right, so my parents decided to make a nickname out of Hermione. They couldn’t use Her or Nee, obviously, so they used the middle sound: Ion.”

“I like it,” I say. “It’s unique.”

“Thanks,” says Ion.

Nick says, “Will, I still feel bad about earlier, and I want to make it up to you by serving as your eyes at this table. Cool?”

“I guess.”

“So here’s something you should know about Ion: She’s like the nerd chick in teen movies who, if she brushed her hair and put on girl clothes, would suddenly be transformed into, like, a smoking-hot babe.”

References to visual components of cinema are meaningless to me, of course, but I appreciate Nick’s effort.

Ion says, “You realize I’m sitting right here, right?”

“I get that a lot, too,” I say to Ion.

“About being transformed into a smoking-hot babe?” asks Nick.

“No, people talking about me like I’m not here,” I say.

A new voice says, “Speaking of people who are actually sitting right here, Ion’s boyfriend is sitting right here, too, and he’s about to beat the crap out of you, Nick.” It’s male, positioned opposite me, in between Ion and Nick. The voice is deep and resonant, almost musical.

“My bad,” says Nick. “Will, I would like to introduce Whitford.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” says Whitford.

“You too,” I say.

“Now, based on his name and the sound of his voice,” continues Nick, “you’re probably thinking Whitford is a white dude, right?”

“Well, I… I mean…” I stammer.

“It’s cool. I always say what everyone is thinking but knows isn’t appropriate to share out loud,” says Nick. “Obviously Whitford sounds white. I mean, jeez, it’s right there in his name. Whitford. WHITE-ford. But no, good sir, our friend Whitford is a genuine African American.”

“This is uncomfortable for everyone and amusing for no one,” says Whitford dryly.

“Think of him as a young Tiger Woods,” adds Nick.

“So uncomfortable…” says Whitford.

“Except without the girl addiction. And dressed even more preppy,” concludes Nick.

Sighted people are always doing this: Imagining they are translating vision into words for me, but they’re really just describing one image by comparing it to another image, neither of which I have a point of reference for.

“And finally, I’m your host, Nick, a clever lad with mild premature baldness and the potential to either graduate valedictorian or drop out of high school. I haven’t decided which yet.”

“Nice to meet you all,” I say.

“So how does a wacky gang like us end up as friends?” continues Nick. “I mean, this lunch table packs the sort of uncanny diversity you normally only see in TV commercials, am I right?”

“I don’t watch commercials,” I say.

“I don’t, either,” says Nick. “Thank God for DVR.”

“No, I meant because—”

“I know what you meant, Will. Jeez, I thought we were at a point in our relationship where we could joke about things like that. I mean, after the intimacy of our initial physical contact—”

“Okay, whatever,” I say. “I’ll bite: How did all of you become friends?”

“Will, I don’t want to make you nervous or anything,” says Nick. “But you are currently seated with the Toano High School varsity academic quiz team, defending district champions and regional runner-ups!”

“Varsity?” I ask.

“No,” says Whitford. “We’re just a club. Nick always tries to make us sound like a sport because he’s bitter about being born white, which means he lacks the natural athletic prowess stereotypically associated with a black man such as myself.”

“Don’t kid yourself, Whitford,” says Nick. “You’re a nerd, too.”

“I’m a geek,” says Whitford. “There’s a difference.”

“Well, thanks for letting me eat with you guys,” I say, realizing I have forgotten all about the lunch Mom carefully packed into braille-labeled Tupperware containers. “I’m new here, and I don’t know anyone, so—”