by Beth Vrabel
We stared at each other for a full minute.
“I’m going to buy my mom a ton of new notebooks.” Mom had called Bartel Village and was scheduled to interview a lady on Tuesday. I wanted to buy her a bunch of notebooks, hoping she wouldn’t stop with just one person’s story. I didn’t want to explain it, so I turned back to my computer. Already typing, I said, “I’m almost done with my essay. Then I’m going to type yours.”
“The contest is closed to partners.” Sandi turned back to her computer, too, her shoulders slumping as she shut it down.
I grabbed her wrist and pulled her back into her seat as she stood to zip shut her backpack. “I’m not going to be your partner. I’m going to type everything you say, as you say it.”
“Why would you do that?”
I shrugged. “Because I want to.”
It took about four hours. Sandi even ordered lunch, probably the first time a pizza was ever delivered to the library. I’ve got to hand it to her, she handled Mrs. Dexter like an expert. “What is this?” Mrs. Dexter had asked as the pizza delivery guy walked in with a large pepperoni pie.
“This is called pizza, Mrs. Dexter.” Sandi handed the guy cash.
“This is a library!”
“And this is a pizza!” Sandi opened the box, releasing a heavenly aroma of melted cheese and sauce. “Have a slice.” She put a piece right into Mrs. Dexter’s outraged hands.
I’ve got to admit, Sandi’s essay was good. She pinpointed all the awesome things Sinkville leaders had done—the way they kept taxes low but the schools great, the way representatives made sure park land was preserved and crime prevented. She pointed out the high voting rates and the profitable business. I shifted a little in my seat, realizing her essay was pretty much the exact opposite of mine. The coolest part? She never looked at her notes once. Maybe that’s because they were in pieces all over the desk, but more likely, I think, because she really got into the topic. I almost interrupted her to say that if she ever ran for office, I’d vote for her. But I kept typing, just as she said it, and then read it back to her when we were done.
Both of us sighed as we hit “send” on our essays. We made the deadline.
“What now?” I asked, rubbing my fingers. I must’ve typed three thousand words that afternoon. By “what now,” I meant what was next for us? Would we go back to ignoring each other? To her mom suing my parents? Were we—gasp!—becoming friends?
Sandi snagged a pepperoni from the last remaining slice of pizza in the box. She nibbled on it for a second then said, “The essays are vetted through a group of townspeople. The finalists’ essays are put up on the website and printed in the Sinkville Gazette. People vote on them and the finalists find out who wins at a reception next month.”
“That’s not what I meant—” But Kerica interrupted me before I could finish.
“Alice?” she asked in a shaky voice.
For some reason, I felt like I was being a traitor to Kerica, sitting here eating pizza with Sandi. I even stood up. “Hey, Kerica!” I said way too brightly. “Your mom said you were working on a project at home.”
Kerica shook her head, rattling her braids. “Not really. I just. I need to talk with you.”
Kerica had taken the bus in from Columbia by herself after her mom told her I was at the library. “I’ve been avoiding you, but that’s not right. I need to tell you something. I’ve been doing a lot of reading about dogs. I mean nonfiction reading.” I nodded, knowing she had read every single fiction book about dogs in the library by the end of June. “Mom loves your dog and I thought if I did a lot of research, maybe I could finally convince her to get a dog, too.”
“Okay,” I had said slowly.
“I came across something in a veterinary book. Something about tumors. I think . . .” She swallowed and started again. “I think Tooter has a brain tumor.”
It fit, she said. During the past few weeks, she had noticed the way Tooter had changed. The way he suddenly couldn’t jump into the hand chairs. The way he paced in circles sometimes. The strange reaction to Sandi. Even how he peed on her and everything else. The way his back legs would sometimes go limp and I’d carry him. It wasn’t just an odd dog being weird.
The more she talked, the more I hated her. Who did she think she was, diagnosing my dog with a tumor? She’s a kid, like me, not a vet! She doesn’t know Tooter, how he’s always been quirky. He’s my dog! I’d know if he was sick, not some stranger.
