Blind Spot (3 page)

“Miss Hart,” Mr. Dellian said in a tone that was half exasperation and half boredom, “we sit in this class.”

I smelled Missy’s signature scent, lavender and vanilla, and, repulsed, moved toward the center aisle. I suppose most people can see the empty seats in a classroom right away. I can’t. Not until I’m a few feet away. And being pissed doesn’t help me focus. I realized halfway up the center that all seats were taken. I backtracked and moved up the next aisle, only to discover it too was full.

“Today, please,” Mr. Dellian said, fueling giggles from the rest of the class.

“Over here,” a voice called.

I focused on the waving arm. It was pointing at a desk up front. On my way, I passed an empty seat in the back of the same row and, desperate to sit, took it instead.

Dellian droned on and on about class expectations and assignments. I only half listened, still annoyed. “Be sure to consult your syllabus for tomorrow’s assignment,” he said as class ended. “No assignment means an F in my classroom.”

This caught my attention. “Wait, syllabus?”

“Syllabus.” Mr. Dellian repeated. “And Miss Hart? You have detention. You’re not new; you’re not a freshman. There’s no excuse for being over fifteen minutes late to my class.” He shoved a pink paper across his desk at me.

“But—” I snatched the paper from his desk. “Whatever.” I rushed out of the room and slammed full force into someone blocking the doorway.

“Sorry,” I said to the blue button-up, collared dress shirt. Its owner smelled of watermelon bubblegum. My eyes fell to the sleeve. It was the one that had waved me to a seat.

“That was my fault. Did you get a syllabus?”

“No, just detention.” I darted a quick glance up at him. He was tall, too tall, with a crazy, out-of-control mop of brown curls. That was the puzzle piece I needed. I knew him. Greg Martin. Missy’s neighbor. A junior. I’d had a crush on him until fifth grade, when he started following Missy around like a sick puppy dog. “Thought you went to that private school?”

“Trinity. I transferred. So, you remember me?”

“Hard to forget Missy’s number-one fan.” I focused on his ear. A dark blue smudge stood out on his cheek. “You’ve got something on your face.”

He rubbed at it. “Erasable ink. I get it on my hand too.” He showed me a smeared blue hand. “I hate making mistakes, and a pencil is so . . . rudimentary. What do you mean Missy’s number-one fan?”

I shrugged, perplexed at how inked-up skin could rank higher in sophistication than writing in pencil. I began walking toward the sophomore hallway.

“I haven’t seen you around Missy’s house much,” Greg said.

“We’re doing our own thing right now.” I turned toward the dead-end hallway that housed my locker. “See ya later,” I said with a wave.

But Greg hurried after me. “I can make a copy of the syllabus for you.”

“Beats asking Dellian, I guess. Thanks.” I shook my head. “I can’t believe he’s teaching that class.” I pulled up on my locker handle. Locked. I’d forgotten to leave the dial on the last number. The numbers were too small; I’d spent lunch with my face pressed up against the metal trying to get it open. I couldn’t do that blind girl thing in front of him, though. I began haphazardly guessing at the numbers.

“Is he even qualified?” Greg asked. “He’s used to mental cases and boneheads.”

“Not everyone in Special Ed is a mental case or a bonehead.” I spun the lock in frustration while I waited for him to stop talking and go.

“I meant the hockey team,” he said. “He teaches Special Ed? That’s even worse! A remedial teacher instructing an advanced placement course—that’s just wrong.” He set his books down on the floor. “Here, what’s your combo?”

It was like listening to someone insult my mom—okay for me to do, not okay for someone else. I took his comment as a direct assault and glared at him.

His face scrunched up. “What?”

But “what” would’ve required a discussion about Life Skills, Special Ed, and me. Besides, I hated confrontation. “I don’t have time for this.” I stopped spinning the dial. “I’ve got detention.”

“I’ll get you that syllabus!” he yelled as I hurried away.

“Don’t bother,” I muttered out of earshot. “I’ll get my own.”

By the time I got home from detention, I just wanted to lose myself in music. One time in sixth-grade health class we watched a movie about this girl who would cut herself. She had scabs up and down her arm. She said feeling the razor slice her skin, the sting, the rush of pain, released all the anger and pain inside her. I remember thinking,
Why doesn’t she just listen to some music?
because that’s what music was for me. My razor. The angry lyrics, thrashing chords, banging drums—they open me up and bleed for me.

