Things Not Seen (7 page)

F
irst comes the elevator test. We get on at the third floor of the library with two other people, and then four more students with enormous backpacks pile in at the second floor. It could get very bad—people crushing my feet, shoving me into the walls, discovering the alien in their midst, screaming, freaking out.

But none of that happens. Everyone jams onto the far side of the elevator, and no one says a word. And I can see it's because this girl's long white cane is like a magic wand. She holds it in front of her, almost vertical to take up less room, her fingers on it like it's a long pencil, and it comes up almost to her nose. No one wants to bump into the blind girl. So her cane is why I pass the elevator test so easily. Plus, it's a short ride to the first floor.

We go past security, and there's Walt. He sees the girl and says, “Hey, Alicia. How's it goin'?”

She smiles and says, “Fine. See you tomorrow.” We don't slow down. And now I know her name. Alicia.

I feel awkward. I don't know if I should offer to guide her or what. She holds her cane out ahead of her, sweeping it back and forth like radar. When it touches the door, she stops.

Softly, I say, “I'll get that,” and she waits while I push it open, and then she's off again, out and down the steps to the pavement.

I know she must have traveled this route a lot of times, but the way she steps ahead is still pretty amazing. So I say, “You get around by yourself really well.”

She gives me a thin smile and says, “Yeah, and if I work extra hard for another ten years or so, I'll be able to go places about as easily as your average six-year-old on crutches. So
that's
something to look forward to, right?” Then her smile warms up. “Oops. More sarcasm.”

We're facing the street in front of the library entrance. She stops and brings the cane straight up in front of her. She points west and says, “I live about four blocks that way. How about you?” And she smiles. I'm not a hundred percent sure, but I think she'd like to keep talking.

I start carefully. “I live south and east of here…but I could take a little detour. Four blocks isn't so far.” Which isn't exactly true. It's at least five degrees colder now, and the breeze has shifted. It's coming in off the lake. I'm cold, but I have shifted back to Greek warrior mode. What's a little discomfort to one such as I?

She says, “That's great,” then she puts out her right hand toward me. “Here, let me hold on to your elbow. That way we can walk closer to your speed instead of mine. You can be my eyes for a few blocks, okay?”

Okay? No. It's not okay. You see, I've got no clothes on, and you're a girl who wants to hold my arm and go for a stroll along Fifty-seventh Street
.

But I can't say that. If I say “No, thanks,” then it'll be like I think she's a leper or something, and it'll hurt her feelings—which seems easy to do.

So I take half a step closer, and I stick out my elbow and bring it to her hand, which is not so easy when you can't see your own arm. She takes hold lightly, and we start walking west. I have to shorten my stride because I'm taller.

I'd like to just walk along and talk with her, but there are other people on the sidewalks, too much else to deal with. But when we get away from the library, there are fewer people, and there's also traffic noise, so I'm not afraid to talk. Plus, she's right about people avoiding her. No one walks near her, no one even looks at her for more than a second.

“So I heard Walt call you Alicia back there. Nice name.”

She says, “Thanks. What's yours?”

“Bobby. Bobby Phillips.”

I stink at small talk. We walk along, just walking, and that's fine because a guy and a girl come up right behind us, and then they split and go past on either side of us when we're almost to Ellis Avenue. The guy is on my side, and I'm ready to dodge him if he starts to plow into my space, but he sees Alicia's white cane and makes a wide arc to my right. Saved again by the magic wand.

Then I say, “So, if you're doing this walk alone, you're listening to the traffic, right? To tell when the lights have changed?”

She nods. “Yeah, and the sounds let me know how close I'm getting to the corner too. That helps if you have to be ready for a step down. But I know this route really well, and all the curbs have wheelchair cuts. Those are good for me too.”

And then we're at the corner, and the light has changed, and we're halfway across the street.

Then, trouble.

Whipping up the opposite sidewalk from behind the parked cars, it's a boy, and he's kicking along on a little silver scooter. He's about twelve, and he's got some control problems with the thing, and he's got his head down and he can't see us because his helmet has a visor. And he's really moving.

I shout, “Hey!” and he looks up, but he's not stopping, so I grab Alicia's arm and pull her to the right just in time to keep her from getting nailed. And as I pull her out of the way, she lets go of my elbow and puts her hand out to catch herself.

The kid shouts “‘Hey' yourself, lady!” and flips us the bird as he zooms off along the sidewalk.

So we make it to the other curb, and we're not dead, and nobody's too near, so I say, “Close call…sorry about that. Some kid on a scooter. You all right?”

And I look at her face, and she's not all right, not at all. There's a look on her face, a little scared, partly confused, partly something else. Like disgusted. And I know why. Because when I yanked her off balance and she put her hand out, her open hand went right up against my rib cage, almost into my left armpit. And she knows what bare skin feels like.

“You don't have a
shirt
on?” It's not a question. She takes a half step back and says, “I mean, I thought it was weird when I took your elbow and you didn't have long sleeves or a jacket, but I just figured you were wearing a T-shirt or something because it was so warm earlier. But, like…like, even back in the
library
? How can you not have a
shirt
on in the library? And out here? It's cold now! It's
February
!”

And I can't deal with this. Not now. I can't stand here on the street corner and tell her that as weird as she thinks it is, it's actually ten times stranger than that, a hundred times stranger.

“What's going on? Talk to me. Are you there?”

I gulp. “Yeah. I'm here. But look, can I try to explain this later? Like, could I call you at home? It's not what you think.”

