Blind Spot Excerpt

8/12/2019 Blind Spot Excerpt

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Copyright 2012 by Laura Ellen

All rights reserved. For inormation about permission to reprint selections rom this book,

write to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 215 Park Avenue

South, New York, New York 10003.

Harcourt is an imprint o Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company.

www.hmhbooks.com

Text set in Minion

Library o Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.

ISBN 978-0-547-76344-6

Manuactured in the United States o America

TK 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 14500378470


3/26

Revelation

Winter stopped hidingTricia Farni on Good Friday. A truck driver, anxious to shave orty minutes off his com-

mute, ventured across the shallow section o the Birch River used

as an ice bridge all winter. His truck plunged into the rigid water,

and as rescuers worked to save him and his semi, Tricias body

oated to the surace.

Shed been missing since the incident in the lof six months

ago. But honestly, she didnt come to mind when I heard that a

girls body had been ound. I was that sure she was alive some-

where, making someone elses lie miserable. Maybe she was

shacking up with some drug dealer, or hooking her way across

the state, or whatever. But she was denitely alive. On Easter morning, that changed.

The body o seventeen-year-old Tricia Farni was pulled

rom the Birch River Friday night. A junior at Chance High

School, Tricia disappeared October 6 afer leaving a home-

coming party at Birch Hill. Police believe her body has been

in the water since the night she disappeared.


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2

I couldnt wrap my brain around it. Tricia was a lot o things,

a drug addict, a bitch, a reak. But dead? No. She was a survivor.

Something the only thing I admired about her. I stared at myclock radio, disbelieving the news reporter. Ninety percent talk,

AM 760 was supposed to provide reuge rom my own wrecked

lie that weekend. I thought all those old songs with their sha-la-

la-lasand da-doo-run-runscouldnt possibly trigger any painul

memories. I guess when a dead girl is ound in Birch, Alaska, and

you were the last one to see her alive, even AM 760 cant save you

rom bad memories.

While the rest o Chance High spent Easter Sunday shopping

or bargains on prom dresses and making meals o pink marsh-

mallow chicks, I lay on my bed, images o Tricia ooding my

brain. I tried to cling to the macabre ones the way I imagined

her when she was ound: her body stiff and lieless, her brown

cloak spread like wings, her black, kohl-rimmed eyes staring up

through the cracks in the ice that had been her coffin all winter.

These images made me eel sad and sympathetic, how one should

eel about a dead girl.

Another image kept shoving its way in, though. It was the lasttime Id seen Tricia. The last thing I remembered clearly rom

that night, minutes beore she disappeared. She and Jonathan in

the lof. It made me despise her all over again. And I didnt want

to despise her anymore. She was dead.

What happened to her that night? And why couldnt I remem-

ber anything afer the lof, not even going home? All I had were

quick snapshots, like traces o a dream: Jonathans body against


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3

mine; arms, way too many arms; and Mr. Dellians ace. Puzzle

pieces that wouldnt t together.

Im used to piecing things together. My central vision is blockedby dots that hide things rom me, leaving my brain to ll in the

blanks. My brain doesnt always get it right. I misinterpret, make

mistakes. But my memory? Its always been the one thing I could

count on, saving me time afer time rom major humiliation. I

can see something once and remember it exactly the layout o a

room, the contents o a page, anything. My visual memory makes

it less necessary to see, and I rely on it to pick up where my vision

ails.

How could my memory be ailing me now?

I went over that night again, much as I would with my vision,

putting the pieces together to make something sensible and con-

crete. But the more I ocused on those tiny snippets, the arther

they slipped rom my grasp.

Then Copacabana started playing on the radio.

I slammed my ngers down on the power button to stop the

lyrics, but my mind went there anyway. A replay o the day Tricia

did a striptease during lunch. The day I helped her buy drugs . . .


6/26

Theres none so blind as they that wont see.

Jonathan Swift


7/26

PiecesForty days before

It shouldve been a breeze, a no-brainer. I was returning to

the same halls Id occupied last year. A seasoned vet, not some

scared, insecure reshman. But still. I passed through the black

doors o Chance High that rst day o sophomore year and ound

mysel in Hell.

Okay, I exaggerate. Hell didnt reveal itsel until minutes later,

when I met Tricia and realized Id been placed in a special ed

class. But the sensory overload that hit me when I rst entered the

building certainly began my journey. Nauseating combinations o

musk, coconut, cherry blossom, and industrial cleaner assaulted

me. Out-o-ocus aces in globs o color swirled around me like

the psychedelic covers on my dads old acid rock albums. A ca-cophony o squeals stabbed at my ears. I went rom zero to panic

in less than sixty seconds, and the act that I had to get through it

on my own only made it worse.

