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Chapter 8

Charlotte O'Brien

Wednesdays were like a breath of fresh air, like finally breaking the surface of a swimming pool after struggling and screaming for air. They made my week livable and worthwhile. Every free moment of Monday and Tuesday was spent daydreaming about what bust I could create next, or if I could take a step away from the faces and sculpt something completely different, like the cat we got when I was seven years old. I spent four months sculpting Eyre, named after Jane Eyre, after she died when I was thirteen; I had accidentally let the feline outside when I opened the front door. I had heard her bell, and called out for her, but the car that was invisible to me found her first. I never quite forgave myself for that.

Wednesdays were like sunshine warming my shoulders and face after a rainstorm, but Thursdays and Fridays were like frigid winters with cloaking and choking blizzards. I had absolutely nothing to look forward to except weekends that were more likely than not filled with homework and classwork that I somehow purposely forgot to do during the week, or with doctor visits where people with silent shoes and noxious odors stood over me and shined lights into my useless globes before declaring that I needed surgery. Every time they came up with some kooky and half-brained attempt to restore my eyesight and give me something that I was denied from my first scream in this world, and every time our hopes were dashed as the bandages were lifted from my eyes and the world hadn't changed. I had had twenty-six eye surgeries, and absolutely nothing had improved. It wasn't incomprehensible why I didn't put that much stock in modern medicine.

That Thursday and Friday were worse than almost any other I ever experienced. I ended up trying to complete my algebra homework on Wednesday night after sitting with a heavy heart and stomach as Braylynn and Ric teased each other mercilessly about their choices of favorite fruits and what that meant about their personalities; Ric reached out and touched my knee ever so often to let me know that he was still there and knew that I was upset. I had sat at the kitchen table after my dad picked me up and my best friends disappeared into the night to ride home in Braylynn's birthday gift from stepdad number four: a cream Volkswagon beetle that she threatened to spray paint black every time she looked at in the daylight. The numbers blurred, jumbled, and disappeared in my tangled thoughts until I was typing out the words "future, maniac, and lost" on my NoteTaker instead of all real and unreal integers that apply.

I gave up after half of the problems and simply put question marks for the rest, knowing fully well that I would never have the focus or the required attention span to sit there and completely work all of them out. Donovan told me at the end of the day on Thursday that I got a thirty on the assignment, and I quietly murmured that that was generous. He sounded furious, like he was barely keeping himself from throwing a shoe at me. It irked me beyond belief that he was so incredibly dedicated to my grades and insulted at my mediocrity. It literally had nothing to do with him; it was none of his business that I barely listened in class anymore and didn't even put forth the effort of typing out notes. I didn't say anything to him about it. I just shoved the papers in my bag and we waited in awkward silence until five minutes before the final bell when I could go to the front and leave the awful place. The creepy jazz music played in the background and I continuously felt like there was some force, looking down on us and judging the nerd with the pained expression and the girl who wore sunglasses even though she couldn't fathom the sun.

I knew that my dad was worried, because he kept mentioning that even though he was a lazy student in high school, he still picked it up and got a steady career after college. That was before he had to become the perpetual babysitter of a disabled daughter though. He also kept sneaking into my bedroom to stick my notes from class under my pillowcase and little cards with corny sayings punched in Braille like "Five out of four people have difficulty with fractions" and "If laughter is the best medicine, let's OD together" in my sock drawer.