I flopped onto my bed, cranked
Saliva,
and glared up at the UFO photos that line the ceiling. I can’t actually see the alleged alien aircrafts in the array of amateur shots, not unless I stand on tippy toes, face pressed against them. But I like the way my less-than-stellar vision blurs the backgrounds together into a gray-black sky. It’s like staring into my own world. One where anything is possible.

Soon I’d mellowed enough to think. The counselor said my parents could get me out of Life Skills, and since appealing to Dellian’s nonexistent soft side was out, and my dad was somewhere in New Mexico tracking UFOs, Mom was my only option. Convincing her wouldn’t be easy, especially if she had to make dinner.

I ran upstairs and tossed frozen lasagna into the oven. While it baked, I went back down to my room to work on my History assignment—made possible thanks to Greg, who had slipped a neatly folded syllabus into my locker while I was in detention.

I was just finishing when Mom opened my door. “Do you have to play that garbage so loud?”

Garbage? Please.
Mom’s musical tastes are dictated by whatever loser she’s dating—her last was a country fan. She even started wearing a cowboy hat and matching boots. Thank God they didn’t date long. Then there was that new wave punk throwback she dated. He was actually pretty cool, and I liked his music, but Mom dressed like Adam Ant the whole time. And that wasn’t cool or pretty.

“There’s lasagna baking, if you’re hungry.” I reached over to turn down the music and noticed a to-go container in her hand. “Or not.”

“Sorry, baby. I met someone at the club. Tony. He’s real nice, took me out to eat.” She checked herself out in my mirror. “So, how was school?”

I flipped my feet down onto the carpet. “They screwed up my schedule.”

“Get it straightened out?”

“You have to. You said Life Skills is a new requirement for everyone. It’s not. It’s a special education class.”

Mom leaned against the wall. “I know.”

I stared at the door frame above her head. “You let them put me in there? Why?”

“Because you never listen to anyone, always insisting on doing everything yourself, your way. That kid who killed himself? He was like that. You don’t know how to be disabled, Rozzy. They’ll teach you.”

“Teach me to be disabled? As if it’s a job? That’s ludicrous! Daddy’s lived his whole life with this eye disease. No one taught him to be disabled!”

“Maybe if they had, he wouldn’t be chasing flying saucers in an RV driven by his twenty-year-old girlfriend.”

Critical mistake, bringing Dad into it. I backpedaled. “Mom, I’m not suicidal. And I’m only bent on doing things myself because I
can.
I’ve been fending for myself long before anyone ever called me disabled.” I softened my voice. “Please, Mom? I don’t need this class.”

She gave a long, exaggerated sigh. “I’ll call tomorrow.” I shot off the bed and hugged her. “But if they say you need it, you need it. Okay?”

I’d found a way out of Hell. Unfortunately, with Mom never up before noon, I knew I’d have to endure one more day of Life Skills. I circumvented the spinning Tricia without looking at her and headed to the back of the room. Within seconds, Tricia’s desk was next to mine. She plopped down, pulled a canister of Insta-Whip from her cloak, and began squirting whipped cream into her mouth. It sounded like a dentist sucking spit from someone’s mouth.

She caught me staring at her and held out the can. “Want some?”

“No. I’m good.” I tuned in to the “academic” conversation Dellian and Jeffrey were having.

“But who would win a fight between Han Solo and Indiana Jones?” Jeffrey asked.

Mr. Dellian glanced at his watch. “Indiana Jones, I suppose, unless Han Solo used the Force.”

“No! Han Solo isn’t a Jedi,” Jeffrey said. “He can’t use the Force.”

JJ, the guy in the wheelchair, snorted at this. I couldn’t help smirking too. Even in a SPED class, Dellian was out of his league.

Dellian shrugged. “Perhaps Luke Skywalker taught it to him.”

“You can’t teach the Force!”

Jeffrey’s loud outburst startled everyone, including Dellian. We all snapped our heads up to look at him as Mr. Dellian reprimanded. “Jeffrey, enough.”

But Jeffrey wouldn’t let it go. “No! You haven’t answered me yet. Who would win, Han Solo or Indiana Jones?”

“Indiana Jones. Now, it’s time for class, Jeffrey.” Dellian turned to the rest of us. “As I was saying yesterday, this course will teach you to be self-sufficient.
Self-sufficient,
however, does not mean doing everything by yourself. To succeed, you must stand up for yourself, and that includes asking for help when you need it.” He looked at me as he said this. He probably figured since I didn’t ask him for the History syllabus, I wouldn’t have the assignment. Bet he was dying to give me an F. I couldn’t wait to see his reaction when I turned it in that afternoon.

