“Caleb,” I said.
“That’s strange. I don’t recall the headmaster announcing any new students.”
“He seems pretty forgetful.”
“Well surely he would have mentioned that we had a new blind student. Not to put it that way, you being blind and all. I didn’t mean to sound offensive.”
I laughed.
“Trust me, I don’t think anything you can say will offend me. I don’t think much would really bother me anymore.”
“You and me both,” she said with a scowl, as the teacher began roll call. Her name came first.
“Mary Elizabeth,” called the teacher, and at once I realized the boy in the hallway was right. She spoke in a lingering monotone, hinting that she wanted to be there even less than the students slouching in the back row.
“Here,” responded Mary.
The teacher took a full five minutes to rattle through the remaining names, minus mine, which had apparently not yet been added to the roster. I kept my mouth shut—from past experience, this meant I could skip first period with a low chance of being noticed.
“Welcome to Literature,” said Mrs. Halleway. “This semester we will be studying ancient texts. The Greeks, the Norse, and the East.”
I sighed. Literature class here would be nothing like Mrs. Derundi’s, and I would bet all of Liz’s money and one of Shankey’s remaining paws that I had already read a quarter of the scheduled books.
I followed Mary to the next class, World History, which to my surprise was much more upbeat. The teacher was in his fifties, a retired archaeologist, and spoke of most sites like he had actually been there, which he most likely had. He called on students regularly, and though I raised my hand for over half his questions, he ignored me entirely, even when no other students had an answer.
Mary led me around the rest of the day, and I grew more miffed with each class. The teachers were either as boring as Mrs. Halleway or had decided to ignore me entirely. And the students were worse. Doors were constantly being shut in my face, hands pushing me around, and the occasional insult was whipped in my direction during passing.
“Don’t worry about it,” said Mary in the break between seventh and eighth period. “They’re prideful here. If the bankers haven't known your name for the past ten years, then they don’t pay much attention to you. Family reputation goes a long way.”
“Seems stupid to me.”
“It is. My family’s a wreck but we’re still known as one of the better ones around here.”
“Your family’s a wreck,” I said sarcastically, then immediately regretted it at her silence. Mary had helped me all day, being my only new friend, and my sarcasm was no way to repay her.
“I’m sorry, Mary. What’s wrong with your family?”
“It’s ok,” I heard her say. “It’s just that my mother doesn’t care about me at all, and I’ve never even met my father. The only good one of the bunch is my brother, but he’s ten years older than me, and I don’t see him much. Him and Mother don’t get along well.”
Then eighth period started, and in another hour, school let out. Mary said goodbye and left, while I started to walk toward my room. Before I reached the stairs, I felt two clammy arms take me from behind. I struggled, but there were two of them, one in front and one behind, and their grip was tight.
“What do you want?” I shouted, hoping a teacher would hear me. But no one came.
“We know you don’t belong here. You’re not like us.” It was the same voice as the boy who had knocked into me that morning and caused me to lose my cane.
“Thank God I’m not. I like to think of myself as a whole lot better.”
“Listen to me. You’re an outsider. We don’t want you.” He pushed me backward, and I felt my fists clench into a ball.
“Who said I wanted you?” I retorted.
I stomped on the expensive shoe of the kid behind me, and he let go with a yelp. Elm’s Ridge did not foster the same fighting skills and grit that Kingston Elementary had so graciously bestowed on me. I felt the same elation that I did in the deli shop, but instead of their fire, I felt my own, roaring in my chest except for a smoldering coal that had fallen from the flames.
I slammed into the boy in front of me with my entire weight, and he toppled to the ground, his back smacking against stone just before my fist smashed against his jawbone. My knuckles cracked upon the impact, and my knees sank into his chest.
Raising my hand for a second blow, I stopped, and realized he offered no resistance.
“Don’t mess with me,” I said. “You were right, I’m not like you. I hit a lot harder.”
His friend made no attempt to follow me when I left. In the days that followed, there was no mention of the incident, even by the teachers. And I would have forgotten about it entirely, except for the words the boy moaned on the ground as I walked away. Words that made no sense.
“I remember the last time you were here. We all do. And we know what you did.”
Chapter 16 - Oakley Young
Mrs. Halleway never had a chance to learn my name, as I skipped first period each day. After the first day of class, I had found a stack of braille books as high as my waist outside my door, along with another note from Liz.
All the books you need for first semester plus some extra. Personal tutor at the coffee shop around the corner next Thursday evening at 7:30. Don’t be late. Promise to stop by soon.
I tossed the note, laughing at the last line. For a guardian, Liz seemed to do very little of the actual guarding, and I was starting to think it would be a long time before I would see her again. If I ever saw her again.
But I took the books, and I finished the entire semester’s reading in the first three weeks. One morning I awoke early to finish The Count of Monte Cristo, then threw the book down as I flipped the last page. I swore, a mixture of trailer park and Philly words that had risen to the top of my list.
“Who does that?” I shouted to Shankey, who stirred on my bed. His sleep schedule required more maintenance than my own, and often I had to shake him awake for his morning walk.
