Farsighted (Farsighted Series) (2 page)

To add the finishing touch to my first-day-of-school look, I slip my new cool guy glasses—er, sunglasses—on over my nose. The lenses are extra thick. Probably, if I wanted, I could sleep in class and no teacher would ever notice. But I’m not like that; I like to learn.

“Honey?” Mom calls from the end of the hallway. “Are you ready?”

“Yeah, I’m coming,” I yell back. “Just a sec.” I fiddle with my boots, trying to stuff my pants into them, so no one at school sees they’re too short. I’m sure this makes me look even more like a teenage Paul Bunyan than usual, but I don’t care. The boots are comfortable and help support my ankles. Anyway I could probably wear nothing but expensive designer clothes and still be considered a freak.

Before standing, I run my hands over my feet. The right boot has a long narrow indentation across the toe. They
are
scuffed. Great. With a drawn-out sigh, I pick up my backpack and walk over to the kitchen where Mom is waiting. She has way too much energy for this early in the day.

“Yogurt with berries fresh from the garden,” she says, placing a glass in my hand. “You can eat in the car.”

“Thanks, Mom.” I jab a heaping spoonful into my mouth and finish it in five huge bites. Then I grab my cane from the hook near the front door, loop the cord around my wrist, and follow Mom out to the driveway where the old family van is parked. As she shifts the rattling car into drive, sadness washes over me.

I’m almost sixteen, but it will be a long time, if ever, before I can get around by myself. I’ve heard rumors about a new technology that makes it possible for blind people to drive, but we’ll never be able to afford it. Not yet, anyway. Someday, I’ll make enough on my own to be able to buy whatever I want, including a car. Until then, either my parents or public transportation will remain my designated mode of travel. I just wish we had a bus system in this crappy small town.

Mom drives the twelve minutes to school, talking non-stop about new beginnings and the “carefree happiness of youth.” When the van stops, I take a deep breath and wrap my fingers around the door handle, ready to find out what’s in store for me this year at Grandon High.

“Hey, Alex?” Mom stops me just as I’m about to step out onto the concrete. I pause and wait. “Have a good day at school.”

“I will.”

“Dad’ll pick you up and bring you to the shop in the afternoon, okay?”

“Okay. Bye, Mom.” The longer we draw this scene out, the higher the chances of her kissing me on the head or calling me her “little sapling.” I just can’t risk starting out the year on such an embarrassing note.

I get out of the car and head straight inside the building. Mom always pulls up to the center of the walkway, which means I just have to walk straight to the front door of the school. Dad just parks wherever there is space and leaves me to figure it out for myself. As I approach the high school, I hear a bunch of kids hanging around outside, chatting away about their summers, getting back into the swing of things. They don’t notice me as I slink by and make my way to first hour English—I memorized the location of all of my classes during the summer, so I wouldn’t embarrass myself by getting lost or arriving after the bell rings.

Entering the classroom, I drop my backpack on the floor, and prop my cane between the seat and the desk; that way it’s near at hand and easy to get later. Nobody else is here, not even the teacher. Bored already, I decide to go get a drink of water from the fountain. As I’m rounding the corner of the familiar hall, the air gets heavy like it does after a rainstorm. The aroma of wet grass and asphalt overpowers my senses. This definitely seems out of place for a high school hallway.

“Hey, Alex, how was it today?” Dad asks, sounding like he’s in a much better mood than usual.

I turn around in shock. What is my Dad doing here? Mom
just
dropped me off. Dad should be in bed still, not here at school embarrassing me.

“Dad?” I ask tentatively. “Dad, what are you doing here?”

“I’m not your daddy, you no-eyed freak!” comes the voice of Brady Evans, the running-back of the school’s Junior Varsity football team and my biggest enemy.

The air becomes lighter, as if a vacuum cleaner has sucked up all the humidity. The fragrance of sweat and Axe deodorant spray fills my nostrils. I’m totally confused now.

