“I’m gonna show these folks how to dance,” says Whitford as we walk through the doors. “We’ll meet you out there.”
Ion and Whitford walk away, leaving the two of us standing by ourselves.
“I’m nervous,” Cecily says. The music is loud, and she has to put her lips right up to my ear so I can hear her. I feel her breath against my skin, warm and humid, like a breeze in the summer. It gives me chills, having her face so near.
“I’ve never been to a dance before,” Cecily continues. I feel her leaning away, as if shrinking back toward the exit. “I don’t know if I can do this. I don’t know if it’s a good idea,” she says.
I reach down and give her hand a supportive squeeze.
I remove my sunglasses and turn my head so my mouth will be close to her ear. She’s so close that my chin bumps lightly against her hair. “Keep your eyes on mine. Don’t look away. It’s just you and me.”
I give her hand another squeeze. “Got it?”
Her head brushes against my face as I feel her nod.
“Then let’s go dance,” I say.
We turn toward the music. She walks slightly ahead, our fingers still intertwined. If someone saw us and didn’t know better, I bet they’d think we were a couple, walking together, holding hands.
As we move across the gym, the music gets louder and the bodies closer.
“How’s this?” she says, yelling above the music.
“Perfect!”
This is not my first school dance, but it is my first dance at a mainstream school. I try to start dancing, bouncing my shoulders and arms to the beat. But I feel self-conscious, like every student in the gym is staring at me, judging my inability to dance. If I could see my dance moves, and if I could look at everyone else to compare myself, maybe I wouldn’t feel so insecure. Everyone else, everyone who can see—I know they aren’t having such doubts. But I try to pretend I’m confident and having fun because I want Cecily to be comfortable.
“So… are you dancing now?” I yell at her.
“Yeah! My moves are incredible. Shame you can’t see them!” she jokes.
“Let me feel them,” I say.
“What?”
“Come closer!”
I reach out both of my hands, and she lays her fingers across them. It’s a fast song, a club remix of a pop radio hit. I tug on her arms, and she steps one of her legs right up against mine, and then the other, her whole body following so that we press together from the ground up, like a closing zipper, until our faces meet, cheek to cheek. She wraps her arms around my neck, and I pull against the small of her back, tighter with every beat of the song. The silky fabric of her dress is stretched taut between her legs. I feel the strap of her camera, which is hanging over her shoulder even now, at this school dance and in this dress. I love that about Cecily. Always ready to capture beauty.
That’s when I realize something: I want to kiss Cecily.
But does she want to kiss me?
If only I could see her, read her expression, look into her eyes. Then I would know.
I let my mouth brush over her ear.
She doesn’t pull back. That’s a good sign. Maybe there is something here. Something more than friendship. Something more than cohosting.
Suddenly a great holler rises up from the crowd, a collective protest. The music is still going, but I get the sense that everyone has stopped dancing.
“What just happened?” I say.
“The lights turned on,” says Cecily.
“What? They were off before?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
“So we’ve been dancing in the dark this whole time?”
“Pretty much.”
That’s not what I had imagined. I generally assume that wherever I go, there is light. If it was dark, people would stop moving. Wouldn’t they? They’d get confused and start stumbling over each other. They’d be, well, blind. But apparently, it’s been dark at this dance the whole time.
“You mean, people danced when it was dark, but when they could see themselves, they stopped dancing?”
“I guess you could say it that way. Oh, wow, the lights—this is a perfect shot.”
Her camera lens pops off, and she starts clicking away.
“The students’ expressions of frustration and unhappiness juxtapose with the formal attire and decorations…” She’s narrating, like an art-museum tour guide, when there’s a sudden cheer. I feel the vibrations of the crowd returning to their dancing.
“Let me guess. The lights are back off?”
“Yep.”
But that moment before—when I was really considering kissing her—has passed.
• • •
After the dance ends, the four of us change out of our dress clothes and go to Mel’s Diner and get a booth. It’s pretty much the only place open twenty-four hours a day in our town, and based on the volume of chatter inside the restaurant, it seems every other teenager at that dance had the exact same idea we did.
“Room for one more?”
It’s Nick’s voice.
“Well, look who it is!” says Whitford.
“Scoot over,” Cecily says to Whitford. There’s some sliding, and Nick sits down on the other side of the table from Cecily and me.
I smile. “I thought homecoming was for sellouts?” I say.
“This isn’t homecoming. This is the after-party,” Nick says.
“Who’s up for an after-after-party at my place?” says Whitford. “Maybe a game of Settlers?”
“We can’t play Settlers on a Saturday,” I say.
Cecily pokes me. “It’s past midnight, silly. Now it’s Sunday. Very, very early Settlers Sunday.”
We go to the Washingtons’ house and play till six in the morning. I eat so many Skittles I think I might be sick.
“I can just walk home from here,” I tell Cecily on the front porch. “It’s right around the corner.”
“I’ve got something else in mind,” she says. “Are you free for a drive?”
“Sorry, can’t,” I say. “I have several predawn appointments on the calendar.”
