Things That Are (retail)

by Andrew Clements

  And me, the blind girl? I was the one who actually made the connection that helped Bobby readjust his body. And I also helped him find some courage. Because stepping into the unknown is always a risk.

  So, yes, the blind girl saved the day. In my docudrama of life on earth.

  But I didn’t use physics. Or math. Or spectroscopic analysis.

  I used intuition. I used insight. I used my words.

  Because, honestly, physics is not my friend. At all.

  In fact, I practically hate physics, always have—even though I can talk the talk and grasp the concepts. But I won’t give my heart to a subject that can be so harsh, so unforgiving.

  Maybe just to bother my dad.

  He would never admit it, but he was hoping for a child who would carry his own brilliance into the future.

  Didn’t happen.

  And four years ago my dislike of the p-word intensified. Because optics is a branch of physics, right? If physical laws were truly my friend, I wouldn’t have become blind. Or stayed that way.

  And then there’s the Bobby phenomenon. Because what turned him invisible that morning two years ago? My not-friend again, physics. And the problems caused by that episode are not over.

  On the other hand, if the physics hadn’t zapped him, would Bobby have bumped into me at the U of C library that day? Would we have become…friends? No, probably not.

  But we could have met some other way. Because what if…

  What if.

  I hate what-ifs almost as much as I hate physics.

  Which is logical, in an ironic sort of way. Because the study of physics is all about asking, “What if…?”

  So I guess I hate logic this morning. And irony.

  But I love sarcasm. Except I sort of hate that I love it.

  Sort of the way that I hate how Bobby and I have become such good pals. Which is a sarcastic comment.

  So many things to hate.

  And love.

  Like secrets. I love keeping secrets. Because I love to be trusted.

  Bobby trusted me with his secret. About the invisibility. That single act of trust started to pull me out of my darkness.

  We kept the invisibility a secret. And now, two years later, it’s still a secret. And with good reason.

  Bobby didn’t want to tell me about it. He didn’t want to tell anyone about the invisibility. He was afraid of being turned into a freak show, afraid of having his life taken over by some agency, afraid of being poked and probed and analyzed, afraid of the physicists and the biologists and the geneticists, afraid of the spies, afraid of governments everywhere.

  We had to face an ugly fact: There are people in this world who would actually kill to find out how to make living flesh and blood disappear and reappear at will. Because every intelligence agency, every military planner, every dictator, every terrorist group, every unstable whacko in the world would love to know how to make a human being drop out of sight. It’s a dangerous technology, the kind that can shift the balance of power and shake nations. And in the wrong hands, it would have a terrible impact.

  Because launching a fleet of invisible agents would be like making everyone else blind—to their presence, their movements, their activities. As if public safety or nuclear security or even a simple airplane trip isn’t already scary enough. As if nations don’t have a hard enough time making peace with the enemies they can actually see.

  And that’s why everyone who knows what happened to Bobby has to keep it a secret. Even now. Especially now.

  And here’s another secret: I want Bobby to come home. To me. I don’t want him in New York City for one more second. Because this girl he’s met there, Gwen? I know she’s wonderful. And strong.

  And something happened there in New York, something that made Bobby tell Gwen about the secret. The invisibility.

  Which used to be our secret, his and mine.

  For the past two years Bobby has thought of me as his girlfriend. Which is not a secret.

  But it hasn’t been completely true.

  “My girlfriend, Alicia”—that’s just been a thing Bobby could say, a convenience, a way he could avoid the pressures and the messiness of having a real girlfriend, a full-hearted relationship. “My girlfriend, Alicia” has also been how he’s avoided the feeling that he should be looking for a girlfriend. Because he’s basically a solitary person—something we have in common. And being able to say that has made him feel connected, sort of settled, I think.

  And we have felt connected. We have.

  But I haven’t been his girlfriend. I’ve been his friend who is a girl.