“Brady?”

“No, it’s your daddy. Loser…” Laughter comes from at least six different people, most of them girls.

“Sorry,” I mumble and head back to English class, forgetting to get my drink of water. Brady and his entourage follow me in, making jokes at my expense.

I put my head down on my desk, wishing I was a chameleon so I could become one with the furniture and fade out of view. Being a reptile couldn’t be much worse than having to endure high school.

“Mr. Kosmitoras, could you please come here?” the teacher calls, butchering the pronunciation of my name.

“Um, it’s
Caas-me-toe-rh-aas
actually,” I respond, getting up and walking over to the teacher’s desk at the front of the room. Brady and his friends are still laughing. I hope they’ve moved onto a new topic.

“Not all of your textbooks for the year have come in yet. We’re starting out using a basic reader, but that hasn’t shipped. So, you’ll have to take good notes,” she says, plopping a series of thick books into my hands. “Then we’ll be moving on to
The Odyssey
and finally
Romeo and Juliet
. I have the first several volumes of
The Odyssey
for you now and am storing the rest in my supply closet until you need them. That basic reader should be in by the end of the week, okay?”

“Okay, thanks,” I mutter and head back to my seat. I begin skimming
The Odyssey
, flipping through several pages at once, trailing my finger over random little snippets of text. Since no school around here caters specifically to visually impaired kids, my teachers special-order textbooks in braille for me. Most of the time, the books come in at least six volumes. That’s the only exception I need to get by, really. Except for a few limitations, I can do anything other kids my age do. I’ve been this way my whole life; I know how to make it work.

Bit by bit, the other students trickle into the class. Someone who smells like cherry candy sits down across the room. Then, a series of loud thuds comes from that direction—she must’ve dropped her books.

“Simmi! Simmi, jeez! Don’t make so much noise!” says some boy, who sounds a bit like Brady, but I don’t think is Brady. I don’t know anybody named Simmi, so this girl must be a new student. Why’s this boy being so mean to her already? Hope rises within me. Maybe she’ll be an outcast, too; the two of us could team up.

The bell rings, taking away the cherries. I don’t pay any attention to the teacher as she introduces herself to the class. Instead, I think about the strange things that have been happening today. What was in that briefcase in the hall this morning, and why couldn’t I open it? Why did I think Brady Evans was my dad? Why do we have to read
Romeo and Juliet
this year in English class? We’re less than five minutes into first period, and my hopes for the new year are pretty much dashed.

Chapter 2

The traveler is full of untapped potential that he only now begins to realize. Sudden changes will complicate his life at first but eventually contribute to his greater well-being. The boy will soon become a man.

I spend the rest of English class trying to fade into the background, to disappear. The teacher doesn’t call on me, so I guess it works. Classes go by with boring predictability:  the teacher mispronounces my name, gives me a stack of bulky braille books with some excuse as to why the rest aren’t in yet, and drones on about how we’re going to work hard and learn lots this year.

It seems like the monotony will never end, when finally the moment I’ve been waiting for all day arrives:  the start of fifth period. Sometimes my blindness comes in handy. For instance, phys-ed is a basic requirement this year, but the school doesn’t want me to get hurt, so they are exempting me, which means I get to take whatever I want to fill the gap in my schedule. I’ve decided on Advanced Chemistry, a course usually only offered to juniors and seniors. Since other sophomores won’t be in this class, I might be left alone for once.

Basic Chemistry was my favorite class last year and happens to be the most important subject for becoming a medical researcher. I’ve only got three years left of high school, then it’s onto a world class pre-med program, and I’m going to need to have a super high GPA in order to get the full scholarship I’ll need to make it happen.

Arriving at the chem lab, I stride across the room and take a seat in the back corner where I will be less conspicuous. I hoist myself up onto the raised stool and trail my hands over the worktable. It’s a little bit slimy, like it’s been coated with wax. Hand-carved etchings pepper the surface. In the lower right corner, somebody’s scratched in “I e B. E.” Eww, B. E.—Brady Evans. Why do girls like him so much? He must be really good looking, because he’s a complete jerk.

