Things Not Seen (6 page)

L
ast year our world history teacher told us how the ancient Greeks used to go into battle naked. Fighting with swords and shields and spears. Naked. And how they used to hold their athletic contests naked. Running and wrestling and throwing the discus. Naked.

Tough guys.

Tougher than I am.

Walking west toward the university, I miss my clothes. And not just the warmth, not just because it's only about 65 and the breeze is picking up. I miss the feeling of protection.

But I think that maybe I get what the Greeks were up to. Because being naked outside, out here on the battlefield, it's like I've never been this charged up, this alert, this ready for anything. There's no chance I'm going to make a mistake, because I've got no armor. There's only this thin layer of naked skin holding my life inside it, so am I going to let a sword or a spear or some kid on a skateboard take me out? No way.

And if I have to run a marathon or jump onto a brick wall to get out of the way of some girl in spandex on a mountain bike, why should I carry a single ounce of extra weight?

Those Greek generals weren't stupid. Want your warriors and runners to be fast? Want 'em to fight like crazy and be extra careful and completely awake all the time? All you have to do is take away their clothes.

Yeah, so I'm thinking deep thoughts. But mostly I'm having fun. Because after three days of building a prison around my head, I'm out on the town. I'm a free man. Me and John Wayne, we're men of action.

In real life, no one looks at anyone else very long. I can always tell if someone is looking at me. Most people can, I think. Because when someone does look at you, and you notice it, you look back at them, and they look away, right? Especially strangers. I could never be on one of those reality TV shows where a camera keeps staring and staring, watching everything I do.

But today I can stare at people as long as I want to. Bobby, the Human Hidden Camera. Up close and personal.

Like this guy who's walking the same direction I am. He's about eighteen, and he's got on baggy blue jeans and a snowboard sweater and a beanie, and I'm watching him. When some other kids come toward us, he gets this look on his face, very cool, very into his own head. He swings his shoulders, and he bobs his chin up and down. When the kids are past us, the dudewalk stops, switched off. Then the kid scratches his head, picks his nose, wipes the booger onto his jeans, and takes a kick at a pigeon on the sidewalk. Because no one is looking. Except a lone Greek warrior.

I feel like I'm hurrying, and then I know why. In the back of my mind I've known since the second I left my house. It's because I'm at Fifty-ninth and Kenwood, and the timer in my head tells me that classes at the lab school are just about over for the day and, if I hurry, I can go stand out front and see what's happening.

Turns out it's a fairly dangerous idea, because I'm in front of the entrance at dismissal, and there's no place to keep out of the way. Four doors are draining straight at me with about three hundred kids streaming down the steps and across the lawns, headed for the cars and buses and sidewalks that take them home. Three days ago I was right in the middle of the herd. It's hard enough to keep from getting trampled when everyone can actually see you, so I scramble to one side and use a bike rack as a safety zone. I lean backward, but only for a second. The metal bars feel like icicles against the backs of my thighs.

I spot Kenny Temple, and I smile because I know he's saying something funny. He's always funny. He's talking with Jay Bender, and they're laughing and shoving each other. Kenny's got his backpack over one shoulder and his jacket's open, flapping. He's got his sax case in his right hand, and that big red book in his left hand. It's the fiftieth-anniversary edition of
The Lord of the Rings
. Kenny hasn't let it out of his sight since he got it for his birthday three weeks ago. The best part is that the book comes with a full set of maps.

Then Kenny's onto his bus, and the kids keep coming. A gang of sophomore girls, the popular ones. Maya, Leslie, Carol, Jessica, and three or four others whose names I've never learned. Because what would be the point of that? I know Jessica from my honors biology class. But she doesn't know me.

The girls glide down the front steps like a unit, like airplanes in formation. Jessica's the wing leader, tossing her head, lips curled in a smile. The others take their cues from her. Jessica's talking, and the squadron is listening. They're listening like Jessica is telling them the secrets of the universe, those funny, clever, precious secrets, the secrets that make them the chosen ones. And I'm not the only guy—or girl—looking at them. And they know it.

But I turn away. Because I am a Greek warrior, and they are beneath my notice.

My eyes are pulled back to the steps. Right behind the girls come the soccer gods. In Texas it was the football. At the lab school it's the soccer. Season's been over for months, but not the swaggering. That lasts all year. I could easily step out and trip Josh Ackerly, see him stumble and sprawl down the steps. But why should a great warrior stoop to even notice such a pathetic creature? Besides, watching Josh fall might make me laugh out loud, and I have taken a vow of silence.

The traffic thins, and a few teachers mill around the doors. Dr. Lane. Mrs. Berg. Mr. Kaplan. And then the buses pull away, and the flow trickles down to a few stragglers.

Show's over. School's out.