  Still, we’re close. And if we can just get some time to talk…Even these past three weeks when Bobby’s been in New York, even after meeting Gwen, the girl with the golden violin, the girl with poetry in her fingertips, I don’t think any of that has shaken our closeness. I’m sure of that. Even as he’s turning away and thinking ahead, even as he’s heading off for college, Bobby and I have a strong connection, something that could be even more real.

  That’s what my heart tells me.

  It feels like I’m thinking mostly of me. I can’t help it. I do think of me. Because things that affect Bobby affect me. They bump against my heart.

  And this girl Gwen? She’s probably beautiful. Because anyone who can play the violin like she does has to be pretty, or at least seem pretty.

  And I ought to slap myself for being so shallow, for being worried about what some other girl looks like. I mean, I’ve been blind for four years. I barely know what I look like anymore.

  And Bobby? I’ve never seen his face, not with my eyes.

  But his voice, the tone of his thoughts, the things he finds funny and the way he laughs, the way he sometimes slips his hand into mine, the way he leans against me when we walk, the little tunes he hums—these are things I have heard and felt and known. These are things I love.

  Which makes me sound like I’ve got a silly crush.

  It’s more than that, I know it is. And that makes me scared.

  But it’s not the new girl in Manhattan who scares me. It’s not Bobby and me graduating from high school. It’s not him going east to college and me going who-knows-where. And it’s not my blindness. None of that stuff scares me. Because I can adjust for those things. I can address those things because I can see them.

  It’s the things I can’t see. Especially the invisibility business.

  It’s stirring up again, I know it is. Why else would Bobby’s father keep dropping by? He’s come to our house a lot in the past two months, and each time my father and he have spent hours and hours out back in my dad’s study. Dr. Phillips and my dad haven’t spent that kind of time together for almost two years.

  And why did Mom and Dad go suddenly silent when I came into the kitchen for dinner yesterday?

  And when Bobby and I talked last night, why was he so vague about what happened in New York, about why he had to tell Gwen about the invisibility?

  I hate vagueness.

  And that argument Bobby was having, that conversation I heard by mistake in the middle of my dreams last night—what was that about?

  It’s like there’s this constant hum, these whispers I can’t quite hear. And I can feel these new people, these obscure threats lurking at the edges of my life, pushing in at me. And at Bobby.

  These are the things that scare me.

  And I can’t shake this feeling that everything’s at risk.

  Which is why I get so desperate for something to hold on to, something comforting, something true, something beautiful. Or someone. Like Bobby.

  Beauty is truth, truth beauty.

  John Keats wrote that, and he got it right.

  But truth is also a stone-cold killer. It kills the lies. All of them. Dead.

  And my beauty, my love, my future, my dreams? How many of them will turn out to be lies?

  “Sooner or later, reality occurs.”

  That’s a quote from Uncle Arthur, a friend of the family
, a kind old banker, a man who loved his wife and his children and his twin brother and his yacht. And during his long life he saw a lot of people try to juggle numbers and use phony accounting to avoid the truth.

  I’m not going to do that. I’m facing facts, facing reality. My reality, my life.

  Like the blindness. For me, it’s just the way things are.

  Things are.

  Are.

  Makes me sound like a pirate: Arrrr.

  That’s me, the pirate girl, black patches on both eyes.

  But I’m dealing with it.

  Because I’m not wishing or hoping or dreaming. About anything.

  I’m facing things as they are.

  “Gertie—here.”

  One short command, and she obeys instantly. Such an intelligent creature. And so loving.

  I pat her, and I hug her, and I give her way more affection than I’m supposed to. Because Gertie’s a working dog, not a pet.

  But she needs love. We both need love.

  There’s some truth. And some beauty too.

  So it’s a Thursday, and I need to eat breakfast and take a shower and let Gertie guide me to the library.

  Because I need to make some progress today, keep figuring out what life is like for me. Keep trying to see if Bobby is still part of that life.