My new classmates come in and begin to fill up the other work stations. I hope no one sits next to me. I prefer to work alone. When the bell rings, I’m still sitting by myself, just the way I like it. The teacher comes by and places the first and second volumes of my special-order Advanced Chemistry book in front of me, then returns to the front of the class.

“Good afternoon, students,” he says in a nasally, intellectual voice. “I’m Dr. Brown, so-called, because I have received my doctorate degree in chemistry.” He pauses to let his academic superiority sink in.

“I’m Dr. Brown…” A student whispers, mocking the teacher’s unusual speaking voice.

“So what is he doing here? Shouldn’t he go teach at a college or something?” someone else asks with a giggle.

Dr. Brown either doesn’t hear or chooses to ignore the commentary. He continues his introduction, “I expect the best from each and every one of you, which is why I will not be grading on a curve. If merited, I will fail the entire class.”

Everyone groans and grumbles at this news. Someone even walks out of the room. Dr. Brown pauses again before continuing. Yeesh, how long is this going to take?

“If merited, I will also grant everyone in the class an
A
. Put your best work forward, be mindful of the discipline, and let’s enter the exciting world of Advanced Chemistry together. Chemistry is a study in which—”

The door creaks open, stopping Dr. Brown mid-speech. Soft footsteps approach, bringing the scent of almond oil and a mild sensation of electricity with them.

Dr. Brown clears his throat, dropping his voice to a more threatening, less nasal octave. “I will not tolerate tardiness. It is disrespectful of my time as well as to the remaining, punctual portion of the class.” I detect the slightest bit of fear in his voice—maybe he was picked on as a kid, too, and is worried about losing his tightly-wrapped control this early in the school year.

The footfalls continue, the stool beside me pulls out, and someone sits down making almost no sound with the movement. “I apologize, Dr. Brown.” Her voice floats past me, swaying rhythmically, creating the sweetest song imaginable. “I’m new here and had trouble finding the classroom.”

“Oh, you’re Dr. Shergill’s daughter, are you? Hmm…” Dr. Brown pauses and raps his fingers on the edge of his desk. “I suppose I can make an exception, since this
is
the first day of the term. Mind you, I will not make an exception like this again.”

“Thank you, sir. I promise you won’t need to.” She settles into her seat and pulls a few things from her bag as Dr. Brown carries on with his lecture about the importance of chemistry. Since this is an elective course, he doesn’t need to work hard to convince us. Still, I suspect a few more students may drop out after hearing Dr. Brown’s strict grading policy.

The bell rings. Before I can get up and make my way to sixth hour World History, a soft hand on my shoulder stops me. I turn around to face the source of the musical voice and alluring fragrance.

“Hello, I’m Simran. Simran Kaur Shergill,” she says, her sweet tone rolling over me in calming waves. “Call me Simmi, if you like.”

“Hi, Simmi.” She seems nice enough, and I like the exotic cadence of her voice. “I’m Alex.”

“Hello, Alex. Would you mind helping me? I’m getting a bit lost, and I don’t want to be late again to the next period.”

“Sure,” I say, feeling heroic. “How can I help?”

“I’m not sure how to find my next class. World History with Mrs. Warszynski?” She stumbles over the name.

“Oh, you can come with me. World History is my next class, too.” I rise to my feet, throw my backpack over my shoulder, and put my cane out before me.

Simmi’s level breathing halts. “I-I didn’t realize you were… I can ask somebody else to help me…”

“It’s okay. I know my way around just as good as anybody. C’mon,” I say, walking a bit quicker than usual to prove my directional competence to her.

“Okay, thanks.” She walks in line with me smoothly, her feet pattering against the floor in light, quiet steps.