Blindness

by Ginger Scott

  Parking is easy to navigate on a Saturday, so I get to the tutoring room just as they’re letting students in. There’s an entire room set up for mathematics, which makes me smile. “Misery loves company,” I laugh to myself.

  I gravitate to the table near the rear of the room and sit with my back against the wall. I’m always putting myself in corners—ever since Mac died, I like to see my way out. The therapist said it was about my need for control, to anticipate the next move. Funny, though, how it’s the action happening right in front of me that always takes me by surprise.

  I’m getting my book out and searching for my pencil in my bag when I suddenly feel uncomfortable, like an invisible shadow is choking me.

  I jump at his voice.

  “You’re new,” he says, and I thrust my hair back and bang my wrist on the underside of the table as I snap to attention. The pain is instant, and at first I tend to my hand. I’m about to swear when I look up and quickly shut my mouth again. I’m stunned silent at first—suddenly out of my element—my confidence drained the second I hit his gaze. “I’m sorry?” is all I can seem to stammer. His eyes are clear, a grayish blue, and perfect. The crinkles at the corners must mean he’s smiling, but I can’t seem to leave his eyes to check the curve of his lips. In that millisecond, I soak them in, and I feel like I’m home.

  I’m stuck staring at him, my mouth a little agape, as he sits across from me. He just laughs at my awkwardness and shakes his head. “I scared you. Sorry, didn’t mean to. I just haven’t seen you in here before…you’re new?” he holds out his hand this time—a gesture my suddenly teenaged goo brain recognizes, and I shake it.

  A few seconds pass, and we’re still shaking hands across the table, but not speaking. He chuckles again and lifts his other hand to cover mine, stopping our motion. My eyes widen, and I’m rushed with embarrassment, my cheeks burning and my heart a pounding drum in my chest. “Oh God, I’m sorry. Yes, I’m new. I’m in Dr. Rush’s calculus class, and I’m falling a little behind,” I say all in one breath. He winks at my words, and something in me flinches at it, forcing me back to earth.

  “Okay, let’s take a look at what lesson you’re on,” he nods toward the book, prompting me.

  “Right, right,” I say, flipping the pages open manically. Somehow my mind slows down, and I’m finally able to communicate. “It’s the section on complex and holomorphic functions.” I’m grateful I was just able to complete that sentence.

  “Okay. Let’s work through one together, and I’ll explain as we go,” he says, flipping the page on my notepad and turning it sideways between us. He clicks the pen, and I catch myself staring at him again. He looks nothing like a calculus tutor. His hair is dark and tossed in various directions—almost messy, like he just removed his hat. His arms are canvases of artwork, swirls of color crawling up each, sometimes winding into his fingers. His wrists are wrapped with black bands, and his ears are pierced—multiple times. He coughs a little, and I realize he’s looking at me…looking at him.

  I instantly turn back to the notepad, but not before idiotic words fly out of my mouth. “I’m sorry…you are the tutor, right?”

  He just laughs, folding his arms, and leans back in his chair. He looks up at the ceiling for a few seconds, giving me a break before settling back on me. “Yeah, I know. I don’t really scream math geek. I’m an engineering major. Almost done. The math part? Well…” He leans forward, urging me in as well, and looks side to side before he whispers to me, “I’m sort of a mathematical genius.”

  I purse my lips and scrunch my brow out of instinct. I’m sorting him out, trying to tell if he’s genuine or just being an asshole. He seems to sense my hesitation, because he puts the pen down and holds up one hand, like a boy scout, crossing his heart with the other. I tilt my head, and a small smile breaks on my lips. I’m about to relent and believe him when he pulls the notepad forward and starts jotting down numbers and symbols feverishly. Within seconds, he’s solved the first problem from my book. He smiles when he sets the pen down, and the crinkle is back in the corners of his eyes.

  “Wow,” I say, my eyebrows lifting. “Rock-star-math-geek genius. Noted.”

  He laughs hard this time, and I finally let go of the breath I’ve been holding and join him. “I’m Cody. Not a rock star. Just good with numbers,” he smirks. “What’s your name?”

