Blind Spot (2 page)

After my optometrist rechecked my glasses’ prescription and found nothing wrong, everyone figured it must be some mental problem, a learning disability, whatever. They ran me through tons of tests, finding nothing. Then in the middle of eighth grade, Mom suddenly thought to mention that my dad can’t drive because of some eye disease. Something
I
didn’t even know. I saw an ophthalmologist and voilà! They got their diagnosis: macular degeneration. And I got my label: disabled.

Don’t get me wrong. With Mom dating anyone who checked out her ass and Dad chasing UFOs across the country instead of hanging out with me, I’d had my share of labels before that. But “Broken Family,” “Single Mom,” “Absent Dad,” no matter what the teachers tagged me with, it didn’t matter; half the class had them too. Disabled, however, opened a whole can of labels that stripped me of my identity. I went from Roswell Hart with straight As and a permanent spot on the honor roll to Legally Blind, Visually Impaired Roswell Hart, a Disabled student with an IEP.

“Look,” I said, fighting the urge to “sweetie” her back, “I have bad vision, but my life skills are just fine.”

“Your parents can speak with us about it. But until then, the only change I can make is to place you in another Life Skills class.” She looked behind me. “Next!”

The first bell rang. There was an instant swarm as I entered the hallway, and then I was left alone with only a few stragglers. A frustrated scream thrashed around inside me, clawing at my ribs. I didn’t want to go to that class, that black hole the school was shoving me toward. But what could I do? The school had made that decision for me. The class was on my schedule, a requirement now for losers with labels.

My legs carried me back toward the Special Education hallway, but my body was rejecting the situation. Bile crawled up the sides of my stomach, and I struggled to keep my breakfast down. When I reached the hallway outside Life Skills, I flung open the bathroom door and barely made it into a stall before the vomit broke free. Chunks hit the gray linoleum with a splattering slap.

“Classy.” Cape-girl hung over the stall wall above me. “Is this a first-day thing, or are you bulimic or something?”

“Huh?”

“The puke. You do it to stay skinny?”

Before I could answer, she’d disappeared. Her high heels click-clacked on the tile outside, and then she shoved my door open, a handful of paper towels in her hand. “God, that is rancid! What did you eat for breakfast?” She covered her nose and tossed the brown paper on top of the half-digested shrimp swimming in a salmon-colored sea. Clutching her cloak with one hand, she pushed the towels around with the toe of her thigh-high black leather boot. “I puked at school once,” she said, still holding her hand over her nose. “Jimmy Benson shared his fifth of vodka with me during gym.” She turned smoothly on her toes and went back to the stall next door. “You coming? Or you gonna stay in here with your puke?”

I should’ve washed my face, recentered myself, and moseyed into that hellhole of a class. But something about her fascinated me. I couldn’t tear my eyes away. The cloak suggested some out-of-touch lost soul, but she sure didn’t talk that way. Like an alien abductee caught in a tractor beam, I followed her.

“I’m Tricia,” she said. Her butt rested on the railing, feet balanced on the toilet lid, hiked-up cloak revealing a red vinyl miniskirt. She slipped a thin, home-rolled cigarette from her cloak pocket and flicked her lighter until an orange flame lapped at the paper. She sucked in as she lit it, holding the smoke in her lungs before exhaling. “Want some?”

“Is that weed?” I waved the smoke away and glanced up at the ceiling, expecting a sprinkler or smoke alarm to go off at any moment.

Tricia smiled. “Don’t worry. No one except Rodney will come looking in here, and he and I are like this.” She crossed her fingers.

“Rodney?”
Could I get high sitting here?
I tried not to breathe.

“Mr. Dellian. Mr. D. The SPED teacher? He’s also the hockey coach. Makes for some hot teacher aides.” Tricia took another long drag. “It’s all legal anyway,” she said, holding in her breath. “I use it for medicinal purposes.” She grinned and let her breath out again. “I have a prescription and everything.”

“You have a prescription for pot?” I breathed into my sweatshirt collar. “Why?”

Tricia’s dark, outlined eyes bore into me as she took another drag. The end of the joint flared a bright orange. Its thin paper crackled in the silence.

I no longer wanted an answer, just out. I reached for the stall door.

“They stuck you in Life Skills too, huh?” Her voice startled my hand from the door. “So, what’s your poison?”

I turned, frowning. “My what?”

“Poison, you know, learning disabled, physically challenged, or, my personal favorite”—she gave an evil grin—“severely emotionally disturbed.”