Beore, Missy Cervano had been my compass, my shelter, my

shield. Last year wed attacked the rst day o school together,

scurrying down the halls, mice in a maze, trying to nd our lock-

ers, ducking into corners, and attening ourselves against walls to


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avoid the intimidating seniors. Wed survived because we had the

perect social weapons: each other. Best Friends Forever. Forever

ended a ew months ago when she suddenly stopped talking tome. Music was my only sae haven now. Lyrics never change like

people do.

I took a steadying breath and popped in my ear buds. My F.U.

Worldplaylist cut through the chaos surrounding me and urged

me orward. Clutching my class schedule, I skirted the boundar-

ies o clique afer clique arranged like planets along the hallways.

Posers and wannabes orbiting around them, like satellites waiting

to crash through the atmosphere. At least they could pretend to

belong. Without Missy, I couldnt even do that anymore.

I passed the office and the caeteria and turned lef down a

nearly empty hallway in a section o the school where Id never

been. The lack o people allowed me to move closer to the wall,

and I squinted at the room numbers. I was looking or room 22,

Lie Skills.

Lie Skills wasnt on my original schedule. Auto Maintenance

was. A total waste or someone whod never drive, I know. And

in my deense, Id totally planned on signing up or Art. ExceptMissy gave me that oops, my bad look when we were coordinat-

ing our schedules last spring. Then she started babbling about

how shed understand i I didnt want to take Auto, and how Rona

would be in there to keep her company i I didnt, and how maybe

theyd take drivers ed together too . . . Whatever, it didnt matter

now anyway. Id been switched to Lie Skills, which according to

Mom was some new school policy. A required class.

The arther I walked, the more deserted the hallway became,


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and a nagging suspicion about Lie Skills began to take over,

twisting my stomach, disrupting the lefover shrimp lo mein Id

had or breakast. For a new, required class, shouldnt there bemore people on this route?

I consulted my map. My ngers ollowed the thick black lines

that Id drawn the night beore. This was the way. A right at the

next hallway and Id be there.

At that last turn, I stopped. Someone in a brown, hooded cloak

twirled, twirled, twirled in the middle o the hallway, like a little

girl in a rilly Easter dress. A garment like that meant immediate

social suicide, but in a deserted hallway, I knew it meant some-

thing else too.

Special Ed.

I maneuvered around the twirling girl and approached the

classroom. As I brought my eyes up rom the oor to look inside,

I spotted the spokes o a wheelchair.

No,I thought, my stomach tightening. I slid the dots blocking

my central vision to the side so I could see the chairs occupant.

He was talking to someone out o sight range, but I could hear his

voice; he sounded normal. Simply a guy in a wheelchair. I relaxed, took a ew steps closer and noticed the slumped

body to the lef. He was humming and rocking, hands twitching

uncontrollably. My eyes itted to the girl acing me. Short and

plump, a permanent smile plastered on her ace the perect

model or a Special Olympics poster.

There had to have been a mistake. This was not my room. I

hurried past, hoping the next room was mine. But there wasnt

one. Only a pair o bathrooms with blue signs.


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8

Welcome to Hell.

I turned around. The girl in the cloak stopped spinning and

stared at me. The thick layer o eyeliner against her white-blondhair and ghostly pale skin made her eyes hang in midair, ace-

less. I moved past her, rounded the corner, and once the hall was

clear, yanked my magniying glass rom the side pocket o my

backpack. The enlarged numbers on my schedule told me what I

already knew. That was my classroom.

Why? I didnt belong in there. I wasnt a reak.

Theres been a mistake, I said, handing my schedule to the coun-

selor. I dont belong in Lie Skills.

She typed something into the computer and then peered over

the top o her wire-ramed glasses. You areRoswell Hart, arent

you?

Roz. I tried to make eye contact with her by directing my

blind spot to her ear and using my peripheral vision to see her

ace. But she thought I was looking behind her. She looked over

her shoulder and then turned back to me, a puzzled rown on her

ace. I hate it when that happens. I tried to save ace by pretend-

ing I waslooking behind her, and at the ceiling, and down at the

ground. Eyelash on my contact, I muttered, pulling at my eyelid.

Yes, Im Roswell Hart.

Theres no mistake, sweetie. She handed the schedule back to

me. Lie Skills is in your IEP.

