The sun’s rays penetrated my skin and entered deep into my pores as my mother helped me out of the car. The wind played with my hair, entangling smells of gasoline and fresh air into my sun-weaved strands. I breathed in deep; it felt as if I had swallowed a million butterflies who were now trying to break free from my stomach. My shoulders vibrated. My mom stroked them, rubbed them with her thumbs. She massaged my arms, and took my hands. I placed one hand to her face, and I felt the muscles around her eyes moving, working, worrying.
“It’s okay, Mom, I’ll be fine.”
With my fingers, I felt my mom open her mouth. I felt the jawbones move. I felt her take a deep breath. She closed her mouth. She opened it again. “I know you will,” she finally said.
I gave her a smile, which I felt her return. It wasn’t her usual smile—the one where I could feel the smell of her mint breath on my face. I moved my fingers to her mouth. Her lips were sealed tightly, slightly curled in; her teeth dug into her bottom lip.
“I love you, Mom,” I said.
“I love you too,” she said as she pressed my hand into her face.
She handed me my white cane, and strung my hand through the roped loop. I grasped the cane, clung to it, and wrapped my fingers around it.
My mom led me. She told me to watch for the step. I did, using my cane. She opened a door and led me through. The sounds I heard slammed into my ears as I stepped though the perimeter. I could hear metal knocking against metal, papers crackling, people yelling, screaming, talking, things jingling around, sneakers squeaking on linoleum.
Mother pulled me along. To where, I didn’t know. Actually I did, but I did not know the way. She was taking me to the principal’s office.
I had no way of knowing when we had arrived, only the sound of a door clicking immediately followed by the lack of noise from the hallway. Coffee, freshly ground, filled my nostrils.
“We’re here to see the principal, please.” It was the voice of my mother. She still held on to my arm.
“Go on back,” I heard a voice say. It was feminine. The lady sounded young, maybe mid-twenties. The sounds she gave off told me that she was bored; the light tap-tap of her nails hitting wood—a wooden desk, I assumed—and the sound of gum popping in her mouth, were ample hints.
A small tug on my arm forced me to move along. It was less than twenty steps before I heard a male voice saying, “Please, sit down.”
The voice sounded gruff and crusty, but the words were said in a soft tone. I heard a raspy cough from the man.
My mom helped me into the chair. It had a wooden frame, with wooden arm rests, and it had rough upholstery stapled to the bottom and back. I imagined it to be left over burgundy red carpet that someone though would be good to use on a chair.
The man spoke again, “I am Mr. Clay, the Principle of East Wood High School. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Shyla.”
“Pleasure to meet you as well, Mr. Clay,” I said.
Silence followed, and I was unsure of what to do. I shifted in my seat—the cushion was very hard. My mother coughed, with a hint of an ahem to it. I could feel the reverberation of Mr. Clay jolting.
“Oh, right,” he said, embarrassed.
“What just happened?” I asked my mom. I turned to the direction of her voice as she said,
“Mr. Clay was holding out his hand for you to shake.”
I nodded.
Mr. Clay talked again, “I am terribly sorry, Shyla, for a moment I had forgotten that you were blind.”
“That’s fine,” I said understandably. I wanted to sigh, the fact that so many people forgot my blindness or thought of it as a disability irritated me.
Mr. Clay continued on in an attempt to make amends, “I have a young man with the same schedule as you who can be your guide. He is a nice lad, and I think you will enjoy him.”
My mom had told me previously that I was going to have one of the students help me around the school, and although I knew I needed help, I didn’t particularly want a stranger pulling me along.
I heard the buzz of a button, and the door that I had entered through previously clicked open once more.
“Ah, here he is now,” Mr. Clay said. Through my chair I could feel the faint form of feet moving towards me. I felt the presence walk over to Mr. Clay. I could hear papers rustle.
Mr. Clay spoke, “Here is Shyla’s locker number and combination. Thank you again for helping her, Marshall. You’re a good man.” Papers rustled again.
“Here’s her backpack,” my mom said. I could hear her hand Marshall the pack. She stood me up, my cane in hand. She held my face and gave me a kiss on the cheek. Once again she told me that she loved me, and quickly left.
Marshall, I could hear, slugged my backpack over his shoulder, and gently took my arm. He quietly led me out of Mr. Clay’s office. He stopped at the secretary’s desk—he told me this—and was handed a pass.
He led me through the now silent and deserted hallways of East Wood High. My locker was on the first floor. As we halted, and as Marshall began putting in the combination to my locker, I closed my eyes. Whatever cologne Marshall was wearing, it made me want to escape to a tropical island. It smelled of palm trees and ocean water. It smelled of palm trees whispering in the wind and ocean water slamming against rock. I smiled.
The lock clicked and Marshall opened the door to my locker. Like a ghost, he unzipped my backpack and placed my books into the metal compartment. Clunk, clunk; each text book scraped against the floor of the locker.
“Thank you for helping me,” I said.
“No problem,” he said. Oh, his voice sounded like that of a singer. It sounded like a tenor’s voice, a tenor who got all the solos for the school play.
“Are you in choir?” I asked. After I said this, I quickly realized that I had already known the answer—for Marshall and I both had all the same classes, and I had signed up for choir.
Marshall responded, “Yes, I am. How did you know?” The way his voice slightly rose towards the end of the question, how he slightly faltered with his answer, how he slightly scratched his head (for I heard him doing so); I had an inkling of his feelings. Those butterflies in my stomach hadn’t fully digested yet.