“You’ll be assigned a partner. If your partner is having a bad day,
you’re
having a bad day. Understood?” He picked up a clipboard. The names of six students were apparently too much for him to memorize. “Because Bart has autism—”

“So do I!” Jeffrey interrupted.

“It’s not a competition, Jeffrey. Please let me finish.” I watched Bart as Mr. Dellian said this. He seemed unaware that he was being talked about. He just ate a chicken nugget, flapped his arms, ate another nugget, flapped again . . .

“Since Bart needs extra assistance,” Mr. Dellian continued, “I’ll be his partner. JJ and Jeffrey; Roz and Tricia; and our aide, Jonathan, will be your partner, Ruth.”

“Maybe you should put Ruth with Tricia?” I said. “I’m switching out of here.”

“Oh?” Dellian tilted his head. “How’s that?”

“My mom’s calling today. To say I don’t need it.”

“Well, I look forward to that conversation.” His tone made me wish I’d kept quiet. “You’re with Tricia.” He started on a new topic—a job program for the juniors and seniors.

“Guess you’re stuck with me.” Tricia squirted a massive blob into her mouth. “Careful,” she said through the whipped cream, “I bite when I’ve got the munchies.”

The rest of the day dragged on like yesterday, second verse same as the first. As I took my lunch from my locker, I smelled watermelon bubblegum and glimpsed a tall figure coming my way. So much for lunch at my locker. I slammed it shut and pretended not to notice him as I headed toward the lunchroom.

The scent stayed with me. In my peripheral vision, I saw him to my left. He said nothing while we walked down the hallway. We reached the stairs together, feet falling in perfect unison, but still, we both pretended not to notice each other.

I stifled a manic giggle. If I ducked into the bathroom, would he follow me? When we neared the cafeteria, side by side, it became too awkward. I stopped. “Hi, Greg.”

He stopped too. “Oh, hi!” he said. I tried to walk away then, but again he followed me, again saying nothing.

“Uh, thanks for the syllabus?” I tried.

That worked. Too well. “So you got it, then? Good, I worried I had the wrong locker.” He bobbed his head, his mop more unruly than yesterday. “I was fairly confident it was the correct locker.”

The area outside the cafeteria smelled like a perfume counter. And it was loud. Chatter echoed off the walls. Groups clogged the pathway. I hesitated a few yards from the entrance. Missy had to be at the center of one of those clusters. I should’ve grabbed my ear buds so I could look unbothered by her popularity. Of course, I hadn’t planned on coming down here in the first place.

Greg slowed his pace too, still rambling. “I remembered there were three twos in the number, and it was in the right vicinity—”

Strong hands squeezed my shoulders from behind. “Hey, Beautiful!” Jonathan Webb draped his arm across my back.

I gave him an overly toothy grin. I couldn’t help it. He made me lose all muscle control.

“Your mom get first hour straightened out?” He smiled at some girls to the right of us and then turned his full attention back on me.

“Working on it.” I tried not to blush, but I could feel the blood in my cheeks.

“It’ll be a drag without you.” He gave my shoulders another squeeze before letting go. “See ya ’round, Rose.” As he joined the group of girls, I glanced around to see if anyone had heard his mistake.

Greg had.

Why was he here anyway? I left him standing there and pushed through the crowd into the cafeteria. I threw myself down at a nearly empty table in the back, grabbed my apple out of my bag, and ripped a bite from it.

“Hey, Fritz. Ricky,” a girl said to the guys at the end of my table. Fritz and Ricky. Two skateboarders who always wore shorts, even when it was forty-below outside. I heard the hand slaps of two high-fives, and then the girl slid in across from me. “Saw you talking to Zeus! Yummy!”

I looked up from my apple. Bright fuchsia sweater. Long raven-blue hair. Chin-length gold hoop earrings. Heather Torres. She hung on the fringe mostly, not popular, not a loser—although there was some controversy with her in fifth grade, I think. A fashionista, her every outfit was loud and dramatic, over-the-top, and truly out of place in Birch, Alaska, where fashion trends are a full year behind the rest of the world. I’d always admired that about her. She stood out and didn’t care. “Yeah, yum.” I rolled my eyes. “He can’t even get my name right.”

“No?” She stuck her lip out in a sympathetic pout. “Well, he did have his arm around you, so there’s that. And Missy. Was. So. Green.” She gave me a smile that said she knew the score between me and my ex-BFF. “Rona was all ‘Helen Keller and Zeus? Not gonna happen, Missy. Not gonna happen.’ But Missy thought it was happening.” She stuck her hand out for a high-five. “Totally worth it?”