  “Charlie,” as soon as it leaves my lips I want to stuff it back inside. “Well, Charlotte, really. Charlotte, call me Charlotte.” He’s tapping the pen to his lip while I’m desperately trying to turn back time. I don’t want anyone calling me Charlie, and I haven’t said it in years. Why it came out now, I have no idea, but even hearing my own voice say it has my stomach sinking to the floor.

  “Charlotte,” he smiles, somehow saving me. “Nice to meet you. How about we figure out what’s tripping you up here, huh?” His smile is soft, and I feel like I dodged some sort of bullet. I nod and lean forward while he guides me through about a dozen problems.

  After two hours, I’m starting to understand the material, and I can even complete the work on my own. Cody has been at my table the entire time, despite four other tables full of students clearly needing his help. I’m glad he’s stayed, and I tell myself it’s because I need his help, and I’m finally getting the hang of the formulas. But the truth scratches at my gut, too, and the pangs from guilt are impossible to ignore. I like his attention—and I’ve never been more afraid.

  He’s looking at his watch and chewing on his pen cap when I interrupt him. “You don’t have to stay,” I squeak out. “I’m getting the hang of this. You probably have a ton of students to see, and I know the session time is almost over.”

  He pushes his lips closed tightly, making a hard smile, and I hear him take a deep breath through his nose. “It’s okay. Most of those students are regulars, and they’d call me over if they really needed something,” he says, glancing back at his watch.

  “Oh…” I chew at my own pen now, not sure what to say. “Well…if you have to go, it’s okay. I’m about ready to pack up.” We’re staring at each other now, and the tension between us must be visible to everyone in the room. Afraid of being caught, I start to close my book and busy my hands.

  “Yeah, yeah…” Cody starts, looking down and then back up. “I’ll walk you out?”

  He’s waiting for me to answer, and I’m pretending to take longer with my belongings, looking deep in my bag and avoiding his eyes. I’m fighting with myself. When I finally pump myself up enough to stand and smile back at him, I notice it—the wheelchair. I don’t have one of those faces that can lie—a fault I inherited from Mac. Our expression cuts right to the truth, never a mixed signal. And I know Cody senses my discomfort, because I can sense his, too.

  He rolls back from the table a little, twisting the wheels back and forth to make sure everything’s clear, to show me that he knows what caused my breath to hitch. “I just need it sometimes,” he says, shrugging and looking down at his lap. He lifts up his knees to show me that he can. I’m embarrassed by my gross behavior and my overt reaction. But, more than that, I’m embarrassed by the relief that floods me with the knowledge that he’s not completely disabled—and I’m confused by why I care so much.

  “So, you…you can walk?” I ask, instantly slapping myself internally. Why can’t I shut up?

  He bites the inside of his cheek, forcing down a short laugh, and nods, finally looking me in the eyes. “Yeah, I can walk. I’m just a little banged up is all,” he says, his smile less bright now. “So, how about I walk you out?”

  I cringe at his words, knowing he’s poking fun at himself, and teasing me at the same time. He lets me off the hook quickly, though, brushing his arm into mine. “It’s okay, I’m just bustin’ your chops,” he says, leaning his head to the side and urging me to follow him outside. I trail behind him, my bags weighing down my arm, and my mind working feverishly to remember what his skin looked like next to mine.

  Cody sees me all the wa
y to my car, still in his chair. I don’t see anyone parked near me, so I know he’s gone out of his way, but I’m too nervous to ask how he’s getting home. I’ve made enough of an ass out of myself already.

  “This is me,” I say, clicking the unlock button on my keys. My Honda lights up, and I pull the passenger door open to drop my bags inside. As I do, my portfolio unbuckles, and a few of my drawings slide onto the ground. I rush to get them before they get dirty, but Cody’s already bent forward to save them. “You do these?” he asks, sliding them behind one another as he sorts through them in his lap.

  I shrug a little and just nod yes. I’m always uncomfortable when others look at my work. He’s looking at my home collection—which are my most personal drafts. The series is based on my own dream for a childhood home, and there’s a lot of Mac in those drawings—things he always talked about doing to his Bungalow. I find myself reaching to grab the drawings back as my throat closes at the memories.