Her face becomes fierce, a mask, almost primitive. “It's not what I think? So now you know what I think, is that it? Believe me, you
don't
. Because right now I think that for the last half hour I've been hanging out with some strange guy with no shirt on who's probably covered with tattoos, and I bet you have some piercings and some terrific body jewelry, right? So just get away from me, Bobby Phillips—if that's even your real name. You're not the first creep to try to pick up a cute little blind girl, and I'm not stupid. I know exactly where I am. This is
my
neighborhood, and I am walking home now. Alone. And if you come near me, like if I even
think
you're near me, I'll scream. And every shop owner and everybody who lives along this street knows who I am, and they'll be out here to bust you in a second. So go! Now! Go, and let me hear you yell good-bye from the other side of the avenue. Now!”

I don't say anything because a lady is walking past us, frightened of this blind girl who seems to be yelling at no one. If I were even a little bit guilty of anything, I'd just walk away. If I hadn't told her my name, and that my mom works for the university, if she had no way to trace me, I'd just walk away. Which would be the smart thing to do. Even now. But now I'm mad too, because she has no right to yell at me. I haven't done anything wrong, I haven't lied to her. And I'm not going to. I'm
not
a creep, and I won't let her think that about me for the rest of her life.

So I say, “Go ahead. Go ahead and scream. Scream all you want. I'll stand right over here. About ten feet away. And when you're done screaming and everyone comes to help you, and they come and try to haul me away, and they can't even
find
me—right on this corner—
then
maybe I'll tell you what's really going on. Because you don't have a clue, not a clue. No one does. So go ahead and scream. Let's see what happens.”

That face of hers. It's running through about ten emotions a second. But there's one emotion taking charge. It's the fear. Like me on that first night at home. Alicia's alone in the dark, and she's afraid. And it just keeps building. She sucks in this huge breath, and I think she's really going to do it, just scream bloody murder. But she holds the breath for five seconds, ten seconds. Then she lets it hiss out slowly.

Her voice is hard and flat. “So tell me. Tell me the truth. Tell me the big secret. Tell me how come you're not some shirtless creep.” She's gripping her white cane with both hands, ready to use it like a samurai sword.

“Simple. Because I'm not just shirtless. I'm also pantsless and boxerless and sockless and shoeless. I'm not wearing any clothes at all. You wanted the truth, and I swear to God that's what I'm telling you. And if I'm telling you the truth—that I'm naked—then how come there's not a huge crowd standing around us right this minute? How come?”

She's really confused now, and even more afraid. So I say, “One possible reason a completely naked person is not drawing a crowd would be that everyone is as blind as you are. And the only other reason isn't even
possible:
That would be that no one can see me. So which do you think it is, Alicia? Is everyone around us blind, or am I…invisible?”

It's like I've just slapped her across the mouth. She comes to a full stop. Then furious, she hisses, “Very funny. Oh, look, look,” she says, her voice dripping bitterness. She jerks her hand up and holds it in front of her face and acts like she's opening her eyes extra wide. “Well, well, well—I'm
invisible
too.” Ice and granite and stainless steel. “Why don't you just take your sick humor and go away…Bobby.” She practically spits the name into my face.

Alicia doesn't know what to do. And again, I think she might just start screaming. Instead, she takes her right hand off her cane and holds it out toward me. Her hand is trembling. “Here, let me hold your hand.” Her voice is shaky now, but she sure has guts. I don't know what I'd be doing if our places were reversed—probably be screaming by now. I put my hand on her palm, and she clamps on to it. It's a powerful grip for such delicate-looking fingers. “Is anyone walking toward us?”

I scan the sidewalk. “Yeah. There's a guy just coming out of the Starbucks. He'll be here in about fifteen seconds.”

“When he's right next to us, you squeeze my hand once, okay?”

I gulp, because she's really got a grip, and if she's going to try to get this guy to call a cop or something, then I'm going to have to work to get loose. But I say, “Fine. Whatever you say.” Because I want her to know I'm not lying.

The guy is almost next to us, and I squeeze her hand.

“Excuse me, sir?” She's cute and she's good at asking for help, and the guy stops.

In a voice that's louder than it needs to be, the man says, “Yes? Can I help you, miss? Do you need to get across the street?”

My heart is jumping around in my chest, and I'm tensed, ready to cut and run. Alicia smiles at the man and says, “This guy here next to me, can you tell me if he's taller than I am? We've been having an argument because I think I'm taller than he is. What do you think?” Her hand tightens around mine.

The man is torn. He doesn't see a thing. I can tell this guy is worried that he's going to hurt this blind girl's feelings. But he clears his throat, and he says, “The guy there next to you? Miss…actually, there's no one there.”

She shakes my hand like a puppy shaking a rag. “He's right here—I'm holding his hand! Who's taller, can't you tell?” Her voice is shrill, almost frantic.

The guy doesn't like being called a liar. “Miss, whoever you thought was there next to you, he's not there now. And I've got to go before the light changes.” And he cuts across Fifty-seventh Street, glancing back once, shaking his head.

And now there's a new look on her face. New for Alicia. But I've seen it before. On Mom's and Dad's faces that first morning. It's the look of someone who's trying to process impossible information.

Because when something impossible happens, everything else comes unglued.

She's having trouble breathing. Then the first words. “So…you're, you're really—”

“Yeah,” I say. “Invisible.”

Then she finishes her sentence. “—
naked
?”