Chapter 1

ADV ENG LIT, 11:00 – 12:00, MWF, ANDREWS HALL, DR WILSON

I hurriedly surveyed the classroom. Two-person tables with two chairs behind each. Back rows almost full, front row almost empty. A beautiful blonde girl at a desk near the wall. An empty space between her and the wall. I chose quickly, picked the seat where my left side would be next to the wall, and squeezed in. I wrestled my back pack off, put it on the desk, sat down, and pulled out my notebook.

I quickly glanced at the girl next to me. She had a recording device on the table in front of her and her right hand was on it. She moved her left hand and knocked a small brush off the table. It landed between our chairs. I waited for her to pick it up. She didn’t. I wondered why. I leaned over to her side and picked it up. I saw why. Under the desk there was a brief case and a folding white cane on the floor beside it.

I held the brush in front of her. She didn’t see it. I leaned over, touched her on her arm, and whispered that she had dropped her brush. She held out her hand in front of her and I put the brush in it.

“I’m Michael Rossi,” I whispered.

Dr. Wilson walked up behind the podium and I turned to look straight ahead.

The girl looked straight ahead and whispered back, “I’m Alexandra Andreas.”

“Our ancestors were almost neighbors,” I whispered. She turned her head toward me and grinned. She probably knew I was referring to our countries of ancestry.

Dr. Wilson looked around the room and I saw her smile when she saw Alexandra. That told me she knew her. I turned my face to look directly at the teacher and her smile disappeared. I knew why. That was the usual reaction when people saw my face.

During class, I kept sneaking glances at Alexandra and then paying attention to Dr. Wilson. Alexandra was a stunningly beautiful young woman. Her hair was very light brown with blond streaks, neatly parted and combed, just barely down to her neck, and not much longer than mine. Her nose was absolute perfection with a cute little curve at the end. Her lips were full and kissable and I couldn’t see any lipstick. Her neck was long and slim. Her breasts were small and her slight waist flared out into womanly hips. She was probably as beautiful as any woman I’d ever seen. I guessed her age at about nineteen, the same as mine.

She was dressed in dark blue shorts and a white blouse with a yellow sweater thrown over her shoulders. The blue shorts came down almost to her knees. Her legs were smooth and hairless and beautiful. How does a blind woman shave her legs? Cute blue and yellow striped socks with white sneakers. How does a blind woman color coordinate her outfit? If she can’t see, does she know how beautiful she is?

When class was over, Alexandra reached down for her briefcase, opened it, and put the recorder in it. I saw a lunch box. She picked up her cane, let it unfold, and waited until almost everyone else had left before she stood up. I stood up and slung my backpack, with my lunch box inside, on my back. On impulse I took a chance and touched her arm.

“Alexandra, would you have lunch with me? I bring my lunch too. I’m going to the tables in the outdoor area near the library. That’s where I usually eat. It’s in the shade and not many people use it. Since Dr. Wilson took a seating chart, it looks like we’ll be sitting next to each other for the summer.”

She hesitated just a few seconds. “Yes, Michael. May I hold your arm and would you carry my briefcase? I won’t be so slow if you will.”

“Yes, you may, and yes, I will,” I said.

“Have you ever walked with a blind person before, Michael?”

“No.”

“Would you mind if I train you a little? There’s an art to helping someone who can’t see. You will be my eyes while we walk.”

I blurted out something. “You have beautiful blue eyes, Alexandra.”

“What color are yours, Michael?”

“Brown, just plain old brown. My hair is brown too.”

I took her briefcase in my right hand and offered my left arm to her. When she just stood there, I nudged her with my forearm. She put her hand on my forearm, moved down to my hand, examined it carefully, moved back up to my forearm, felt it, moved up to my shoulder and squeezed, and then moved to my bicep and squeezed again. Then she hooked her arm over mine and fumbled for my hand. We managed to get our fingers interlaced and for the first time I held her soft girl hand in mine.