  And as I go to the cupboard and sniff out the cinnamon bread for my toast, I wonder if it’s one of those mornings when the moon is visible.

  Because I love that, catching a glimpse of the moon during the day, hiding in the pale winter sky.

  And there it is. I see it perfectly.

  chapter 3

  voices

  I step slowly down the stairs from my front porch.

  One, two, three, four, five.

  I don’t walk down. I step. Until I get my bearings, I step as if each footfall might be my last, as if I were walking along the edge of a cliff in the dark. Because being blind can feel like that, if you let it.

  But once I’m through the gate and on the sidewalk, I turn left and I walk with purpose, left hand on Gertie’s harness handle, right hand on the brown leather bag that hangs from my shoulder.

  And to the casual observer, I’m sure I look confident enough, even self-assured. But every step is an exercise in faith. And that’s okay. I think that’s true for everyone. Being blind just makes the need for faith more obvious.

  And now I’m turning onto Fifty-fifth Street in Hyde Park, just north of the University of Chicago campus. I’m on my way to the library.

  Walking a familiar route like this always puts my mind in this quiet, listening state. I get some of my best ideas for writing on my way to the library.

  And sometimes when I’m at the library sitting in my study room, I can feel the books all around me, millions of them. And I picture myself walking among the stacks, and I choose a shelf, any shelf, and I walk along and let one hand bump along the spines. All those silent books. They keep their backs toward me. I stop and pull one from its place, feel the texture of the cover, and I open the book and smell that rich, deep scent of paper and ink and time. And if the book is old enough, and the paper is thick enough, and the letterpress pushed hard enough, I can drift a fingertip across a page and feel the tiny impressions, feel the words resting there. All those silent pages. At the library.

  And that tempts me to complain.

  But I don’t let myself think about all those silent books I can never see.

  I think about the thousands of books in Braille. And thousands more in audio—more books than I’ll ever have time to touch or hear, not if I live three lifetimes.

  So I don’t complain as I step along the inky sidewalks of Chicago, and I remember why I always love the library, no matter what. So many good reasons.

  First of all, the library is out. And out is important to me.

  Second, the library is so alive—all that reading and thinking.

  Then there’s the law: If I’m not attending my regular high school in the regular way, I have to give my advisor evidence that I’ve been doing school-like activities at school-like places. Like a library. And keeping my teachers happy is important to me.

  This library is also where I met Bobby, where we had our first conversations, our first arguments.

  And Bobby is…well, important to me.

  And brushing past his name, I feel my heart expand, feel my throat tighten.

  But I snap into real time as a gust of wind hits me full in the face, cold and gritty, and I catch a faint whiff of Lake Michigan. Which means I’m facing east. Probably.

  Gertie feels the sudden hesitation in my step and freezes, yanks me to a full stop. And as if it was my idea, I say, “Gertie—wait. Good girl.”

  I still feel the wind, and I think I still smell the lake. So that’s a puzzle.

  Because I ought to be facing south now, ought to be able to feel the sun on my face at this time of day. Unless it’s too cloudy. Which it is. Probably.

  So that means I’ve gotten turned around. Probably.

  I hate feeling lost.

  Home to the university library is a seven-block, eighteen-minute obstacle course with excellent curb cuts and dependable ice and snow removal, and I’ve walked it hundreds of times with my white cane, and dozens of times more recently with Gertie.

  Doesn’t matter. It’s still easy to get muddled, to lose my step count, to lose sight of my mental map. Especially if I start thinking about Bobby.

  Being lost is a lot better now that Gertie’s with me. At least we’re lost together. I have to keep reminding myself that the dog has absolutely no idea where we are or where we’re going. She’ll make sure I don’t walk into a tree or drop into a pothole or get crushed by a taxi. But staying on course is my job.

  I pull off my right glove and touch the watch on my left wrist. It vibrates to tell me hours and minutes. It’s eleven thirty-seven. Which means that the carillon at Rockefeller Chapel will chime in twenty-three minutes. And when I hear those bells ring out above the city sounds, I’ll know where I am again.

