Then Asha pulls one knee up under her chin and hugs it, considering. “Maybe we should have a séance.”
The idea of Mason being controlled in some sort of occult ceremony makes me shiver. “Ew, gross,” I say, scrambling in my head for a way to change the subject so Asha doesn’t get too enthusiastic about this.
“C’mon. It would be just like in the movies! Worst-case scenario we have a fun night of eerie mystery, but best case? Best case we actually get some sort of message from him.”
“That would be so freaking cool.” Jeff looks entranced.
“No, people, no way are we doing that. Mason would not be about that sort of thing. Plus—” I know this is a little risky in terms of revealing my odd close encounters, but I say it anyway. “If Mason is still around, I would want him to visit on his own terms. I wouldn’t want to force it. Maybe he can come to us organically if we let him, if we pay attention.” The faces looking back at me have confused eyebrows. I try to cover. “You know, like in our hearts and thoughts.”
Lucia reaches across the table and touches my hand. “I get it,” she says. “He lives on through us.”
Maybe more than you realize, I think. Who knows, he might be here at school somewhere right now. Maybe he’ll sit down in his seat in a second. But out loud I just say, “Yeah.”
Lucia looks hopeful again. “And if he’s okay, then we can be okay, too.”
I’m not sure how big an “if” that is.
“We’re so okay that we’re going to run a 5K for the Epilepsy Foundation,” says Asha now. “We’ll let the adults take care of their own business. Give me some flyers for this excellent cause.I don’t know why I wasn’t more supportive from the start. You’re an inspiration, Miss Lucia Spataro.”
“I know,” says Lucia, showing a little attitude because she knows Asha will appreciate it. “And I’m not even done. Next on my list is a boating safety drive.”
“How about starting a Doofus Foundation?” says Jeff now. “’Cause one thing’s for sure. He was a total and complete doofus.” We all smile and nod like that was the most reverent and loving thing Jeff could have said. And it sort of was.
I stretch out my legs and touch Mason’s seat with my toe.
When I step outside of school after lunch, a couple drops of icy drizzle land right down the back of my neck. My mom is waiting at the curb, engine idling. I hustle into the front seat and arrange my backpack at my feet as the car pulls away. I know most people love getting to miss school, but whenever my mom comes to pick me up early, it always seems to be for something even more unpleasant than the excruciating boredom of health class. Like getting an HPV vaccine, or passport photos, or, in this case, for an ophthalmologist appointment. Mr. Price was leaning in through my mom’s passenger-side window the other night after rehearsal, reliving my mortifying moment in detail, and I guess it was alarming enough that my mom decided to take action.
“But, Mom, it’s not that I didn’t see the pole,” I say again, making one more attempt to get out of this unnecessary ordeal. “I just wasn’t looking where I was going,”
“We’re going to get you checked out,” she says firmly.
“But, Mom, I swear, I was just … distracted.” The bulk of my ponytail is uncomfortable against the car’s headrest. I pull out the rubber band and start winding a low braid, taking my frustration out on each section of hair as I yank it tight.
“Henrietta, please. With your father’s history? Frankly, we’re overdue on this.”
She clearly wants to have this appointment to rule out thepossibility of blindness. But she doesn’t have all the data points I do, experiences that suggest this appointment might do the exact opposite. It might rule itin. One thing she doesn’t know, for example, is that when I go to the movies with my friends I always make sure to get there early, because if the lights are already dimmed I’ll get stranded in the aisle while the people I’m with evaporate. Then I’ll have to start fumbling around for armrests until one of my friends finally notices and grabs me, jokingly asking if I’m drunk. I’m so familiar with that feeling, the one where I’m the biggest dork in the world, and I definitely do not want some doctor to tell me that soon I’m going to feel that way all the time.
Because there was a chance of a thunderstorm, Mom picked me up thirty minutes earlier than she needed to, and now we’re almost forty-five minutes early to my appointment. Apparently, according to my mom, this doctor is at the forefront of retinal diseases, and so we drove the fifty miles to Upstate Medical Center to see her. We walk in the office, and everyone else in the waiting room is about two hundred years old. I can’t possibly belong here, can I? One of the ancient ladies looks up at me sort of shocked, clearly thinking the same thing, like I must be there to cause trouble or walk on her flower bed or something. I stifle an urge to give her the finger. In fact, I want to give the whole office the finger. The very best possible outcome of this appointment is that we’re here for no reason, which is preferable, but also dumb.
When my mom planned this lovely early arrival, she wasdefinitely not factoring in how much time it would leave for panicking. I sit there with my Global Studies book open, not reading it, not even really thinking, just sort of clenching my whole body. I try to think about my upcoming night with Richard, what I will wear and what the first thing I say should be, but the reality of my surroundings makes it impossible. My heart feels like it’s bracing itself for an oncoming blow. Every five minutes or so, a nurse appears at the door with a clipboard and calls out a name that isn’t mine. Then one of my waiting room companions, decrepit and crumbling, starts the process of gathering up their purse and sweater and scarf and mittens and entire wardrobe that they have piled on the chair next to them, double-checking for their purse, and then shuffling inch by inch across the waiting room carpet. It’s like a performance art piece to show what forever looks like.
Finally, the clipboard has my name on it. I slip my book in my backpack, zip it, and stand up. I’ve kept my jacket on, even though I realize now that I’ve been hot this whole time.
“Should I come with you?” My mom moves to get out of her chair.
“No,” I say, without turning my head toward her. Let’s get this over with.
They take me back to a low-lit room with a contraption that looks like a bowl suspended on its side. In front of the bowl is a little chin rest lined with clean gauze, a flat bar several inches above to lean your forehead into, and a chair. Your standard torture device.
I hear clicking and make out a technician sitting in the corner on a computer, inputting data or something. He’s big, with massive legs and shoulders, like his only other activity besides checking eyes is pumping iron, like he might even be scary if he didn’t have scrubs on. I cough.
The technician looks up. “Henrietta?” he asks in a deep voice that goes with his frame. I hate it when people call me by my full name, but that’s what’s on every official form in the world, so if they don’t know me personally, that’s what they call me.
I give a smile that doesn’t turn up at the corners. “Here,” I say.
“Have a seat. We’re going to do a periphery test before we dilate your eyes. It’s sort of a game.” He hands me a plastic joystick attached to a cord. “Go ahead and relax onto the chin rest and stare directly at the red dot in the middle of the field.”
I follow directions and suppress a snort at the idea that anything about this could be relaxing.
