Eric Lindstrom - Not If I See You First

“True. How’s Molly?”

“Not sure yet. I’m hopeful. Probably won’t be a disaster. Ask again later.”

“Sure thing, Magic 8 Ball.”

“Okay, tell me what you know.”

It begins, our nightly recitation of what was observed and inferred throughout the day. My list is always much shorter than Sarah’s of course, since she’s the eyes of this operation and I’m the mouth, but no one can deny that when I shoot it off, it’s very well informed.

We used to be systematic, working through the day class by class, hallway by hallway; now we jump around without missing anything. She describes what people and things look like and I list times and places and describe voices and sometimes sounds and odors so she can zero in on who I’m talking about to get a visual and other info later. I tell her about D.B. from Trig because I suspect he’ll be a pain and I might need more tools to deal with him. I mention the calm voice that shut down D.B.’s heavy jock voice and how it sounded familiar yet still not anyone I knew, like how listening to someone with an accent sounds like the other person you know with that accent even though they have different voices.

During a pause where I expect Sarah to jump in, she doesn’t. I let the silence go to see how long it lasts. After a few more seconds I know something’s up.

“What?”

“I’m waiting for you to tell me about it.”

“About what?”

“You really don’t know?”

“Know what?”

“That voice? You don’t know who it was?”

“Do you? You weren’t even there.”

“Kay was. She said she was ready to hold up her math book like a shield but you were smooth as glass.”

“Kay said that? Smooth as glass? ”

“Of course not—it was Kay . She had verbal diarrhea for five minutes. Do you want to hear all that instead of my perfect three-word summary?”

“Jesus, Sarah—”

“It was Scott.”

“Scott? Scott? It didn’t sound …”

The floor vanishes. My stomach twists and I’m falling and I slap both hands on the bed and push my spine into the headboard.

“His voice changed,” she says. “Last time you heard him was in the eighth grade. He was only thirteen.”

We’d talked about how we’d know some of the immigrants from Jefferson—quirks of geography had us going to the same elementary and middle schools but different high schools. Some of them had been on my shit list before but my list is so long I wasn’t worried about a few old names reactivating. Somehow all this didn’t include realizing Scott Kilpatrick would be one of them.

“Parker?”

I grab my phone. “Gotta go.”

“Wait! Don’t hang—”

I hang up and yank the cord to pull the buds out of my ears, too fast and at a bad angle and it hurts.

Scott Kilpatrick. Biggest asshole on the planet. Absolute top of my shit list. Exclamation points. ALL CAPS.

Quack quack quack—

I switch off the ringer. My throat is closing, aching like I have a cold, and my face is getting hot.

Scott Kilpatrick. Breaker of Rule Number One. Forever subject to Rule Number Infinity.

Bzzz bzzz bzzz …

I bury the phone under my pillow.

Scott Kilpatrick. Parker Enemy Number One.

he Rules:

Rule # 1:Don’t deceive me. Ever. Especially using my blindness. Especially in public.

Rule # 2:Don’t touch me without asking or warning me. I can’t see it coming, I will always be surprised, and I will probably hurt you.

Rule # 3:Don’t touch my cane or any of my stuff. I need everything to be exactly where I left it. Obviously.

Rule # 4:Don’t help me unless I ask. Otherwise you’re just getting in my way or bothering me.

Rule # 5:Don’t talk extra loud to me. I’m not deaf. You’d be surprised how often this happens. If you’re not surprised, you ought to be.

Rule # 6:Don’t talk to people I’m with like they’re my handlers. And yes, this also happens all the time.

Rule # 7:Don’t speak for me, either. Not to anyone, not even your own friends or your kids. Remember, you’re not my handler.

Rule # 8:Don’t treat me like I’m stupid or a child. Blind doesn’t mean brain damaged, so don’t speak slowly or use small words. Do I really have to explain this?

Rule # 9:Don’t enter or leave my area without saying so. Otherwise I won’t even know if you’re there. It’s just common courtesy.

Rule # 10:Don’t make sounds to help or guide me. It’s just silly and rude, and believe me, you’ll be the one who looks stupid and ends up embarrassed, not me.

Rule # 11:Don’t be weird. Seriously, other than having my eyes closed all the time, I’m just like you only smarter.

Rule # INFINITY:There are NO second chances. Violate my trust and I’ll never trust you again. Betrayal is unforgivable.

espite lying awake for most of the night after Sarah dropped the Scott bomb on me, I jumped out of bed when my alarm buzzed, not sleepy. Now, finally, halfway through my seventeenth sprint, I flop onto the dewy grass of Gunther Field, exhausted. I should cool down with a jog, or at least a brisk walk home, but I can’t force myself up. The knife in my ribs telling me I pushed too hard is nothing compared to the ache ping-ponging between my chest and my stomach, the ache that was there before I started running, the ache I was trying to drive away.

A charley horse stirs in my left calf—clearly my body will not be ignored. I sit up and pull on my toes with one hand and massage the unhappy muscle with the other. Not enough oxygen, not enough water, not enough time, not enough space.

I manage to avoid a major spasm and stand up. I don’t know how far I am from the fence; I don’t normally stop mid-sprint. After a few dozen steps I slow down and hold out a hand until I touch it.

Damn it, I don’t know which side of the gap I’m on. I choose left and walk, dragging my fingers along the chain link, bump bump bump bump bump . After a dozen steps I think I probably went the wrong way. I don’t like this—I don’t usually get disoriented here. I turn and walk back. Fifteen steps later I find the gap. I had just missed it.

I wipe my face with the bottom of my shirt—both are damp but the shirt less so and it helps. The air is cool but I’m burning up. I try deep breaths to calm my heart, my lungs, my stomach. It starts to work. I feel control returning.

He knew who I was but didn’t say anything to me directly. Did he realize I didn’t recognize his voice? Or did he just know I wouldn’t talk to him, smooth as glass?

I should like that, being smooth as glass, shouldn’t I? Unaffected, unconcerned. That’s exactly what I want to be. Why should I suddenly hate it that some people might think that about me? Why should I care what anyone thinks anyway?

I don’t. I was just caught off-guard, that’s all. And only Sarah knows it. Not that I’d care if anyone else did, because I wouldn’t. I don’t.

*

I sit down in the cafeteria with Molly, who also brings her lunch, and start eating. Thinly sliced turkey, Swiss, light mayo and mustard, like always. Sarah will show up in a few minutes after filing through the hot-lunch line with Rick Gartner, her Sort Of Boyfriend. I told Molly last period she was welcome to join us—I don’t know what she did yesterday since I spent that lunch period working out logistics with audio textbooks at the office. I warned her that a lot of people call us the Table of Misfit Toys but not in the ironic complimentary way. She said she wasn’t worried about labels. I said that was both wise and foolish. She agreed.