What? No. It isnt. My Individualized Education Program

a list o adaptations some school officials came up with to help


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me succeed in the classroom: extra time or tests, oral instead o

written tests, prewritten class notes, class materials in large print,

books on tape, and so on.I didnt need any o it. As long as I sit in the ront, I get along

just ne. Yes, it takes a while or me to read the board I have to

move my dots rom spot to spot until I have pieced together a sen-

tence but its better than being singled out or special treat-

ment. I had told this to Mr. Villanari, my IEP advisor, when we

discussed my IEP last spring. He told me i I didnt think I needed

any special help, I didnt have to use it. Thats how I knew. Theres

no Lie Skills in my IEP ask Mr. Villanari.

Oh, Mr. Villanari is no longer your IEP advisor. Mr. Dellian

is. She gave me a sappy sympathetic look. And hes decided that

afer that unortunate event last year, everyone with a disability

must take Lie Skills. Its or your own good, sweetie.

Disability. How I loved to hate that word. I used to think I

had ability, that I was normal. Thats because I thought every-

one saw like me disjointed and ragmented, every object in

visual range like pieces o a puzzle in need o constant reconstruc-

tion. When its the only way you know, your way is normal. Untiltold otherwise. For me that happened in fh grade, when Ms.

Freemont thought I was dyslexic because Id read words wrong

out loud.

Afer my optometrist rechecked my glasses prescription and

ound nothing wrong, everyone gured it must be some mental

problem, a learning disability, whatever. They ran me through

tons o tests, nding nothing. Then in the middle o eighth

grade, Mom suddenly thought to mention that my dad cant drive


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10

because o some eye disease. Something Ididnt even know. I saw

an ophthalmologist and voil! They got their diagnosis: macular

degeneration. And I got my label: disabled. Dont get me wrong. With Mom dating anyone who checked

out her ass and Dad chasing UFOs across the country instead o

hanging out with me, Id had my share o labels beore that. But

Broken Family, Single Mom, Absent Dad, no matter what the

teachers tagged me with, it didnt matter; hal the class had them

too. Disabled, however, opened a whole can o labels that stripped

me o my identity. I went rom Roswell Hart with straight As and

a permanent spot on the honor roll to Legally Blind, Visually Im-

paired Roswell Hart, a Disabled student with an IEP.

Look, I said, ghting the urge to sweetie her back, I have

bad vision, but my lie skills are just ne.

Your parents can speak with us about it. But until then, the

only change I can make is to place you in another Lie Skills class.

She looked behind me. Next!

The rst bell rang. There was an instant swarm as I entered

the hallway, and then I was lef alone with only a ew stragglers. A

rustrated scream thrashed around inside me, clawing at my ribs.I didnt 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 or me. The class was on my schedule, a requirement

now or 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

o my stomach, and I struggled to keep my breakast down. When


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I reached the hallway outside Lie Skills, I ung open the bath-

room door and barely made it into a stall beore the vomit broke

ree. Chunks hit the gray linoleum with a splattering slap. Classy. Cape-girl hung over the stall wall above me. Is this a

rst-day thing, or are you bulimic or something?

Huh?

The puke. You do it to stay skinny?

Beore I could answer, shed disappeared. Her high heels click-

clacked on the tile outside, and then she shoved my door open, a

handul o paper towels in her hand. God, that is rancid! What

did you eat or breakast? She covered her nose and tossed the

brown paper on top o the hal-digested shrimp swimming in

a salmon-colored sea. Clutching her cloak with one hand, she

pushed the towels around with the toe o her thigh-high black

leather boot. I puked at school once, she said, still holding her

hand over her nose. Jimmy Benson shared his fh o 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 shouldve washed my ace, recentered mysel, and moseyedinto that hellhole o a class. But something about her ascinated

me. I couldnt tear my eyes away. The cloak suggested some out-

o-touch lost soul, but she sure didnt talk that way. Like an alien

abductee caught in a tractor beam, I ollowed her.

Im Tricia, she said. Her butt rested on the railing, eet bal-

anced on the toilet lid, hiked-up cloak revealing a red vinyl mini-

skirt. She slipped a thin, home-rolled cigarette rom her cloak


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pocket and icked her lighter until an orange ame lapped at the

paper. She sucked in as she lit it, holding the smoke in her lungs

beore 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 mo-

ment.

Tricia smiled. Dont worry. No one except Rodney will come

looking in here, and he and I are like this. She crossed her n-

gers.