We walked through the usual crowds to the library with her arm hooked over mine and with her holding my hand. I whispered to her as we walked, telling her when I saw anything she might trip over on the sidewalk. She found each bump with her cane and hardly relied on it unless I said something. I hoped I was doing it right. I liked the way I felt with her holding on to me.

I told her we were at the tables and she tapped the table and the seat with her cane and then carefully sat down, good posture, body straight, head held high. I put her briefcase in front of her, my backpack in front of me, and we ate. We both had brought sandwiches and fruit. I cut my orange into slices the way I like it, offered her a slice, and she accepted it. She asked me to core her apple and cut it into quarters. She offered me a quarter and I accepted it.

I found it hard to believe she was blind. She managed everything well and seemed to keep her eyes on my face most of the time. She had brought a drink bottle and she seemed to know where it was every time she reached for it.

We talked a little, mainly about the English class and our assignments in it. I told her I liked to read and she said she couldn’t read but she liked to listen to books on her tablet or on her computer. She said she had some small in-ear blue tooth headphones that she used when she was listening to books and some over-the-ear ones for music when the sound quality mattered. She said she loved Broadway musicals and classical music and enjoyed music when she was helping clean the house.

I kept my eyes on her face most of the time, most, because I looked at her breasts a little, and I felt like I could look at her forever. She was the epitome of a beautiful young woman, a tall slim blonde. I wondered what she would say if she could see my face.

All too quickly she pressed something on her watch and it told her the time, and she said she had to go to her next class. Again, hand in hand, fingers interlaced, I walked her to the classroom building and led her to the front door. She walked confidently, hardly using her cane, and trusting me to lead her. A guy opened the door for her, I told her, and she went inside. I stood there watching her as long as I could. I felt good helping her and I hated to let her go by herself.

On Wednesday, we followed the same routine. After class, she grasped my arm when I bumped her, found my hand, held her cane up not even touching the ground, and we went to the tables again.

She told me her friends called her Alex. I told her mine called me Mike. We talked about families while we ate. Her mother was a nurse who worked at the University health center. Her father was an Army officer in ROTC. She had sixteen-year-old identical-twin brothers, Anthony and Zorba, and when she or her parents wanted to talk to both of them their name was Azee. They were both pains in the ass but she loved them anyway.

“My brothers are really identical, Mike. I can tell them apart by their voices. Dad usually can’t. Mom usually knows the difference. They never got punished as kids. They would both stand there and point at each other, pretending to cry, and say the same thing at the same time: I didn’t do it, Dad; he did.”

I told her my mother was the culinary director at the University, in charge of all the dorm feeding sites. My father was a full professor in the math department. I had a sixteen year old sister named Gianna who was probably a bigger pain in the ass but I loved her too.

Then she asked, “May I see you, Mike?”

I was confused. “How... ?”

“Mike, I lost my vision from a head injury when I was twelve. Now, my hands are sometimes my eyes. May I touch you on your body so I can know what you look like?”

“It’s OK as long it’s not below the belt,” I said, smart-ass, to see how she would react.

“That’s OK. I don’t want to see you there,” she paused. “Not yet anyway.”

She giggled and smiled. I smiled back at her and wished she could see me smile. I liked her riposte.

She walked around the table, not using her cane, just trailing her fingertips over everything, until she was standing behind me. I carefully turned around to face her but I was glad she couldn’t really see my face. While I sat there, she looked at me, if that what it’s called, maybe saw me, with her hands.

First she touched my hair with both hands. I was proud of my thick head of dark brown hair. In front I let it hang down almost to my eyebrows so it covered most of my forehead. On the side it covered my ears. In back, I let it curl up on my neck.

Then she put her left hand on my right cheek and used the right one to touch me all over my face, my closed eyes, my nose, my lips, my chin, my ear, and last back to my lips again. I squirmed a little. Something in my shorts wanted more room. I wondered why she smiled. Did she know the effect her touch had on me?

“Lift your right arm,” she said and I did.

With both hands she examined my hand, my forearm, my bicep, my shoulder, and then wrapped both hands around my bicep.

