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Chapter 4

Charlotte O'Brien

The school hallway was frigid, raising goosebumps on my sweater-covered arms. My sneakers squeaked on the linoleum tile, and my cane scratched distinctly as I swung it back and forth. I heard the wheels of a janitor's cart, the labored breathing of a late student, struggling under a heavy back pack, and the muffled giggles of two girls skipping class. The whole institution smelled like a hospital, like the one we had to go to when my dad had severe chest pains after Christmas dinner last winter.

I walked quickly down the hallway, following a mental map that had been perfected after years of sauntering through the echoing halls of Winston Churchill High School. A locker slammed halfway down the hallway and I jumped, my heart racing in my chest like a frightened rabbit. I tightened my grip on my backpack and quickened my pace, my cane sweeping back and forth more hastily than before.

Ric and Braylynn loved their lockers; Ric's was filled with old CDs, MP3s with missing buttons, iPods with cracked screens, earbuds, headphones, pencils, pens, and balled up papers. He could barely open the metal thing without something falling to the floor. Braylynn had carted all of her spare make up and make up supplies to shove into every crevice of her locker so she could touch up every aspect of her "gothic physique" between each period. I truly didn't have a need for one. Not when I had Donovan.

I considered retracing my steps, back to our conference room, back to where Donovan was probably writing a strongly worded email to my mother, back to the smooth jazz music and all of tonight's homework. I would apologize to him, because he could never truly understand, no matter how many books he read in research or how many times he copied down Braille. One couldn't get angry over something that was impossible; it was like crying because the grass was green instead of red or screaming because strawberries didn't taste like oranges. Donovan couldn't help that he didn't truly comprehend my disability, because he had been gifted with sight.

I could admit that sculpting wasn't as important as school work, but I would never be able to fully pull off that lie.

Instead I took out my phone, the phone that Oliver had so very graciously caught for me in a way that made it seem like he was only doing it for himself. It's true skill when you can make an act of charity all about you. I pulled my earbuds out of my other pocket and connected them to my phone before sliding the buds into my ears. I needed earbuds to do anything on my iPhone, unless I wanted Siri to read my texts from my dad, aloud to an entire class full of immature juniors; this morning he asked what kind of jeans I liked best because there was a sale at Old Army he could not pass up. Just because I couldn't care less about my classmates' opinions didn't mean I wanted to listen to all of their demeaning whispers with my heightened hearing.

I held down the home button until the feminine and robotic voice of Siri erupted in my ears, making me jump and squeak in surprise. I immediately froze in my place, slowly turning my head back and forth in order to detect any form of laughter or snickering. People loved to laugh at anyone's expense; if the person's disabled, it makes it that much funnier.

I didn't detect any noise except a dripping water fountain a couple paces away and sighed in relief. I pressed the home button again and told Siri "Call Personal Chauffeur." Her robotic voice told me that she was calling Personal Chauffeur, and I proceeded my trek to the front office. A door clicked open halfway down the hall behind me and I quickened my pace, feeling my way around a corner.

My dad answered on the second ring, his voice concerned and on the borderline of panic. "Charlotte? Charlotte, what's wrong? Are you hurt? Did you have an accident? Could you not find the bathroom again and you need me to bring you another pair of jeans?" In the background, I could hear his car radio barking out the latest news on the Middle East and the United Nations. My dad always said that he loved watching the teen shows with me and listening together to whatever CD Ric has most recently burned for my enjoyment, filled with obscure songs, obscure artists, and lots of violent guitar solos, but as soon as he was alone, he would turn on the news and listen to it as avidly as humanly possible. I thought it was to prove to himself that there was a world outside of his little bubble of existence.