“I don’t—” Okay, so I did. But she didn’t need to know it. “It’s a mistake.”

“Sure it is.” She blew smoke in my face and jumped off the railing. “If you plan on hiding out in here, don’t. Since Renny’s suicide, Rodney’s been pretty hot and heavy about this Life Skills class.”

“Renny?”

She glared at me. “The Down syndrome kid?” She jammed the lit end of the joint against her palm, barely flinching as the butt burned her flesh. “We’re late. Tell him you got lost. He’ll let it slide.”

When we reached the door, Tricia yelled, “Found her!” and yanked me into the classroom. “She was ditching in the bathroom.”

“No, I wasn’t!” Her betrayal didn’t shock me; after all, she was a pot-smoking SPED student in a cloak. How smoothly she pivoted from ally to prosecutor, however, did. “I . . . got lost.”

“Sure,” Tricia said. “That’s why you were outside before the bell rang.” She flopped down in Mr. Dellian’s chair and put her feet up on his desk, not bothering to cross them. “You should give her detention.”

“Thank you, Tricia. I can handle this myself.” He turned to me. “Life Skills is not a blow-off class. I won’t tolerate tardiness and unexcused absences. Understood?”

So much for peace, love, and understanding. It probably wasn’t the best time to tell him I didn’t belong in there. But like an idiot, I gave it a try. “Yeah, but I’m not even supposed to be in here.” I darted my eyes up to his face briefly and then looked at the ground. “I told Mr. Villanari last year. I don’t need any help.”

“Mr. Villanari is no longer in charge of your IEP. I am. And I think you need this class.”

The tone in his voice told me I’d struck a nerve, but I couldn’t let it go. I had to make him see that I wasn’t like Tricia and the others. “Mr. Dellian, I get your reason for this class and all, but I don’t belong in here. I’m not like”—I gestured at the class—
“them.”
I focused on Dellian’s shoulder. “I’m totally normal, and I swear, I’m not suicidal.”

The muscles in Dellian’s arm flexed. “Normal? You think these kids aren’t normal?”

“No! I—” I stopped. The class was dead silent. I didn’t need Tricia to tell me I’d said too much.

She did anyway.

“Smooth. Even Asperger’s over there has better social etiquette. Think I know your poison now. Mental retardation?”

“Enough!” Mr. Dellian growled at Tricia, and then looked at me. “You’re in here because I say you’re in here. Now sit!” He glanced back at Tricia. “Both of you.”

I had no desire to be near the now pissed-off Mr. Dellian, nor by the freak-show named Tricia. Besides, what could I possibly need to see on the board? So I headed to the back of the room.

The short girl held out a plastic container as I went by. “Cookie?”

“Don’t give her one, Ruth,” Tricia said. “She’s a puker.”

“Tricia,” Mr. Dellian said with a sigh. “Please, find a seat.”

“No, no. Stay there. I like that view!” A guy in jeans and a hockey jersey walked into the classroom. “Thong or bikini?”

Tricia’s voice took on a seductive tone. “Maybe neither.”

The newcomer handed Mr. Dellian a stack of papers. “There was a traffic jam at the copier.” He took a cookie from Ruth. “Mmmm, chocolate,” he said, then nodded his head toward me and grinned.

My heart stopped. Jonathan Webb. A senior and a huge hockey star; everyone called him Zeus, the lightning-fast god of the ice.

“Class,” Dellian said as he set the papers on his desk, “Jonathan will be my aide this semester.”

I almost laughed out loud. Missy would die to be in a class with Jonathan—well maybe not this particular class, but still. She’d been crushing on him since the summer before freshman year. He lived a few blocks away from me, though I’m sure he didn’t know that. Missy and I used to ride our bikes by his house, hoping to see him. Sometimes he’d be outside washing his cherry-red Corvette. We spent hours planning ways to cross his path—a flat bike tire, a lost dog, a twisted knee—each time victims in need of saving. We always chickened out, though. Neither of us had ever spoken to him.

“While we’re making introductions”—Mr. Dellian walked to the slumped-over guy who’d been humming and rocking earlier—“most of you know Bart, and over there—” He pointed at the girl with the cookies. She grinned at me. “I’m Ruth.”

“JJ,” the guy in the wheelchair said.

“Roz,” I said.

“No!” The dude wearing an oversize cowboy hat at the front of my row whipped around and glared at me. “It’s
my
turn.” He faced forward again. “I’m Jeffrey.”