“Very funny.”
She takes us to Mole Hill Park, and we walk up what seems like a million flights of stairs to the top of the hill this place is named after and sit down on the grass.
“You know this used to be a volcano?” she asks.
“And we’re sitting on top of it right now?” I ask, slightly disconcerted.
“Don’t worry, it’s not active anymore.”
“Hey, can I take a picture of you?” I ask.
“Of me?” she asks.
“Yeah. You’re always taking mine. Seems only fair I should get a turn.”
“I prefer to stay behind the camera,” she says.
“Oh, come on,” I say. “Just one photo.”
“Fine,” she says, handing me the camera and guiding my finger to the shutter button.
“Say cheese!” I say.
“Seriously?” she says flatly.
I press the button, and the camera clicks. I do it a few more times.
“Okay, that’s plenty,” she says, taking the camera back.
“Why are you supposed to say cheese?” I ask.
“I have no idea,” she says.
“Nick would probably know,” I say.
“Probably,” she agrees.
I hear her move and sense warmth near my hand, as if her own hand is hovering nearby, thinking about grabbing mine.
Do it. Please. Grab my hand.
But then the warmth is gone. She must have pulled away. “Anyway, I wanted to take you here because this is the highest point in the city. So it’s the best place to watch the sunrise.”
First we almost kissed on the dance floor. Now we almost held hands. Or at least, I think that’s what happened. And if so, she definitely chose not to hold my hand.
I guess it’s like Ion said: Cecily’s not looking for a boyfriend. And hand holding can definitely lead to boyfriends. No
t to mention kissing. I guess it’s a good thing the lights came on during the dance.
“Sunrises,” I say, turning my attention back to the present. “I don’t get it. They get all this hype. I mean, I rise out of bed every morning when my alarm goes off, but no one climbs mountains to watch and rave about how beautiful I am. What’s so great about a sunrise?”
“All the colors. So many blended together.”
“Like a painting?”
“Yes, but better.”
“Why better?”
“It’s bigger than a painting, for one thing. It’s infinite, in a sense. A sunrise stretches across the whole sky, and behind it is the entire galaxy and the rest of the universe.”
“Well, that’s something,” I admit, leaning back and feeling the grass with my fingers.
“Plus, a painting is only a representation of the thing. But a sunrise… a sunrise is the actual thing.”
I shift my weight on the ground. “I’m not trying to be cynical or difficult,” I say. “But why does a multitude of colors make it beautiful? Like a multitude of smells. Well, that’s like the cafeteria at school… and that’s not something I’d stay up all night and walk up that many steps for, I’ll tell you that.”
She chuckles. “The colors work together; they don’t compete. It’s not like the cafeteria. You know how it is at Thanksgiving dinner when there’s all those smells from so many dishes, but they mix together into something wonderful?”
I imagine the scent and find my mouth watering. “Mmm, yeah.”
“Or you could use sound as an example. The hallway at school is noisy, right? A cacophony of noises banging together. But a sunrise is more like an orchestra. Many different instruments harmonizing to create beautiful music. Does that make sense?”
I catch the wonder in her voice, and that, more than the words, lets me understand her meaning. “Yeah, actually, it does.”
“So can you imagine a sunrise now?” she says hopefully. It makes me cringe a little, how earnestly she believes I am capable of imagining a sunrise. I don’t want to disappoint her. But I don’t want to lie to her, either.
“Honestly?”
“Honesty would be preferable.”
“In that case, no.” I try to say it playfully. I want to soften the blow of disappointment for her.
“Come on!” she says, touching my arm imploringly. “Just try.”
“It’s impossible,” I say. “I’m sorry. I really wish I could.”
After a beat, she asks hesitantly, “Can you imagine me?”
“Yes. I can.”
She seems pleased by this. “How?”
“I’ve sensed you. I’ve felt your arm when you guide me. I’ve heard you speak, smelled your perfume tonight…”
I’ve kissed two girls in my life. One at the school for the blind. One at blind camp. My understanding is that people usually close their eyes just before contact is made, which makes kissing the closest Cecily and I can ever come to having an identical, shared experience: both of us feeling our lips touch, both doing so without sight.
“Do you want to touch my face?” she asks. “Would that help you see me?”
“Yes,” I say. “It would help a lot.”
She sits up and places my palms against her cheeks. I run my fingers over her skin, sensing the smoothness of her forehead, the texture of her eyebrows, the delicacy of her eyelashes, the resoluteness of her nose, the smallness of her lips, the downward angle of her chin.
She’s beautiful. There’s no doubt about it. And I want to tell her that. I’m so tempted to blurt it out. And—I want to feel that face against mine.
But I can’t. Kissing would only make things complicated. Really, really complicated. What would we be, cohosts with benefits or something?
I remove my hands from her face and lean back in the grass.
I hear Cecily’s camera.
“Photographing the sunrise?” I ask.
“Of course,” she says with a note of humor in her voice. “I need some hype-worthy photos for my collection.”
CHAPTER 14
On the Monday after homecoming—the day I’m supposed to make a decision about my operation—Mrs. Everbrook calls me over to her desk.