Some of the books Liz had gotten me were used, and the previous owner of this one had ripped out the last three chapters. I was furious.
“I’ll be back,” I said, and I thudded down the stairs. By now I knew them by heart, and I carried my cane without it touching the ground. I exited the school from the back, then brought out my cane to navigate the dead husks of overgrown weeds that winter had claimed in the garden. Cobblestones were missing from the path, and the miniature potholes threatened to snare my shoes.
The library was only a block away, and my brisk pace brought me to the double doors within minutes. It was early enough that only a handful of people roamed the shelves, and the usual line for service was only one person long.
“Hello, Caleb,” said the attendant, a young woman who smelled far older than she was, thanks to a combination of heavy perfume and cat hair.
“Count of Monte Cristo. Braille. Do you have it?”
“Hmmm,” she purred, rifling through index cards. “That’s a no. But we do have it in print. Do you wish me to retrieve it?”
“Fine,” I said. There were only three chapters left, and I could get Mary to read the end to me during the lunch break. Or I could ask her to skip first period, but trying to convince Mary to skip first period would be just as hard as convincing me to actually attend.
The attendant retrieved the book for me, and I tapped my way to the counter. Luke, who also recognized me and, I had grown to suspect, dated the attendant, checked out the book with as few nasally words as possible before informing me to return it by next Tuesday as if being an hour late was an act equivalent to murder.
Then, as I turned toward the revolving door, I heard another voice checking out a book at the register.
Beauty is not an ideal held only by those with sight. It’s more than that. Much more.
It’s a harmony, a smoothness, a direct appreciation tha
t gives the world meaning. It’s a foundation, a river from which flows the will to live, and the inspiration to do better, to become better. It’s a redeemer, a healer, a powerful force driving toward good will.
And that voice I heard at the counter was beautiful. It was thick, the sound waves lapping against my ears like the ebb and flow of ocean waves, though predominantly feminine. There was a small, nervous laugh at the end like the fluttering butterfly wings on a fresh spring morning, and the words danced with a musical quality that thrummed with the beatings of my heart.
“Both of these, please,” I heard her say as the books hit the counter. Such a simple sentence, but it was as if the sound of the words was orchestrated by a composer.
“Account name?”
“Oakley Young. Come on Luke, you should know that by now. I’ve been here often enough.”
But besides the beauty there was another sensation that accompanied her words. The dry, withering feeling of death. Death that was coming soon.
And I did what any sixteen-year-old, blind, adolescent boy would do.
I dropped my book, purposefully four to five feet away, and started tapping my cane.
Chapter 17 - Escaping Death
“Need help?” came the voice, nearer this time. I focused on my own words, taking care to avoid stuttering.
“Yes, thank you. I can’t seem to find it.”
“Here,” she said, and I felt her own hand close over the one that held my cane, directing my tapping until it thudded against the hard back cover. I blushed, blood rushing to my face at the warmth of her hand as she bent over to pick up the book. A strand of her hair tickled against my forearm when she straightened up, and she pushed the book into my hands.
“Thanks. I’m Caleb,” I said. I’m Caleb. Wow. Real original.
She laughed and I blushed again, thinking the laugh was directed at me, but it was only a short giggle.
“Oakley. Oakley Young.” Then she raised her voice. “And maybe you’ll remember it better than Luke, at the counter.”
“Oh I will, I promise,” I said, and I flashed a smile. “Do you go to school around here?”
“Yes, right down the road, five blocks away. And yourself?” she asked, leading me toward the door. Now we were walking out of the library and a blast of cold air ruffled the pages of my book.
“Yes, the boarding school right around the corner.”
“Boarding school? Huh, I didn’t know there was one near here. I should really be going though. It was nice meeting you, Caleb.”
She turned, and I caught that feeling again. It was almost like a scent in the wind, fleeting but strong. The aura of death, mere minutes away.
“Wait!” I said. “I don’t have the last few chapters of this book in braille. Could you please read them to me?”
“Why sure! But not now, I’ll be late to class. Perhaps we can meet here after school?”
“Yes, yes that would be great. But, well, I’m new here. I don’t really know the streets. I need to get a new notebook before class—could you walk me to a store on the way?”
“Sure! There’s one halfway there. Can you get back on your own?”
“I’ll be fine getting back.”
“Ok, it’s this way. We need to go quickly though, if I get another tardy I’ll be in for my first detention, and I’ll hear no end of it from my mother.”
“Your first detention?” I asked as our footsteps crushed the fresh snow to the pavement. Being this age without having gone to detention was unheard of at Kingston and would serve as a particularly strong bully attractant. We wore detentions like armor at Kingston.
“Why yes, my first. It’s only my second year of high school. I’m saving misbehaviour up for the end. There’s plenty of time for me to act up still.”
And as she uttered that last sentence, the feeling of death reared up so strong that I almost stopped in my tracks. I could feel how far away it was, but I could not sense the method that it would happen.
“Ten minutes,” I muttered.
“What’s that?”
“Uh, detentions at my school only lasted ten minutes,” I lied, recovering, “so they really weren’t a big deal.”