I've been standing still too long. Now the warrior is cold. I'm tempted to go inside and warm up, but I know I wouldn't feel comfortable in there. Still, it would be fun to find Mr. Stojis, maybe do a little floating trumpet act for him down in the band room, see if he wants to work it into the program for the spring jazz concert.

But Mr. Stojis will have to wait. I have other things to do. Like keep my feet from freezing out here on the battlefield. If I go a few more blocks, I can relax in a place where I always feel at home, a place with no gray linoleum on the floor, a place that won't smell like cafeteria food.

So I double-time it toward the big university library. I need to walk on warm carpet for a while. If the ancient Greeks had lived next to Lake Michigan instead of the Mediterranean Sea, maybe they'd have reconsidered the nakedness thing.

Walt's at the check-in desk again, but he has no authority over me today. Warriors don't ask permission. I march past his guard post, hidden behind my shield.

Warmth. Heat is a good thing. Cold makes it impossible to relax. Cold plus naked is even worse. But this, this is nice. Cozy and bright. And clean, soft carpets. No broken glass to step around, no dog poop, no half-melted slush.

I burst into the stairwell, and I feel like I'm flying, running up the stairs two at a time. It's like this body I can't see weighs nothing. And I know where I'm going. To the third floor. The perfect place, a little fortress where a soldier can get some R & R. I'm headed for one of those soundproof listening rooms. I should be able to smuggle a good CD into one of those rooms somehow. How tough could it be? A CD isn't that big, right? Maybe hide one under my arm? Then I can block the door and settle into a big soft chair and listen to Miles Davis while my feet thaw out. There are four rooms. All I need is one.

There's a study group in the first listening room, five serious people, grim. I'm thinking they're in law school, maybe pre-med. In the second room a guy holding an orchestra baton is facing the wall opposite the door. He's on his feet, swaying with the music, conducting with all his might. Two people are pacing around in the third room, a man and a woman practicing a theater scene. Very dramatic.

The last room is being used too. But it's just one person, and she's only using a laptop. I feel like pounding on the door and yelling, “Hey, this is a
listening
room, sister. You can tap on that thing anywhere, so beat it!” And I'm about to turn away when I recognize her.

And I pause, and I gulp, and I tap on the door softly and then step inside the room quickly and shut the door behind me.

Because I know this girl, and I'm feeling brave right now. Brave enough to break my vow of silence.

That's because the girl tapping on the laptop is the girl I met on Tuesday. It's the blind girl.

T
he girl is startled, and so am I. Because she's not just typing on her laptop. I didn't see the slim tape recorder on the table next to her computer, and a man's voice is speaking:

I know those names. She's listening to an audiobook. She's reading.

My hand is still on the doorknob. She's turned toward me in her chair, her face a mix of curiosity and concern.

I could still back out. I could turn around and go silently out of the room and she'd never know it was me.

But it's been three days since I've talked to anyone except Mom and Dad. And Mrs. Trent and Dr. Fleming. And a couple of cabdrivers. So basically, it's been three days with no human contact.

She says, “Hello?…” And it strikes me that she's easily the prettiest girl who's said hello to me in at least two years.

So I try to sound normal—as normal as a naked guy can sound—and I say, “Hi, I'm…I'm sorry to barge in, but I saw you, and…and I wanted to say hi.” Her head tilts a little to one side, and her hair falls away from one cheek. “You don't really know me, but I'm the guy—”

She nods, smiling a little. “The guy who ran into me down by the entrance on Tuesday, right? I remember your voice. You made a strong first impression.” Bigger smile now. A sense of humor.

“Yeah, I'm really sorry about that…and that I had to run off too, but I was late for something.”

She shrugs, still smiling. “No big deal. I'm usually the one who bumps into things. It was a nice change.”

I don't know what else to say, and neither does she. The tape recorder is still talking, like a third person trying to keep the conversation alive. I notice her hands, long fingers, sensitive, never completely still. As if she can tell I'm looking at her hands, she stirs, feels around a little, pushes a button, and the voice stops.

In the quiet I say, “
The Scarlet Letter
, right? We read that first semester. How do you like it?”

She wrinkles her nose and shakes her head. “Too slow for me. I like books with more action.”

“Yeah, me too.”

And we're stuck again. I'm starting to wish I hadn't opened her door. “So, do you come and study here a lot?”

She nods. “I've got this room reserved four times a week. I live pretty close. A couple hours here is better than being stranded at home all the time.”

“So you don't really go to school, like not every day?”

“Like never. I take correspondence courses. Independent study.”

“Through the U of C? So you can use the library and stuff?”

She shakes her head again. “I've got an ID because my dad teaches here. I take courses from a special school up on the North Shore.”

“Your dad teaches here? So does my mom.” Something safe to talk about. Lame, but safe. “She's into English literature. What's your dad teach?”