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

Mr. Dellian. Mr. D. The SPED teacher? Hes also the hockey

coach. Makes or some hot teacher aides. Tricia took another

long drag. Its all legal anyway, she said, holding in her breath. I

use it or medicinal purposes. She grinned and let her breath out

again. I have a prescription and everything.

You have a prescription or pot? I breathed into my sweat-

shirt collar. Why?

Tricias dark, outlined eyes bore into me as she took another

drag. The end o the joint ared a bright orange. Its thin paper

crackled in the silence. I no longer wanted an answer, just out. I reached or the stall

door.

They stuck you in Lie Skills too, huh? Her voice startled my

hand rom the door. So, whats your poison?

I turned, rowning. My what?

Poison, you know, learning disabled, physically challenged,

or, my personal avorite she gave an evil grin severely emo-

tionally disturbed.


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13

I dont Okay, so I did. But she didnt need to know it. Its

a mistake.

Sure it is. She blew smoke in my face and jumped off the rail-ing. If you plan on hiding out in here, dont. Since Rennys suicide,

Rodneys been pretty hot and heavy about this Life Skills class.

Renny?

She glared at me. The Down syndrome kid? She jammed

the lit end o the joint against her palm, barely inching as the

butt burned her esh. Were late. Tell him you got lost. Hell let it

slide.

When we reached the door, Tricia yelled, Found her! and

yanked me into the classroom. She was ditching in the bath-

room.

No, I wasnt! Her betrayal didnt shock me; afer all, she was a

pot-smoking SPED student in a cloak. How smoothly she pivoted

rom ally to prosecutor, however, did. I . . . got lost.

Sure, Tricia said. Thats why you were outside beore the bell

rang. She opped down in Mr. Dellians chair and put her eet up

on his desk, not bothering to cross them. You should give her

detention. Thank you, Tricia. I can handle this mysel. He turned to

me. Lie Skills is not a blow-off class. I wont tolerate tardiness

and unexcused absences. Understood?

So much or peace, love, and understanding. It probably wasnt

the best time to tell him I didnt belong in there. But like an idiot,

I gave it a try. Yeah, but Im not even supposed to be in here.

I darted my eyes up to his ace briey and then looked at the

ground. I told Mr. Villanari last year. I dont need any help.


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Mr. Villanari is no longer in charge o your IEP. I am. And I

think you need this class.

The tone in his voice told me Id struck a nerve, but I couldntlet it go. I had to make him see that I wasnt like Tricia and the

others. Mr. Dellian, I get your reason or this class and all, but

I dont belong in here. Im not like I gestured at the class

them.I ocused on Dellians shoulder. Im totally normal, and I

swear, Im not suicidal.

The muscles in Dellians arm exed. Normal? You think these

kids arent normal?

No! I I stopped. The class was dead silent. I didnt need

Tricia to tell me Id said too much.

She did anyway.

Smooth. Even Aspergers over there has better social eti-

quette. Think I know your poison now. Mental retardation?

Enough! Mr. Dellian growled at Tricia, and then looked at

me. Youre in here because I say youre in here. Now sit! He

glanced back at Tricia. Both o you.

I had no desire to be near the now pissed-off Mr. Dellian, nor

by the reak-show named Tricia. Besides, what could I possiblyneed to see on the board? So I headed to the back o the room.

The short girl held out a plastic container as I went by.

Cookie?

Dont give her one, Ruth, Tricia said. Shes a puker.

Tricia, Mr. Dellian said with a sigh. Please, nd 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?

Tricias voice took on a seductive tone. Maybe neither.


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The newcomer handed Mr. Dellian a stack o papers. There

was a traffic jam at the copier. He took a cookie rom Ruth.

Mmmm, chocolate, he said, then nodded his head toward meand grinned.

My heart stopped. Jonathan Webb. A senior and a huge hockey

star; everyone called him Zeus, the lightning-ast god o 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. Shed

been crushing on him since the summer beore reshman year. He

lived a ew blocks away rom me, though Im sure he didnt know

that. Missy and I used to ride our bikes by his house, hoping to see

him. Sometimes hed be outside washing his cherry-red Corvette.

We spent hours planning ways to cross his path a at bike tire,

a lost dog, a twisted knee each time victims in need o saving.

We always chickened out, though. Neither o us had ever spoken

to him.

While were making introductions Mr. Dellian walked

to the slumped-over guy whod been humming and rockingearlier most o you know Bart, and over there He pointed

at the girl with the cookies. She grinned at me. Im Ruth.