“Will, I understand you have a mighty interesting opportunity,” says Mrs. Everbrook.
“What do you mean?”
“The experimental surgery.”
I’m confused. “How do you know about that?”
“Your mother called me this morning, said we should run a story about it.”
I feel my skin grow hot all over. “My mom called you?” Of course Mom wants the paper to run a story about it. To get me to choose the operation because of peer pressure.
“Yep. Figured I should check with you first.”
I groan. “I can’t believe her. She’s so… so…” I struggle for words. “No, don’t print an article.”
“It stays between us, then. You and Cecily have that bus driver interview today, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Then hop to it.”
But a thought occurs to me. One way or the other, I do have to decide today. And in front of me is one of the few adults that I trust to give me unbiased advice.
“Mrs. Everbrook, before I go…”
“Yes?”
“Do you think I should do it? The surgery?”
She pauses for a moment, considering her answer. “I think you’re the one who will have to live with the decision. So no one else should make it for you.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Everbrook.”
“Here’s your hall pass,” she says. I reach out, and she puts the slip into my hand.
Cecily guides me as we begin our walk to the side parking lot to meet the bus driver. All the other students are inside classrooms, so our footsteps echo in empty hallways.
“My B-scan results came back a few days ago,” I say. “I’m a candidate for the operation.”
Her pace seems to slow for a second as she takes this in.
“Don’t you still need a stem cell donor?” she asks.
“They already found one. I have to decide today if I want to do it.”
She says nothing. The only sound is the squeak of our rubber sneaker soles.
Eventually I say, “I sort of expected you to be excited. If it worked, I could see colors and nature and everything.”
“Yeah, no, I’m really excited for you,” she says unconvincingly.
“But?”
“But nothing. It sounds great.”
We walk through a set of doors.
“I can hear it in your voice. You think it’s a bad idea.”
“Not bad, just risky.”
“There are risks, true,” I concede. “Including a risk I could see for the first time.”
“That was the risk I was talking about.”
This surprises me. “Wait. You don’t want me to see?”
“It’s not that. More like… I think there could be unintended consequences to being able to see. Side effects, you might say.”
“Such as?” I ask.
“It’s like how people often feel worse about themselves after they have plastic surgery,” she says.
“Because the surgery went wrong?”
“No, because the surgery went right. They look better on the outside, but inside they have the same self-image issues as before. And that’s a problem no operation can resolve.”
I’m about to ask why she knows so much about plastic surgery when she stops our movement.
“We’re here,” she says.
She opens a door to the outside and greets the bus driver, who is waiting for us on the sidewalk. He’s friendly. And old. I can feel his age when I shake his hand, and I can hear it in his voice. Also, there’s the fact that he’s been driving a bus for our school system for forty-two years. He’s finally retiring. That’s what my article’s about.
I listen to Cecily pose him a few different ways around a bus—leaning up against it, sitt
ing in the driver’s seat, that sort of thing.
After the photo shoot ends, he asks, “Either of you want to take her for a spin?”
“No thanks,” says Cecily.
“I’m blind,” I say.
“No problem by me,” he says. “I can direct you.”
“Really?” I say.
“Today is my last day. What are they going to do, fire me?” He laughs heartily.
“All right, sure,” I say. I’ve always wanted to try driving, and a school bus seems as good a vehicle as any.
“Will, I’m not sure this is a good idea,” says Cecily, tugging at my arm. I shake off her hand and reach forward to locate the entrance to the bus. I climb the stairs. The driver stands and helps me find the seat.
“Put your hands out like this—there you go, that’s the wheel. Now use your right foot to find the pedal. Nope, that’s the brake. A little to the right. Very good. Okay, that’s your gas. You’ll press very slowly on that when I say go. You coming to join us, missy?”
“No, thank you,” Cecily says, obviously displeased with this plan.
“Take some photos of this!” I say.
“I will do no such thing,” she says.
“All aboard!” says the driver. I hear a sound of air hissing and then the noise of the outside is gone. He’s closed the door.
“You sure this is a good idea?” I ask.
“We all got to start somewhere. Forty-two years ago, I had never driven a bus, neither.”
“But you could see.”
“That’s true, that’s true. We’ll just go slow. And I’ll keep a hand on the steering wheel so you don’t hit anything. Okay, now press real gentle with your foot like I talked about.”
I do, and the rut-rut-rut of the engine rumbles all around us.
The bus driver laughs.
“Are we moving?” I ask.
“Yes! You’re driving a school bus!” he says.
I laugh, too.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, a little less gas.”
I let up a bit.
“Turn coming up. This is the hard part. Let up all the way on the gas. When I tell you, turn the wheel to the left. Ready… now!”
I spin the wheel a little. “More! Turn it more!” I do. “Hold it there!”
The force of the turn pulls me slightly to the side, like when I’m riding in a car and it’s going around a corner. But now I’m not riding in a car. I’m in a bus. Also, I’m driving. That’s kind of different.
Love and First Sight Page 9