But being mad was harder than it should’ve been, as my mind snapped back to Dr. Ross leaving messages. To Tooter growling at James a few days ago. To thinking about how maybe he wasn’t scooting across the floor to be lazy. Maybe it was because his legs weren’t working right. Maybe Kerica was right. Maybe she saw what we couldn’t. What we wouldn’t.
I stood up, right in the middle of Kerica saying she was so, so sorry. “Will you walk me home?”
She stopped midsentence and nodded. I grabbed my notebook, shoved it in my backpack, and moved toward the doors. Kerica shadowed me, not standing close or touching. It was like an invisible wall suddenly popped between us.
Sandi stepped into my path. I tried to step around her, trying to wall her away, too.
Sandi wrapped her hand around my wrist, even as Kerica rushed to my side. “We’re dropping the suit.”
“Do you really think this is the time?” Kerica’s voice, still shaky, morphed into the snobby tone she always took with Sandi.
But Sandi didn’t even glance her way. “I’m going to tell my mom what you did for me today. I’m going to get her to drop the suit. I’m not going to stop until she does.”
And then the strangest thing ever happened. Sandi gave me a hug. And the wall between me and Kerica dissolved. Kerica slipped her hand into mine and she and Sandi walked me home.
Mom sat on the couch holding Tooter. I could smell bacon as I opened the door and could tell from Tooter’s happy slurping sounds that she was feeding it to him.
I didn’t have to get close to see that Mom was crying. My friends stopped at the doorway when they saw her and both of them quietly left. I don’t even know if they said good-bye.
“It’s a brain tumor,” I said. Mom didn’t seem surprised that I knew. I thought about how she had dodged Dr. Ross for so long and suspected that it wasn’t all that surprising to her, either.
I sat down beside them on the ground, burying my hands into Tooter’s fur. “Is he going to die?”
Mom pet the back of my head in a copy of how I was petting Tooter. “He’s thirteen years old, Sunshine,” she told me. “He’s been dying for a while.”
“What can we do?”
“Make the most of the time he has.” She slipped Tooter another piece of bacon. “It could be months or even a year.”
“Does it hurt him?”
Mom shook her head. “Dr. Ross says Tooter doesn’t seem to be in any pain at all.”
“But he’s going to keep changing, isn’t he?” I rubbed my cheek against his soft belly.
Mom sighed. “Yes.”
I sat up and put my arms around Mom’s neck. My mouth against her shoulder, I whispered, “You can’t go back to being sad.”
Slowly Mom’s arms wrapped around me. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Anthony Hamlin stopped by that night to tell us in person that Elizabeth McAllister was dropping all charges. I considered telling him it was because of me, not him, but he seemed way too proud of himself. I doubt he’d believe me anyway.
Chapter Seventeen
Remember that Thursday appointment?
It was at Addison School for the Blind in Columbia.
“Most students only attend Addison School for a year or two,” the director said, as Mom, Dad, and I sat in her crisp, white office. “We make sure our students not only are up to par academically with other students their age, but that they’ve mastered life skills. Everything from being able to navigate a new town to grocery shopping and ordering at a restaurant.”
“And that’s something students can pick up in a year?” asked Mom, leaning forward like a child about to receive a prize.
“Yes,” the director answered. She had told me her name—Mrs. Something or Other—but it floated right out of my mind the moment she shared it. She had gray hair slicked back in a perfect bun and her desk was completely clear except for a vase filled with pink roses and a laptop. “We make sure that they do.”
I stared out the window. This place, it was pretty amazing. Some of the students were totally blind and deaf. On the way in, I saw a couple kids with scars where their eyes should be. These kids, I could understand them needing a special school. But me? It made my stomach’s insides feel slippery, like I was a fraud. I wasn’t blind enough to need a special school. I mean, I could get around.
But here was Mom, with Dad nodding just beside her, shocked that I could learn to someday go to the grocery store by myself. Did that really surprise them? Why?