“She probably couldn’t see over that hat,” Tricia said.

“I could too!” I snapped, realizing, as I did, that she was teasing him, not me.

“It’s my Indiana Jones hat.” He turned back around. “Do you like Harrison Ford? I have all his movies. You could come see my collection.”

“Aah, retards in love,” Tricia said. “When’s the wedding?”

“T.” Mr. Dellian lowered his voice and moved in front of Tricia. “Take a seat.”

Tricia let her legs fall, one by one, to the floor. She strolled to the back of the room, lingering too long as she passed Jonathan, and then dragged a desk across the floor and pushed it against mine. “This better?”

I scooted away, but she followed with a sadistic smile. I surrendered and slid my butt to the edge of my seat instead.

“There seems to be some misconception about this class. So let me explain.” Even as I stared at my desktop, I knew Mr. Dellian was looking at me. “Sometimes academic classes alone cannot prepare you for the world outside, especially if you have a physical, emotional, or intellectual disability hindering your success.”

My ears began to burn. It was bad enough sitting there in that class. But in front of Jonathan? How humiliating.

“Except for Bart, all of you take classes with the rest of the school, and this can be tough sometimes. If you’re not prepared to interact with others who don’t understand your unique needs, the stress can be overwhelming, as it was for Renny. Renny was having trouble, and no one knew it because he was refusing help. It’s hard to admit to yourself sometimes that you are overwhelmed and need help. That’s what I hope to teach you in this class: How to recognize that you need help and how to—” Dellian sighed as the bell cut him off.

I couldn’t escape fast enough. I leaped forward, reaching the door at the same time as Jonathan. He smiled and gestured for me to go in front of him. “After you.”

Funny. I never liked Jonathan. Not like Missy. But that simple interaction sent my mind reeling.
Do I laugh? Smile? Say something clever? But that would all mean making eye contact. What if he thinks I’m looking behind him? Not interested? Blowing him off?
I’d almost decided to smile and just look at the ground, act shy, when Mr. Dellian zapped me back to earth.

“Miss Hart, you should be sitting up front.”

I stole a glance at Jonathan from the corner of my eye. He’d paused, as if waiting for me. “I’m fine back there.”

“Are you?” Dellian stepped backwards to let JJ wheel by. “I distinctly remember Mr. Villanari telling me the only accommodation you admit needing is a seat up front.”

I wanted to disappear, meld into the cement wall and fail to exist. It was as if Dellian was suddenly bent on proving I was a freak. “Whatever,” I muttered and sped out without looking back.

The rest of the day sucked like that too. Missy was in most of my classes, just as we’d planned last spring. She made it obvious I was invisible. Whatever. I listened to music until each class started. Earphones make it easy to pretend you don’t care.

Sixth hour, AP History, was supposed to be my highlight, though. It wasn’t the subject. I’d rather read about Sasquatch or the search for alien life forms than about dead presidents. It was what it represented. A junior course; only a handful of sophomores were allowed to test in. Missy squeaked by with the minimum score. But I smoked that test, not a single point missed, and I even refused the extra time they offered so I wouldn’t be accused of “special” treatment. Missy had always been the perfect one, the popular one, the pretty one. Acing the test meant I was the smart one.

Now, however, AP History meant more than a simple victory in a jealous rivalry; it was the sole representation of the real me. Being in that AP class validated me. It justified my belief that I did not belong in a special education class. I was AP History material, and I’d clung all day to the idea that AP History was my salvation. It would deliver me from evil.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t deliverance. It was the doorway to another level of Hell.

Sixth hour started with my usual level of frustration. I’d misplaced my map and spilled water on my schedule. To make a long story short, I was still trying to decipher the room number well after the bell had rung. It was 200, 203, or 208. Through a process of elimination, I finally found it—but class had been in session for at least fifteen minutes already. I opened the door, heard the teacher’s voice, and froze.

“Well, Miss Hart? Are you joining us?”

“I’m looking for AP History?”

“And you found it.”

“But . . .” I frowned. “Why are you here?”

“I could ask you the same question,” Mr. Dellian said. “Once again, you’re wasting my class time. If you are staying, take a seat.”

I’m sure my mouth dropped open; I was so shocked and infuriated, I think I even forgot to breathe. I know I forgot to sit. I just stood there and stared at him. Dellian was my AP teacher? How had I missed that? This was supposed to be my salvation! My chance to prove I didn’t belong in Special Ed. I wanted an AP teacher, not the SPED teacher,
my
SPED teacher.