“Your voice gave it away,” I responded. I tried not to sound beguiling, but it was hard for a voice to lie.
I heard the subtle close of the locker door, and the soft touch of Marshall’s hand in my own. His hands felt cool, with the slightest hint of sweat. I had an idea of why he was nervous. He led me again.
Marshall spoke, “Our first class is history.”
As he drew me along, I began to hear the sound of a lone voice teaching. I heard the turning of the doorknob. I heard the teaching voice halt.
“Mr. Biggs, sorry I’m late. I have a pass.” Marshall squeezed my hand and moved me into the room. He placed his hands on my shoulders showed me to my seat. I sat down. I could feel the stares of everyone in the room; it felt like each person had lifted me up and was shaking me violently to see what would fall out of my pockets.
The desk was cold and hard, and the room smelled of rust and mold. Time had attacked the ancient maps and the old American flag that I had imagined were in the classroom, giving the air a faint, yet distinctive smell of sharp rust and deep mold.
“Thank you, Marshall.” His voice was high, the speed at which he rushed through the thanks, and the way his voice seemed to brush Marshall aside was noted, and immediately I felt tension between my history teacher and me. Anyone who spoke to Marshall like that was no friend of mine.
I felt someone rub my shoulder.
A whisper in my ear: “I’m right here.” Marshall’s speech tingled in my eardrums.
I listened closely to Mr. Biggs drone on about policies and discipline in his class. I hadn’t meant to zone out, but with no sight, it was often easy for me to waltz away and imagine my surroundings. I thought of Marshall. His voice was that of a soloist tenor, I knew that, so I also pictured him to be lean in his build. I dared not imagine what he looked like, because I didn’t want to be disappointed.
Soon the bell rang, signifying the end of class. Marshall took my hand and led me, while I prodded my white cane, sweeping it across the floor, left to right, to avoid obstacles.
He took me to my next class. He eased me into my desk. He sat behind me. He drew on my back with his finger.
This process repeated for the next three hours.
Eventually lunch came around and was welcomed by all. Marshall brought my lunch and me outside. He firmly grasped my hand in his and my elbow in the other as he helped me down a flight of stairs. I could smell the growing grass and I could hear the birds flying as Marshall walked with me. I could taste the sweetness in the air. It tasted crisp, fresh, new, and clean. It tasted like a picture of a ripe tomato, with droplets of water racing down its curved surface.
We sat underneath a tree—I knew this because I could feel the warm August afternoon cool ever so swiftly as we moved into the shade. The grass felt cool and wet as I loped my fingers through each blade.
I felt the crinkling rough texture of a brown paper bag. Marshall eased my lunch into my hand. I reached my hand into the bag and fingered the contents. I set the bag down on the ground next to me. Marshall hadn’t spoken.
“Marshall,” I began, my thoughts now unsure of what to say, “Please, could you tell me what you look like?” I awaited a response; my need to know grew greater with each passing second.
“I’ll try.” Marshall took a breath. “Well, I have black hair. It’s kind of long, but not really. Well it comes down to, I’d say, about the middle of my ears. It’s curly. Uhm, I have green eyes. I don’t have braces. Got them off a few months ago.” He paused.
The way his voice faltered, the stammering, the corrections, the pauses, I had hoped my assumptions were correct.
“I’m not doing a very good job,” he admitted, “I’m sorry.”
I replied, “No, its okay, you’re doing great.” Then my own voice paused and faltered, and I knew my own feelings were true. “Say,” I stopped again, thinking about what I was going to utter, wondering if it was the right thing to speak. I gulped, and continued on, “Say, may I feel your face?”
I held my breath, waiting, wanting. I felt like a ball of yarn, my senses unraveling in every direction.
“Yes,” Marshall said. He moved closer to me.
I slowly moved my hands upwards and I touched his cheeks. His face was no more than eight inches from my own. I shifted my fingers around, feeling his shaved square chin. I eased my fingers down the bridge of his nose, sensing how it slightly curled up at the tip. My index finger lightly tapped each nostril; the small nose was soft. I delicately felt his cheeks and cheek bones. His cheek bones weren’t high, nor were they low, causing Marshall’s face to be elongated but not overly so. His cheeks were plump, and when he smiled, they were playful and kind. I brushed my fingers against his long eyelashes. His eyes rested nicely in his eye sockets, making his cheeks seem even chubbier—just plump enough so that I could feel them barely bulging. His eyebrows were the perfect arc. I moved my hand up to his thick hair. It was in fact curly, but not one tangle was in the mane. I ran my fingers through his locks; they were as soft as cashmere. The curls fell down over his forehead, and slowly cascaded until I felt the strands just above the base of his neck. My hands lingered, wrapped around his neck, caressing his hair. There was still one attribute about him that I hadn’t felt yet. My hands moved back to the front of his face. I outlined his lips, and stroked the seamless flesh. I felt the curve and how they puckered faintly. Marshall smiled, and I touched his teeth. They were straight and smooth. I shifted my fingers back to his lips, and slowly I cradled his head.
“I won’t forget you now,” I said. I never wanted to forget.
Marshall was breathing hard and unsteadily through his nose. I could feel him moving closer. Suddenly his lips touched my own.
It was at that moment that I discovered that I was in love.
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