  But I can’t stand still that long. For one thing, it’s too cold. For another, I don’t have that kind of patience right now, and neither does Gertie. She hates standing still.

  So here on this corner that could be Fifty-fifth and Woodlawn, or Fifty-sixth and Greenwood, or Fifty-seventh and Ingleside, I need to ask for help.

  Which isn’t quite true. I never actually have to ask. I just need to change my face.

  The face I’m wearing now says, “I’m fine, and I know where I am and where I’m going, and I don’t need your pity or your help, so don’t mess with me or my dog.” It’s a semi-tough, semi-self-sufficient sort of a face, my alone-in-the-city face.

  And standing here with Gertie, feeling her shift her weight from paw to paw, eager to get moving, I realize something: When I’m out walking with Bobby, I don’t think about my face at all; I think about his. And again, my heart sighs.

  But now I need to put on my lost face: a slight frown, eyebrows bunched together, right hand up near my face with two fingers touching my chin, a trace of uncertainty in the way I stand, in the tilt of my head.

  And I start a slow count: one, two, three, four, five…

  “Need any help?”

  Five seconds—rarely takes more than ten.

  It’s a guy, young, sounds nice. Probably a college kid.

  I smile toward the voice. “Thanks. I’m a little turned around. I’m going to the Regenstein Library on Fifty-seventh, between Ellis and University.”

  “Well, this is Fifty-sixth and Ellis, and you’re aimed south toward Fifty-seventh Street, so you’re not far. I’m going right past there. Want to walk together?”

  “No, that’s all right.”

  “Really, it’s not a problem.”

  “No, I’ll be fine. Thanks again.”

  The truth is I’d rather be alone with my own thoughts. Because I can’t walk with a complete stranger in silence. I can spend hours in silence with my fr
iend Nancy, because Nancy gets it, she understands me. She always has. She’s one of the only close friends I still have from back in eighth grade, back before the blindness.

  And I can spend time being quiet with my dad too. And with Bobby.

  But with a stranger, there would have to be small talk. I’m no good at small talk. Which is another reason I like the library so much: I can be with other people, but I don’t have to talk to them. Which qualifies me as truly antisocial. And there it is again: things as they are.

  Alicia? One quick question, if you don’t mind.

  You again? I forgot you were here.

  I’m always here, Sister.

  Sad, but true. Your question?

  Don’t you think the kid was just trying to be nice? And aren’t you getting a little too comfortable being alone with your little heart-dreams? I mean, what if you were supposed to meet that boy today? What if that guy you just brushed off was destined to become your new best friend, the one person who stays close, who stays true, who cares about you your whole life?

  First of all, Miss Nosey Brain, that was four questions, not one. And second, butt out, okay? Besides, I don’t believe in destiny. Not today, not ever. What is, is; what happens, happens. Period.

  Okay, okay, no need to snarl. Just thought I’d ask. But I’ll keep watching your little drama. With deep interest.

  So kind of you.

  Don’t I know it, Sister.

  And stop calling me Sister.

  You’re in charge. Sister.

  That bossy little voice in my head has been speaking up a lot in the past few weeks. Very annoying.

  But I’m glad she doesn’t let me kid myself. And she’s so persistent. And observant.

  I mean, maybe I should believe in destiny today. Because maybe Bobby’s never coming back to me. Maybe that dream is over. Or maybe it’s dying a long, slow death.

  But my heart pushes that thought away.

  Still, I make a mental note: Be more friendly next time you get lost.

  Because I know there’ll be a next time.

  Six more minutes of walking, and I’m in the broad courtyard of the library, and I’m thinking ahead, because swinging doors plus lots of pedestrian traffic plus a dog on a harness are a challenge. And I know I’ve got about thirty steps to go when Gertie jerks me to a sudden stop. Again.