Holding Up the Universe(31)

Everyone is staring at Jack, at me. Mr. Levine is nodding. “Jack, buddy, feel free to jump in.”

“I’m good.”

That’s what he says. I’m good. Lounging there with his bored expression, and that giant explosion of hair, too full of himself to participate.

“If he doesn’t have anything to say, I’ll go again.” If there’s anything I’m good at in this world it’s being counseled. I’ve had years of it, and I know how to talk about myself and the Whys of things. Even in front of a room of strangers.

Mr. Levine says, “Great. The floor is apparently all yours, Libby.”

“After they cut me out of my house, I was in the hospital for a while, and even when I was strong enough to go home, the doctor kept me there because he said I couldn’t leave till I understood the Why. Why was I there. Why did I gain all that weight.”

Mr. Levine doesn’t interrupt, but you can tell he’s really, truly listening. So is everybody else, even Travis Kearns. I keep talking because I’ve been over this a hundred times, so much that it’s barely a part of me anymore. It’s just a truth that lives outside me in the world. Libby got too big. Libby was cut out of her house. Libby got help. Libby got better. If there’s anything I’ve learned from counseling and losing my mom, it’s that it’s best to just say what’s on your mind. If you try to carry everything around all the time, pretty soon you end up flat on your back in bed, too big to get up or even turn over.

“So the Why was a lot of things. It was inheriting my dad’s Hulk-size thighs and slow metabolism. It was being bullied on the playground. It was my mom dying and the way she died, and me being afraid and me feeling alone and worrying, always worrying, and Dad being sad, and Dad loving food and loving to cook, and me wanting him to feel better and also wanting me to feel better.”

I hear a “Damn, girl,” from Keshawn before Mr. Levine says, “Well done, Libby.”

A couple of the kids applaud.

“Thank you.” For some reason, this means something, not the applause, but Mr. Levine. What he thinks of me matters. “I was housebound for a while, so I had a lot of time to think about it. And I’ve had a lot of time to think about it since.”

We all look at Jack, but he says nothing.

Mr. Levine turns back to me. “So why did you punch him?”

I want to go Look at him. He’s perfect. He’s never had a bad day. Okay, he has this strange disorder that keeps him from recognizing people, but no one’s ever called him fat or ugly or disgusting. No one’s sent him hate mail or told him he would have been better off killing himself. His parents never received hate mail just for having him. Also, he has parents. I doubt he knows what it’s like to lose someone he loves. People like us, we can’t touch him because he’s too good for you and me and the rest of these kids and this punishment. Not to mention his friends utterly suck.

I want to say Why wouldn’t I punch him?

But I don’t really have an answer other than “I was mad.”

And I know it’s not enough because of the look on Mr. Levine’s face. I’ve seen it before. It’s the look counselors get when they analyze you, when they know the answer before you do, but they’re not going to tell you because you have to think of it yourself.





When it’s my turn, I say, “The real reason I’m here is because I’m king douchelord of the universe.”

The guy with the bow tie who must be Mr. Levine goes, “In English, please, Jack.”

I hunch forward and stare at the floor. I look like I’m trying to come up with just the right words, which I am. But the main reason is so I can avoid eye contact. Sometimes I want to close my eyes and forget that I can see. Because sometimes being face-blind feels a lot like being regular blind.

Mr. Levine says, “What’s your Why?”

“I don’t have a Why, only an Oh Shit and a What Was I Thinking.” I crack a grin at him, and then I catch Libby’s eye. I stare at her and she stares back. She’s read my letter. She can out me right here. I wait for her to say something. When she doesn’t, I clear my throat. “For what it’s worth, I wish I hadn’t done it.” It’s the first honest thing I’ve said all day.

Afterward, she finds me in the parking lot, half in the Land Rover, phone to my face.

“So when did you put it in there?”

“What?”

“The letter.”

I say into the phone, “I’m going to have to call you back,” and hang up on Caroline just as she goes, Who are you talking to? I say to Libby, “When I grabbed you.”

“Did you think a letter was going to magically make everything okay?”

“Did it?”

“What do you think?”

“You can’t blame a guy for trying.”

I flash her a smile, but she shakes her head and waves a finger at my face. “Don’t do that.”

“All right. Let’s be real, then. You said you’ve got questions. Ask me anything.” My phone buzzes in my pocket.

“How long have you known about the face blindness?”

“I figured it out around fourteen. It wasn’t this kind of overnight revelation, though. It was more like this process. I had to put the clues together, so it took a while.”