I squeezed my eyes shut and thought about it. Mom would drop me off at the store. No, scratch that. If I were independent, I’d have to find my own way. I squeezed my eyes tighter and erased the scene. This time, I walked up to the grocery store using my cane. I grabbed a cart. I shook my head, even though I knew I probably looked crazy to everyone else, and cleared the scene again. I couldn’t take a cart if I had walked there. The most I’d be able to carry home would be what I could hold in a basket. So I pictured myself slipping the basket up my arm. Now, I needed some apples. I walked down the aisles, finding the apple row. I put a few in a bag and added it to my basket. Next, I wanted some hamburgers. I made my way to the meat department and stood in front of the packages of hamburger. I know Mom always checked the dates, which I guess were on the label. I imagined myself doing the same but soon had to clear the scene again. The print was too small. I couldn’t make it out.
I pictured myself moving on to finding a certain spice—let’s say cilantro—in the spice aisle. The spices were stacked on the highest shelf. I couldn’t get close enough to read the labels.
Is this what it would be like? Or was I being too doom and gloom? How would this school help me get to where I needed to be? They wouldn’t make labels bigger or shelves shorter. They wouldn’t make me able to drive a car or see which apple was the freshest. It was pointless.
I folded over and rested my head against my knees while my parents and the director spoke. Like they suddenly remembered I existed—I was, after all, the entire reason we were there—the three of them turned to face me.
“Alice?” Dad asked. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t belong here,” I said under my breath, but they heard.
“What makes you say that?” Director Whatever-Her-Name-Is asked.
“I’m not that blind.” I sat up straighter and glared at Mom and Dad. I was sure my nerves were making my eyes bob like crazy but my voice was steady. I didn’t even realize it until then, but I had taken the gnome Mr. Hamlin had given me out of my pocket and was clutching it. The elf’s pointy hat dug into my palm. “I can get around on my own already. I can read books—regular books. So what if I hold them closer? I don’t want to go to this school.”
Mom shifted in her seat and Dad started muttering things about me being rude.
“I’m sorry,” I said to Director Whatever-Her-Name-Is. “Your school is beautiful. It’s amazing, it really is. It’s just not for me.”
“Why don’t you take a tour and then decide?” the director asked.
We started in the gardens. The school was in the middle of a park, with rose gardens and acres of vibrant green grass.
“What’s the point?” I trailed behind Mom and Dad, taking sluggish steps around a koi pond. “It’s not like the kids who go here can see the goldfish.” They were huge goldfish but still only orange blurs in the dark water.
The tour guide stopped midsentence. Her unseeing eyes might not have focused on my face, but the way she clipped off her words left no doubt that she could go toe-to-toe with me on surliness. “The point is that beauty can be enjoyed by anyone willing to notice it. Yes, I might not see the fish. But I can feel the water with my fingers and toes. I can hear them gulp at food when I feed them. I can smell the musty, wet odor of the pond, the cold stone of the bridge. I can create the beauty with my mind. Can you?”
Mom’s face flushed bright red. Dad grumbled something, but I didn’t hear it. My mind was stuck on the tour guide’s last phrase: “Create the beauty with my mind.”
My feet moved a little faster.
When we got inside the sleek school, the tour guide—her name was Jessica (all the teachers went by their first name here)—called over a student. “Alice, I’d like you to meet Richie, a soon-to-be seventh grader.”
Richie was about as tall as James with orange red hair and so many freckles even I could see them. His eyes were warm and brown. Richie smiled and held out his hand for me to shake. Let’s just say Richie wasn’t a big fan of personal space. He stood a couple inches too close to me, making me question suddenly if the onions on the turkey sandwich I had for lunch had been a good idea. “Name’s Richie, but only teachers call me that. Everyone else calls me Ryder,” he said. Ryder’s eyes swept over me, head to toe.
Wait a second. His eye swept over me. The other eye? It didn’t move.
Now, I’ve had plenty of experience with people staring weirdly at my eyes, so I tried not to do the same. Plus, Jessica introduced Ryder as a student. At a school for the blind. So of course something was wrong with his eyes. Or eye. Whatever. I wasn’t going to stare.
