Blind Spot Read online

  “I don’t—” Okay, so I did. But she didn’t need to know it. “It’s a mistake.”

  “Sure it is.” She blew smoke in my face and jumped off the railing. “If you plan on hiding out in here, don’t. Since Renny’s suicide, Rodney’s been pretty hot and heavy about this Life Skills class.”

  “Renny?”

  She glared at me. “The Down syndrome kid?” She jammed the lit end of the joint against her palm, barely flinching as the butt burned her flesh. “We’re late. Tell him you got lost. He’ll let it slide.”

  When we reached the door, Tricia yelled, “Found her!” and yanked me into the classroom. “She was ditching in the bathroom.”

  “No, I wasn’t!” Her betrayal didn’t shock me; after all, she was a pot-smoking SPED student in a cloak. How smoothly she pivoted from ally to prosecutor, however, did. “I . . . got lost.”

  “Sure,” Tricia said. “That’s why you were outside before the bell rang.” She flopped down in Mr. Dellian’s chair and put her feet up on his desk, not bothering to cross them. “You should give her detention.”

  “Thank you, Tricia. I can handle this myself.” He turned to me. “Life Skills is not a blow-off class. I won’t tolerate tardiness and unexcused absences. Understood?”

  So much for peace, love, and understanding. It probably wasn’t the best time to tell him I didn’t belong in there. But like an idiot, I gave it a try. “Yeah, but I’m not even supposed to be in here.” I darted my eyes up to his face briefly and then looked at the ground. “I told Mr. Villanari last year. I don’t need any help.”

  “Mr. Villanari is no longer in charge of your IEP. I am. And I think you need this class.”

  The tone in his voice told me I’d struck a nerve, but I couldn’t let it go. I had to make him see that I wasn’t like Tricia and the others. “Mr. Dellian, I get your reason for this class and all, but I don’t belong in here. I’m not like”—I gestured at the class—“them.” I focused on Dellian’s shoulder. “I’m totally normal, and I swear, I’m not suicidal.”

  The muscles in Dellian’s arm flexed. “Normal? You think these kids aren’t normal?”

  “No! I—” I stopped. The class was dead silent. I didn’t need Tricia to tell me I’d said too much.

  She did anyway.

  “Smooth. Even Asperger’s over there has better social etiquette. Think I know your poison now. Mental retardation?”

  “Enough!” Mr. Dellian growled at Tricia, and then looked at me. “You’re in here because I say you’re in here. Now sit!” He glanced back at Tricia. “Both of you.”

  I had no desire to be near the now pissed-off Mr. Dellian, nor by the freak-show named Tricia. Besides, what could I possibly need to see on the board? So I headed to the back of the room.

  The short girl held out a plastic container as I went by. “Cookie?”

  “Don’t give her one, Ruth,” Tricia said. “She’s a puker.”

  “Tricia,” Mr. Dellian said with a sigh. “Please, find 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?”

  Tricia’s voice took on a seductive tone. “Maybe neither.”

  The newcomer handed Mr. Dellian a stack of papers. “There was a traffic jam at the copier.” He took a cookie from Ruth. “Mmmm, chocolate,” he said, then nodded his head toward me and grinned.

  My heart stopped. Jonathan Webb. A senior and a huge hockey star; everyone called him Zeus, the lightning-fast god of 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. She’d been crushing on him since the summer before freshman year. He lived a few blocks away from me, though I’m sure he didn’t know that. Missy and I used to ride our bikes by his house, hoping to see him. Sometimes he’d be outside washing his cherry-red Corvette. We spent hours planning ways to cross his path—a flat bike tire, a lost dog, a twisted knee—each time victims in need of saving. We always chickened out, though. Neither of us had ever spoken to him.

  “While we’re making introductions”—Mr. Dellian walked to the slumped-over guy who’d been humming and rocking earlier—“most of you know Bart, and over there—” He pointed at the girl with the cookies. She grinned at me. “I’m Ruth.”

  “JJ,” the guy in the wheelchair said.

  “Roz,” I said.

  “No!” The dude wearing an oversize cowboy hat at the front of my row whipped around and glared at me. “It’s my turn.” He faced forward again. “I’m Jeffrey.”