JJ, the guy in the wheelchair said.

Roz, I said.

No! The dude wearing an oversize cowboy hat at the ront o

my row whipped around and glared at me. Its myturn. He aced

orward again. Im Jeffrey.

She probably couldnt see over that hat, Tricia said.


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I could too! I snapped, realizing, as I did, that she was teas-

ing him, not me.

Its my Indiana Jones hat. He turned back around. Do youlike Harrison Ford? I have all his movies. You could come see my

collection.

Aah, retards in love, Tricia said. Whens the wedding?

T. Mr. Dellian lowered his voice and moved in ront o Tricia.

Take a seat.

Tricia let her legs all, one by one, to the oor. She strolled to

the back o the room, lingering too long as she passed Jonathan,

and then dragged a desk across the oor and pushed it against

mine. This better?

I scooted away, but she ollowed with a sadistic smile. I sur-

rendered and slid my butt to the edge o 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 or the world outside, especially i you have a physi-

cal, emotional, or intellectual disability hindering your success.

My ears began to burn. It was bad enough sitting there in thatclass. But in ront o Jonathan? How humiliating.

Except or Bart, all o you take classes with the rest o the

school, and this can be tough sometimes. I youre not prepared to

interact with others who dont understand your unique needs, the

stress can be overwhelming, as it was or Renny. Renny was hav-

ing trouble, and no one knew it because he was reusing help. Its

hard to admit to yoursel sometimes that you are overwhelmed


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though. It wasnt the subject. Id rather read about Sasquatch or

the search or alien lie orms than about dead presidents. It was

what it represented. A junior course; only a handul o sopho-mores were allowed to test in. Missy squeaked by with the mini-

mum score. But I smoked that test, not a single point missed, and

I even reused the extra time they offered so I wouldnt be accused

o special treatment. Missy had always been the perect 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 o the real me.

Being in that AP class validated me. It justied my belie that I did

not belong in a special education class. I was AP History material,

and Id clung all day to the idea that AP History was my salvation.

It would deliver me rom evil.

Unortunately, it wasnt deliverance. It was the doorway to an-

other level o Hell.

Sixth hour started with my usual level o rustration. Id mis-

placed my map and spilled water on my schedule. To make a long

story short, I was still trying to decipher the room number wellafer the bell had rung. It was 200, 203, or 208. Through a process

o elimination, I nally ound it but class had been in session

or at least feen minutes already. I opened the door, heard the

teachers voice, and roze.

Well, Miss Hart? Are you joining us?

Im looking or AP History?

And you ound it.

But . . . I rowned. Why are you here?


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I could ask you the same question, Mr. Dellian said. Once

again, youre wasting my class time. I you are staying, take a seat.

Im sure my mouth dropped open; I was so shocked and in-uriated, I think I even orgot to breathe. I know I orgot 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 didnt belong in Special Ed. I wanted an AP

teacher, not the SPED teacher, mySPED teacher.

Miss Hart, Mr. Dellian said in a tone that was hal exaspera-

tion and hal boredom, we sit in this class.

I smelled Missys signature scent, lavender and vanilla, and, re-

pulsed, moved toward the center aisle. I suppose most people can

see the empty seats in a classroom right away. I cant. Not until Im

a ew eet away. And being pissed doesnt help me ocus. I realized

halway up the center that all seats were taken. I backtracked and

moved up the next aisle, only to discover it too was ull.

Today, please, Mr. Dellian said, ueling giggles rom the rest

o the class.

Over here, a voice called.

I ocused on the waving arm. It was pointing at a desk up ront.On my way, I passed an empty seat in the back o the same row

and, desperate to sit, took it instead.

Dellian droned on and on about class expectations and assign-

ments. I only hal listened, still annoyed. Be sure to consult your

syllabus or tomorrows 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


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detention. Youre not new; youre not a reshman. Theres no ex-

cuse or being over feen minutes late to my class. He shoved a

pink paper across his desk at me. But I snatched the paper rom his desk. Whatever. I

rushed out o the room and slammed ull orce into someone

blocking the doorway.

Sorry, I said to the blue button-up, collared dress shirt. Its

owner smelled o watermelon bubblegum. My eyes ell to the

sleeve. It was the one that had waved me to a seat.

That was my ault. 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-o-control mop o brown curls.

That was the puzzle piece I needed. I knew him. Greg Martin.

Missys neighbor. A junior. Id had a crush on him until fh

grade, when he started ollowing Missy around like a sick puppy

dog. Thought you went to that private school?