  “Sorry, I’m running late,” I lie. I have nowhere I need to be, but I just had to stop his questions before they started.

  “No problem. You’re good at that, you know. The drawings, I mean,” he says, swallowing hard. I can sense how unsure he is at his words, and I’m starting to break into a sweat.

  “Thanks,” I say, coming off shorter and colder than I mean it. I try to repair it by smiling at him again, and then I curtsey. I actually curtsey. My eyes fly wide open, and he struggles not to laugh at me.

  “Wow, did you just bow?” he asks, rubbing his hand along the back of his neck and shaking his head, grinning at me.

  “Yep. I sure did,” I say, my voice cracking a little at the last word. I walk over to the driver’s side in a hurry and open the door. I lean over the roof of the car to say goodbye. “Thank you so much for today,” I say and decide to end it there. I give him a small wave and crawl into my car, mumbling to myself as I pull the seatbelt over my chest and fumble with my keys. I’m pretty sure my lips are moving as I berate myself when his tapping on the window registers. I start the car and hit the window button to open it all the way, now extremely desperate to drive away.

  “Here,” he says, writing something on a small notecard, and then tossing it through my window onto the passenger seat. “My number. Give me a call…you know…if you need more help with calculus. Or…just give me a call.”

  I look at the card on the seat, and I pick it up, nodding at him with a smile even though my insides are screaming to remind me: “Trevor!”

  “Will do,” is all I say, closing my eyes again with instant regret at my stupid words. I roll the window back up, and he turns to leave. When I drive away, I watch him in my mirror as he heads back into the building.

  I know I should toss the card out the window. Just as I know I should never come to a tutoring session again. I tuck it in the folds of my book instead, but I make myself a promise to stay away, forcing my imagination to replay my morning with Trevor—and focus on our perfect, quiet future. No matter how hard I try, though, I can’t seem to completely erase the blueness of and the crinkles around Cody’s eyes. And I know why—and it’s making me sick.

  Chapter 2: Timing Is Everything

  I’ve lived with Lilah for three years. We met as freshmen in the dorms and got our apartment together before our sophomore year. Lilah is really my only girlfriend, and we’re not extremely close. We’re roommates, and that’s about the extent of it. I guess that’s why she wasn’t so worried about turning me out. I know it may be naïve to think that I would stay here forever. If…when I marry Trevor, I would be moving in with him anyhow. But I guess I just wasn’t ready to be pushed from the nest so quickly.

  “Man, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were downright depressed about moving in with me,” Trevor says, only half-joking, as he leans into me next to my bed, which is covered with my socks, shirts, shoes, and open suitcase. I shove him playfully. I hate that he thinks I’m not excited to live with him. It’s only that I didn’t quite expect us moving in together to go quite like this or to happen so quickly.

  “I’m not depressed. I’m sorry if I made you think that,” I shrug, and then slouch down on the bed amidst my pile of clothes yet to be folded and packed. “It’s just…I wasn’t really prepared is all. I mean, I still have my furniture, and I was thinking I’d sort of get a drawer first. Not that I’m not grateful and totally excited to be staying with you.”

  Trevor kisses me quickly and playfully. I know he’s a little hurt that I’m not overjoyed, but he’s doing his best to keep me positive. When Lilah asked me to talk last weekend after I came home from tutoring, I thought it was going to be about moving Kyle in with us. Turns out, she’s moving in with Kyle—in a week. There’s no way I can float the rent on our apartment on my own. When Trevor called me later that night after he checked in to his hotel, I was in a full-on panic. So when he suggested I just move in with him, I jumped at it, eagerly, without thinking anything through—namely, the fact that Trevor lived with his parents.

  “You’re going to have so much space, and you won’t need any of this old stuff,” Trevor says, kicking the leg of my old desk lightly. I just smile, nod, and scoot closer to him for a hug. When he can’t see my face, I let my smile fall. I love my old junk. It’s Mac’s old junk. Hell, his initials are carved in that desk from when he was a teenager. But Trevor isn’t much of a nostalgic, and I know the things in his parents’ house are far nicer than I could ever afford.