  “She probably couldn’t see over that hat,” Tricia said.

  “I could too!” I snapped, realizing, as I did, that she was teasing him, not me.

  “It’s my Indiana Jones hat.” He turned back around. “Do you like Harrison Ford? I have all his movies. You could come see my collection.”

  “Aah, retards in love,” Tricia said. “When’s the wedding?”

  “T.” Mr. Dellian lowered his voice and moved in front of Tricia. “Take a seat.”

  Tricia let her legs fall, one by one, to the floor. She strolled to the back of the room, lingering too long as she passed Jonathan, and then dragged a desk across the floor and pushed it against mine. “This better?”

  I scooted away, but she followed with a sadistic smile. I surrendered and slid my butt to the edge of 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 for the world outside, especially if you have a physical, emotional, or intellectual disability hindering your success.”

  My ears began to burn. It was bad enough sitting there in that class. But in front of Jonathan? How humiliating.

  “Except for Bart, all of you take classes with the rest of the school, and this can be tough sometimes. If you’re not prepared to interact with others who don’t understand your unique needs, the stress can be overwhelming, as it was for Renny. Renny was having trouble, and no one knew it because he was refusing help. It’s hard to admit to yourself sometimes that you are overwhelmed and need help. That’s what I hope to teach you in this class: How to recognize that you need help and how to—” Dellian sighed as the bell cut him off.

  I couldn’t escape fast enough. I leaped forward, reaching the door at the same time as Jonathan. He smiled and gestured for me to go in front of him. “After you.”

  Funny. I never liked Jonathan. Not like Missy. But that simple interaction sent my mind reeling. Do I laugh? Smile? Say something clever? But that would all mean making eye contact. What if he thinks I’m looking behind him? Not interested? Blowing him off? I’d almost decided to smile and just look at the ground, act shy, when Mr. Dellian zapped me back to earth.

  “Miss Hart, you should be sitting up front.”

  I stole a glance at Jonathan from the corner of my eye. He’d paused, as if waiting for me. “I’m fine back there.”

  “Are you?” Dellian stepped backwards to let JJ wheel by. “I distinctly remember Mr. Villanari telling me the only accommodation you admit needing is a seat up front.”

  I wanted to disappear, meld into the cement wall and fail to exist. It was as if Dellian was suddenly bent on proving I was a freak. “Whatever,” I muttered and sped out without looking back.

  The rest of the day sucked like that too. Missy was in most of my classes, just as we’d planned last spring. She made it obvious I was invisible. Whatever. I listened to music until each class started. Earphones make it easy to pretend you don’t care.

  Sixth hour, AP History, was supposed to be my highlight, though. It wasn’t the subject. I’d rather read about Sasquatch or the search for alien life forms than about dead presidents. It was what it represented. A junior course; only a hand
ful of sophomores were allowed to test in. Missy squeaked by with the minimum score. But I smoked that test, not a single point missed, and I even refused the extra time they offered so I wouldn’t be accused of “special” treatment. Missy had always been the perfect 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 of the real me. Being in that AP class validated me. It justified my belief that I did not belong in a special education class. I was AP History material, and I’d clung all day to the idea that AP History was my salvation. It would deliver me from evil.

  Unfortunately, it wasn’t deliverance. It was the doorway to another level of Hell.

  Sixth hour started with my usual level of frustration. I’d misplaced my map and spilled water on my schedule. To make a long story short, I was still trying to decipher the room number well after the bell had rung. It was 200, 203, or 208. Through a process of elimination, I finally found it—but class had been in session for at least fifteen minutes already. I opened the door, heard the teacher’s voice, and froze.

  “Well, Miss Hart? Are you joining us?”

  “I’m looking for AP History?”

  “And you found it.”

  “But . . .” I frowned. “Why are you here?”

  “I could ask you the same question,” Mr. Dellian said. “Once again, you’re wasting my class time. If you are staying, take a seat.”

  I’m sure my mouth dropped open; I was so shocked and infuriated, I think I even forgot to breathe. I know I forgot 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 didn’t belong in Special Ed. I wanted an AP teacher, not the SPED teacher, my SPED teacher.

  “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 d
ressed 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?”

  Thirty-nine days before

  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.