“Astronomy mostly, and some math.” She does the nose wrinkle again. “He's pretty much of a nerd.”

So we could also talk about our dads, try to figure out which one is nerdier. Except before I stop to think, I hear myself asking, “How long have you been blind?” Right away her smile freezes and she gets this half-confused look on her face, and she starts to turn red. I can't tell if she's mad or embarrassed. So I try to back off. “I mean, like I'm not trying to get personal, but I just wondered…because I really don't know anyone who's blind, and I was just—”

“Curious?” she says, and her right eyebrow lifts up. “You were curious about the little blind girl?” There's an edge to her voice. Not angry exactly. More like sarcastic and a little amused, like she can tell I'm embarrassed now, so she's messing with me. “It's all right,” she says. “I can talk about it. I've only been blind for about two years.”

“Was it an accident or something?”

“An accident? An accident, you mean, like as opposed to maybe I made myself blind on purpose, maybe by poking myself with a sharp pencil? Or, like a pot of acid blew up in science class—that kind of accident? Is that what you mean?” Definitely sarcastic now.

I put my hands up like I'm backing off. Which is stupid twice—first, because I'm invisible, and second, because even if I wasn't, she's blind. But I put my hands up anyway and say, “Hey. It's okay. You don't want to talk, I'll just go away. Really. Didn't mean to bother, didn't mean to take you away from your wonderful novel.” Sarcasm is a lot more fun to give than receive.

Then I say, “So long,” and I turn and open the door, and I'm gone, pulling the door shut with a thump. Because who needs this? And besides, my feet aren't cold anymore.

I'm about five steps away when her door opens behind me, and she says, “Hey…can you come back?”

Six or seven students turn to look, some sitting at terminals and some studying at tables by the windows. They're trying to figure out who the girl's talking to. I walk back quickly, and when I'm close, I use a library whisper and I say, “Okay.”

She turns and sits down at the table again. I shut the door and take a look at our audience of students. They don't have time to worry about some girl who calls out to no one and then closes her door again. Midterms are coming. They go back to work.

I'd like to sit down, but I'm not sure I want to plant my bare bottom on some public piece of university property. I solve the problem by pulling out a chair, folding my right leg onto it, and then sitting on my leg.

When she hears me sit down, she aims a sheepish smile my way and says, “Sorry. I didn't mean to—”

“No,” I say, “really, it's my fault. I didn't mean to be nosy. You don't even know me. I shouldn't have asked that. I…I've been on my own a lot for the last couple of days, so I've been doing a lot of thinking, and it's like I've forgotten how to talk to people. So when I thought that question, I just kind of said it right out loud. I mean, like, a week ago, I probably wouldn't have even said hi. So you've got nothing to be sorry about.”

There are so many different kinds of smiles. This one she smiles at me is a new one. It's warm, but there's tons of other stuff behind it. Like sadness. And loneliness. A lot of loneliness, I think.

And she says, “What do you mean, about being on your own a lot?”

I start carefully. “You know on Tuesday, like, a couple of hours after I ran into you at the library? My parents got in a car wreck, and they're going to be okay, but they're still in the hospital.”

She's got a great face, the kind where what she's feeling is right there. And it's okay to just keep staring at her, because she can't see me—I mean, like even if I could be seen. But it's not like watching that guy on the street, because this girl knows I'm here. She knows I exist. And she must know I'm looking at her face. It's a face worth memorizing.

Her eyebrows come together. “And you're staying at home by yourself? Your parents said that was okay?”

“Yeah. It's sort of complicated, but that's the way it's been.”

“So you just take a bus to school?”

“I've been at home.”

“Sick?”

“Not really, just not ready to face school right now.” I'm ready to stop talking about me. “So, do you like the correspondence course thing? Sounds pretty nice, I mean, not going to school and all.”

She gives this funny little snort. “The only reason it sounds good is because you're not locked into it. I don't have any choice.” She pauses, then decides to keep talking. “I called you back because no one ever asks me about being blind or how it happened or anything. Most people just try to avoid me, especially other kids. It's like they pretend not to notice. So when you asked that, it was a surprise. And it doesn't take much to get me feeling sorry for myself—it happens in a second. And then I get mad.”

“And don't forget sarcastic.”

She grins and almost laughs. “Right. And sarcastic.”

A beeping sound fills the small room, coming from the laptop. Then this demented-sounding voice says, “Three-fifty-five
P.M
.”

She smiles. “That's Albert. He lives in my computer. I've got to be out of here in five minutes.” She pauses again, thoughts running across her face. Then, “Are you going home soon? Because I've got to head home, but if you're going to leave soon, we could walk a little. It's a pretty nice day outside.”

So I say, “Sure, let's go.”

In two minutes her laptop and tape player are packed away. She puts on her coat and backpack and picks up her long white cane.

And we're on the move.