  When I told him I was putting my furniture in storage, he just rolled his eyes at me. I think he hopes I’ll let it go once I’ve lived with him for a while, once we move from his parents’ house into our own place. Trevor’s staying with them while applying for his apprenticeships, mostly because he doesn’t know where he’ll be sent. I’m hoping it’s local. But for Trevor, I’ll move.

  I’m brought back to my list of tasks by the sound of Trevor’s phone ringing. He steps out into the hall so he can hear over my TV, and when he comes back in, he seems excited.

  “Good news?” I ask.

  “Maybe, I’ll know more later,” he’s being evasive. I twist my mouth at him a little and squint my eyes. “I’m not hiding anything. I just don’t want to get too excited. I should know more soon.”

  “Okay,” I sigh. I’m sure it’s about his interview tour last week, and I’m desperate to know where he’ll be heading next semester. But I don’t push.

  I’m not quite sure how, but we manage to get all of my belongings, minus the furniture, in both Trevor’s and my car. We pull up to his parents’ house just after lunchtime, and his mom, whom I’ve only really met a handful of times, comes out to greet us.

  “Charlotte, I’m so happy you’re staying with us. Let Trevor and his dad unload the car, you come in and enjoy some lunch with me,” Shelly Appleton puts her arm around my shoulder, guiding me inside, and gives me a wink. Trevor’s mom is easy. I’ve always gotten along with her. She’s usually a little tipsy, but nice nonetheless. Shelly is beautiful—short but thin, and the perfect platinum blonde. She’s a stay-at-home mom, not that she really is caring for anyone any longer. Trevor’s been grown for years. So, I guess, it’s more accurate to say Shelly doesn’t work.

  We sit in the kitchen at the counter, and Shelly slides me a plate filled with meats, cheeses, and veggies. She doesn’t really talk much after that, instead flipping through the pages of her People magazine while I try to catch a glimpse of the various articles and pictures upside-down from the other side of the counter. I pick at my food while Trevor and his dad walk in and out the front door, hauling boxes of my belongings. I’m a little uncomfortable sitting back and watching, especially since I’m not really keeping Shelly company. As soon as I’m done eating lunch, I excuse myself and help with the last few loads.

  Trevor’s dad, Jim, just nods at me. I’ve had much fewer interactions with him; he’s a lawyer for some big real-estate company and spends most of his time flying from Ohio to Atlanta for meetings and deal closings. T
he Appletons live in Hunting Valley, a super rich area just outside of Cleveland, only a few minutes from Western’s campus. Trevor said that his parents thought about moving to Atlanta several times, but his dad has just as many meetings in Chicago, so they decided living in the middle made the most sense. I’ll admit, while I’m not comfortable encroaching on the Appletons’ space, I am pretty excited about living in a 6,000-square-foot house and commuting only minutes to school every day.

  I spend the next four hours unpacking my belongings, tucking things into Trevor’s drawers, and finding open spots in his closet. His room is large, and he has his own bathroom, so it’s really not much different from my apartment. Trevor is downstairs with his dad, watching football, and I hear them talking as I come down the steps behind them.

  “You think Sumner’s going to come through?” Jim asks.

  “It’s looking really good. I should know by tonight, tomorrow morning latest,” Trevor says. I thought his phone call earlier had been about his interviews. But hearing that there’s a good chance he’ll be heading to Washington in the spring has my heart thumping with panic. Then Jim’s words stop me frozen.

  “You let this one know yet?” he asks, nodding his head toward the stairs. “She’s going to want to follow you, you know.”

  I’m waiting for Trevor to swoon, to tell his dad he hopes I’m willing to uproot and move with him anywhere he goes, because he loves me, and can’t imagine life without me. But instead, he just shrugs and gives a short, “Yeah.”

  Yeah? I play it over again and again in my head, trying to make sense of the tiny one-syllable word. It sounds so foreign coming off of his lips, so indifferent and so unlike him. I’m thinking about turning around, running—somewhere. But then I hear Jim tell his son that dinner’s going to be ready soon, and I notice him notice me from the corner of his eyes. I’m caught, without escape. So I swallow hard to settle my nerves, and then clear my throat so Trevor hears me coming.