Trinity. I transerred. So, you remember me?

Hard to orget Missys number-one an. I ocused on his ear.

A dark blue smudge stood out on his cheek. Youve got some-

thing on your ace. 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 Missys number-

one an?

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 havent seen you around Missys house much, Greg said.


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21

Were 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 afer me. I can make a copy o the syllabus

or you.

Beats asking Dellian, I guess. Thanks. I shook my head. I

cant believe hes teaching that class. I pulled up on my locker

handle. Locked. Id orgotten to leave the dial on the last number.

The numbers were too small; Id spent lunch with my ace pressed

up against the metal trying to get it open. I couldnt do that blind

girl thing in ront o him, though. I began haphazardly guessing

at the numbers.

Is he even qualied? Greg asked. Hes used to mental cases

and boneheads.

Not everyone in Special Ed is a mental case or a bonehead. I

spun the lock in rustration while I waited or him to stop talking

and go.

I meant the hockey team, he said. He teaches Special Ed?

Thats even worse! A remedial teacher instructing an advanced

placement course thats just wrong. He set his books down onthe oor. Here, whats your combo?

It was like listening to someone insult my mom okay or me

to do, not okay or someone else. I took his comment as a direct

assault and glared at him.

His ace scrunched up. What?

But what wouldve required a discussion about Lie Skills,

Special Ed, and me. Besides, I hated conrontation. I dont have

time or this. I stopped spinning the dial. Ive got detention.


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Ill get you that syllabus! he yelled as I hurried away.

Dont bother, I muttered out o earshot. Ill get my own.

By the time I got home rom detention, I just wanted to lose my-

sel in music. One time in sixth-grade health class we watched

a movie about this girl who would cut hersel. She had scabs up

and down her arm. She said eeling the razor slice her skin, the

sting, the rush o pain, released all the anger and pain inside her.

I remember thinking, Why doesnt she just listen to some music?

because thats what music was or me. My razor. The angry lyrics,

thrashing chords, banging drums they open me up and bleed

or me.

I opped onto my bed, cranked Saliva, and glared up at the

UFO photos that line the ceiling. I cant actually see the alleged

alien aircrafs in the array o amateur shots, not unless I stand on

tippy toes, ace pressed against them. But I like the way my less-

than-stellar vision blurs the backgrounds together into a gray-

black sky. Its like staring into my own world. One where anything

is possible.

Soon Id mellowed enough to think. The counselor said myparents could get me out o Lie Skills, and since appealing to Del-

lians nonexistent sof side was out, and my dad was somewhere in

New Mexico tracking UFOs, Mom was my only option. Convinc-

ing her wouldnt be easy, especially i she had to make dinner.

I ran upstairs and tossed rozen 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 olded syllabus into my locker while I was in detention.


25/26

23

I was just nishing when Mom opened my door. Do you have

to play that garbage so loud?

Garbage? Please.Moms musical tastes are dictated by what-ever loser shes dating her last was a country an. She even

started wearing a cowboy hat and matching boots. Thank God

they didnt date long. Then there was that new wave punk throw-

back she dated. He was actually pretty cool, and I liked his music,

but Mom dressed like Adam Ant the whole time. And that wasnt

cool or pretty.

Theres lasagna baking, i youre 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. Hes real nice,

took me out to eat. She checked hersel out in my mirror. So,

how was school?

I ipped my eet down onto the carpet. They screwed up my

schedule.

Get it straightened out?

You have to. You said Lie Skills is a new requirement or ev-

eryone. Its not. Its a special education class. Mom leaned against the wall. I know.

I stared at the door rame above her head. You let them put

me in there? Why?

Because you never listen to anyone, always insisting on doing

everything yoursel, your way. That kid who killed himsel? He

was like that. You dont know how to be disabled, Rozzy. Theyll

teach you.

Teach me to be disabled? As i its a job? Thats ludicrous!


26/26

Daddys lived his whole lie with this eye disease. No one taught

him to be disabled!

Maybe i they had, he wouldnt be chasing ying saucers in anRV driven by his twenty-year-old girlriend.

Critical mistake, bringing Dad into it. I backpedaled. Mom,

Im not suicidal. And Im only bent on doing things mysel be-

cause I can.Ive been ending or mysel long beore anyone ever

called me disabled. I sofened my voice. Please, Mom? I dont

need this class.

She gave a long, exaggerated sigh. Ill call tomorrow. I shot

off the bed and hugged her. But i they say you need it, you need

it. Okay?

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Blind Spot Excerpt