“Wow. Ours are an hour. Last week three whole people went to detention in one week, the highest this year. The teachers had to have a conference about it.”
“Really,” I said. Concentrating on conversation was becoming difficult, secondary to the elusive feeling of death. It was like a forgotten word, and no matter how hard I tried to grasp it, it evaded my thoughts from just beyond my reach.
“Well, here’s the store. And it’s really time for me to go,” she said. I needed more time.
“Wait! I need graph paper, but I can’t tell which is which since I’m blind. Can you help? I promise I’ll be quick. If you get into trouble, I’ll go to your detention for you.”
She paused, teetering on the entrance of the store before giving in.
“It doesn’t work like that. But ok. We’ll be quick.”
Five minutes.
We walked down the aisle, and I realized we were in an art store, each aisle with a new and different smell. We passed the scent of pencil shavings, then the must of clays, then the solvents of glues before arriving at the notepads in the back.
“I really don’t like this one,” I said to each notebook she passed me. “Do they have any that are leather bound?”
“How about this one,” she said, her foot tapping. “It’s fake leather.”
“I don’t know. I really want it to last.”
“It’ll have to do. I’m leaving, the cashier is at the front.”
“But I can’t count my bills! Just the other day I was cheated because I didn’t know how much my bills were worth.”
“Someone cheated you?” she said, the angst disappearing.
“They did.”
She huffed. “Alright, but then I have to go. I’ll practically be running to school at this point.”
Three minutes.
We checked out at the counter, Oakley nearly throwing my bills at the cashier. I thanked God as he dropped the change, then recounted out the coins to the penny.
Thirty seconds.
She strode to the door, throwing it open as I rushed behind her, and that was when I knew. The intuition barrelled down toward me, hurtling into my mind simultaneously like bearings from a shotgun.
Oakley hadn’t been the only person late that morning. Fifty feet down the road a man pressed the gas pedal to the floor of his car, rocketing through the one way street at twice the speed limit. He was a lawyer, late for his case, and had a reputation to protect as the best defense that money could buy. With enough cash, he could reduce murders to misdemeanors, and with his profits he had bought an engine with far more horsepower than was meant for city driving.
Twenty feet down the road, there was a puddle, or rather, there had been a puddle. But it had now frozen overnight to form a patch of ice veiled by a thin layer of snow.
And directly in front of us, there was a dark form, taller than any man, with a blackness that stood out even in my blindness. Shadows looked like daytime in comparison to its form, and it raised a hand, stretching toward Oakley. Gnarled fingers unfolded, wisps of smoke curling away from them, and I heard its slow, ragged breath.
“No!” I shouted, hurling my cane at the figure. It passed through his torso with a wisp of smoke, and I never heard it clatter down past him. But Oakley’s body was much more solid than the figure’s, and when my shoulder connected with her waist, she was lifted off the ground. Together we moved, half sprinting and half falling away.
“Put me down this—” she yelled, beating my back, but the remainder of her sentence was drowned away as the car skidded across the ice and slammed into the front of the art store. Glass shattered and metal screamed in an orchestra of destruction, the still-spinning tires whipping art supplies out into the street. As it passed, the car’s side mirror dug into my shoulder, scraping through my jack
et and into bare skin, where I felt a piece of it snap off and become lodged in my muscle.
Then, out of the blackness, for the first time since I had arrived in Philly, I saw red figures. They darted up from the sewers, down from the building tops, and even out the mouths of several onlookers. The man in the car made a sound unlike any I had heard before, his voice high pitched and strangled, and I realized it was the last noise he would ever make.
I could smell his blood, thick in the air. I could see in my mind the iron rod, once part of a tripod in the window display, that had hurtled like a javelin through his windshield before burying itself deep in his heart. And I could feel death departing as the red figures converged upon him, mounding around his body like football players at a match. Then I saw him sinking, just as my stepfather had done, the figures dragging him into the earth.
“My God,” said Oakley, her breath coming in quick gasps. “How, how did you know? You are blind, aren’t you? This isn’t some trick?”
“I could feel it,” I said. I was tired, my mind in the same condition as it would have been after an hour of Mrs. Derundi drilling me with mental math, and the words came sluggishly.
“Through the pavement? You could feel it coming?”
I nodded, at a loss for words. There was no way for me to describe to her what had truly transpired.
“I don’t know how to thank you,” she said, and I heard her voice quivering. I still held her in my arms, and I felt a tear splash onto my hand. “Sorry, I’m just a bit shaken up. Really, I don’t know what to think of this.”
“Don’t think anything of it. Now go. And don’t look in the car. He’s not in very good condition.”
“Shouldn’t we help?”
“We can’t now,” I said, and I heard sirens in the distance. “Go on, I’ll talk to the police.”
It was a form of communication I was becoming accustomed to.
“Well, thanks. I don’t know how you did it, but thanks.”
I let her go and stood, then helped her to her feet. She shouldered her backpack, kissed me on the cheek with a peck that made words dry in my mouth, then nearly sprinted down the block.
Eden's Eye (The Gates Book 1) Page 6