“Ryder, why don’t you show Alice around the computer lab while her family reviews some paperwork?” Jessica suggested.
“Sure.” Ryder grabbed my wrist. “Follow me.”
“I can follow on my own,” I snapped.
“I know.” But he didn’t let go of my hand.
The lab was filled with computers screens as big as our television. Ryder showed me how they magnified books. I couldn’t wipe away my smile when I realized I could sit back in my chair and still read the books. Seriously, sit back. “Pretty cool, huh?” Ryder said.
He showed me how I could listen to thousands of books, and I thought of how I could keep up with Kerica’s book consumption. I learned about simpler things, too. Like a little stand I could put my books on that tilted the pages so they reflected less glare. I saw that none of the papers they used were white; they were all yellow or blue. “It helps curb visual fatigue,” Ryder said.
“Is that something you have trouble with?” I hinted. I mean, among visual impairments, albinism isn’t really fair. Everyone can tell. Other conditions, not so much.
“Nah,” Ryder said with a smile that was infuriating. He totally knew I was digging.
“How long have you been here?” I asked after the tour.
“About a year. I’ll go back to public in eighth grade.”
“Is that normal? To go back to public?”
“Afraid you’ll miss me?” Ryder cocked an eyebrow. “Don’t worry. I’ll be here for a year. I’ll keep an eye out for you.”
And to prove it, Ryder popped out his unmoving eye and held it in his palm.
I sucked in a gasp and squeezed my lips together to keep in a scream. I fought to make my face still even though I knew my eyes gave me up. Ryder casually put his artificial eye back in its socket.
“How long have you waited to use that line?” I asked, proud of my steady voice.
Ryder snorted. “Let’s see, my eye was removed when I was seven so . . . six years?”
“It’s a good joke. But it did make me feel a little ill. Do I look pale to you?” I held a white-as-paper hand in front of him.
“Maybe a little,” he laughed.
A little later, Ryder had shown me just about the entire school minus the dormitories. Some kids boarded here, but many—like me—lived close enough to commute.
“Can I ask you something kind of personal?” I said.
Ryder stopped midstride and
sighed dramatically. “This happens all the time. Women meet me, fall instantly in love. But no, I can’t run away with you.”
“And most of the girls you meet are blind . . .”
“What’s your point, Porcelain?”
It was tough to keep my lips from twitching at that. “My question,” I said, “is about your eye.”
“This one?” Ryder pointed at his face. “Or this one?”
I grabbed his arm before he could pop the fake eye out again. “Stop!”
“Cancer, retinoblastoma. Basically tumors behind my eye.”
I nodded. “Yeah, but you have your other eye. So you’re not blind blind. What are you doing here?”
“You realize you just skipped over my whole cancer story, right? I mean, most people, they at least ask—”
“Sorry. But you’re not blind blind, right?” I shuddered a little, thinking about how horrible I was being. I hated, hated, hated when people questioned my blindness. Like because I could read or see when someone was in front of me I wasn’t really blind. Yet here I was drilling this boy I just met about why he was at a school for the blind. But I had to know.
“My other eye had a couple tumors. The treatment brought my vision to 20/60. Not bad, right? But since it’s my only eye, I wanted to make the most of it.”
“You wanted to come here?” I asked.
“I want to make the most of what I have.” Ryder crossed his arms. He stopped walking and stared at me straight on. “Let me ask you a personal question.”
I nodded.
“Why wouldn’t you want to go here?”
And you know what? I didn’t have one good reason.
That week, instead of hanging out at the library, Kerica and I spent most of our time outside the diner as Kerica added her mural to the window. She was so thorough, adding the outline and making sure the brushes were straight before dipping them into paint. I could tell she was concentrating and so I tried to be quiet.
All I could think about was that everything was about to end. The Bartel School for Girls opened in three days. Addison School for the Blind began next week. We wouldn’t have these long summer days anymore. It took me a long time to realize Kerica was looking at me instead of her artwork.