Book Covers

Chapter 27

Tyler Emery 

I shadowed Charlotte to her first class, standing on her right side, so that I could pretend that I was still alive, and I could reach out and hold her hand if I wanted to. The dreary hallways of Winston Churchill High School were empty that morning as Charlotte's cane scratched back and forth on the speckled linoleum. It reminded me of when I stayed after school for detention for things like not answering a single question on a test or the time I ninja rolled into class after lunch. I would walk into Mrs. Duff's or Mr. Ward's classroom, prepared for an hour of scrubbing desks or copying pages out of a dictionary, and feel almost at peace with the world. An empty high school could do wonders for a teenager's soul. We spend so much time here against our wills, with pressure and expectations hurled at us from every direction, that we come to associate the building with the experience. But if you strip away the rioting teenagers and glaring teachers, or the terrible slop served at lunch and the hawk-like administrators, a high school is just a building. A building with echoing hallways that make you want to ninja roll down them, and squeaky doors that are surprisingly charming when they're not slammed in anger. We don't hate the school itself. We hate everything associated with it.

Charlie's head was ducked as she tugged open the door to her first period; her teacher immediately stopped writing on the board and enveloped Charlie in a hug. The woman rubbed the girl's back and asked how her night was, her voice warm and considerate. Charlie's cheeks reddened below her sunglasses, and I wondered how she viewed our conversation in the Darkness.

 In order to get back in the house last night after my small act of rebellion, I had to stand by the front door and wait for two hours for Mr. O'Brien to take the trash out. The only company I had was a plastic flamingo stuck crookedly into the dying lawn; I named him Drew because one night, after a few beers stolen from my brother, Drew told me that he was almost positive that he was a flamingo in a past life. He said it was because he liked shrimp so much. At the time I had laughed at him. At the time I had told him that I must have been a seagull because of my tendency to annoy anyone I came in contact with. But now, now I would give up everything to be in that moment again, to tell Drew that of course he was a flamingo at one point, it made perfect sense. I was really starting to realize that it was the smallest moments, the things that happen and almost immediately forget, those are the moments that hurt the most.

During my reverie, Charlie stuttered out an answer, something about how much homework she had, and gratefully took her seat. I smirked at her, thinking about how she had done half of her homework then spent the rest of her night reading old notebooks and listening to the horrible screeching she called music. The teacher looked at my Charlie for a moment longer, her eyebrows pulled low over her glasses, before she finally returned to writing on the board, her teeth pulling on her lower lip. She was giving Charlie the same look that most people gave her: a look of wanting to help, almost needing to help, but knowing that they couldn't, that they wouldn't be allowed to, because she was so ridiculously independent. She didn't know it, but Charlie inspired the best in everyone she came in contact with. Well, everyone except Ric of course.

 Charlotte pulled her Braille typewriter out of her backpack and set it on her desk with a slight clank. Her actions were confident and deliberate, a stark contrast to the girl who stumbled out of the counselor's office and hid in the hallway for half a period. I was so proud of her; I was almost bursting with it. But even though she had come a long way, that blind school was still hanging over her like a pendulum, ready to drop down on her the minute her resolve faltered. A couple days ago I heard her repeat the word "Everest" as she was typing up an essay, every few minutes until it was done and printed.