“Tighten your muscles,” she said and I did. I was proud of the body my father’s genes had given me. I had exercised for years to develop it. I wasn’t muscle-bound, just lean and hard. She tried to squeeze my tight bicep. I smiled when she couldn’t. She did too.

She touched me down my chest and belly all the way to my belt. I tightened my stomach muscles so she could feel my six-pack. Maybe she knew I was showing off. She smiled again. I caught her hand in mine, brought her fingers up to my mouth, and traced my lips from one corner to the other.

“You’re smiling,” she whispered.

“Yes, and I wanted you to know it,” I whispered back.

When she had seen enough, she rendered a verdict. “You’re beautiful, Michael: a full head of hair, no zits on your face, just soft smooth skin, a cute little boy’s nose, full lips, strong chin. You’re tall and lean and hard, maybe a little skinny. I like the way you look. Are you beautiful?”

“My Mom and Gianna say I am.”

“How tall are you? How much do you weigh?”

“I’m six three, one seventy-five.”

“I’m five ten, one twenty. Am I too skinny, Mike?”

“No, you’re perfect, Alex. You’re perfect and you’re beautiful.”

I wanted to tell her. She couldn’t see what others saw. How could she? How would she react?

“Alex, there’s something on my face you can’t see. Do you know what a port-wine stain is?”

“Yes, but I’ve never seen one,” she said, and held out her hand with one finger pointed. “Can you show me?”

I guided her finger into my hair a little and stopped.

“It’s a big one. It begins under my hair on the left side of my face and goes all the way down to my throat.”

I traced her finger down my forehead, around my eye, over my cheek almost to my nose, down to the corner of my mouth, down to my throat, and stopped. I tried to swallow but it was difficult. I didn’t want her to react like most girls when they saw my face. I wanted her to accept me the way I was.

“It covers most of the left side of my face and even down on my throat a little. It extends back over my cheek almost to my left ear. It’s dark red now. It was lighter when I was a kid.”

“Can’t you have it removed?”

“Maybe. Removal is a long hard process, expensive too, but my parent’s insurance would cover it. Sometimes the skin becomes hard and pebbly. Mine hasn’t. You couldn’t tell the difference; could you?”

She shook her head. “No. Why haven’t you had it removed?”

“It doesn’t bother me, Alex. I suppose I like having it. It’s me. It separates the wheat from the chaff.”

“What do you mean?”

“My family and my grandparents know me and love me anyway. It doesn’t bother them. I have lots of friends and they’re the same way. They accept me for what I am, Alex, not for how I look. There’re always some who can’t get past my red half to see the other side of me. They’re the chaff. My family and friends are the wheat.”

“I still think you’re beautiful, Michael. I hope you’ll let me be part of the wheat.”

“That’s not the only place where I’ve got a stain, Alex. There’s one below my belt.”

She grinned. “Where?”

“On my butt, on the left side. It’s shaped a little like Africa, about four inches long.”

“What did you say? What’s four inches long?” she asked and grinned.

I caught her hand in mine, moved it to my mouth, and showed her my smile again. She moved my hand to her mouth and let my fingertips trace her smile.

She stepped back, feeling for the table, and I stood up. Then she stepped forward and we collided. I quickly put my arms around her, held her tightly for a moment, and then released her. I didn’t want to scare her by holding her too tightly but she was evidently not frightened. She put her arms around me and we lightly held each other.

Her hair brushed my chin and I smelled something, perhaps shampoo, something fresh and clean and nice. I felt one soft breast against my chest and one thigh against mine and I didn’t want to let her go.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I thought you were going to fall.”

“I’m OK, Michael,” she whispered back. “Believe it or not, I rarely fall. I think my sense of balance is probably better than yours.”

“Well, anyway, it’s nice holding you.”

“Yes, it is but perhaps you’d better let me go ... in a minute or so.”

Gianna was waiting for me when I got home. I hugged her as usual, kissed her on the cheek, and held up my hand. She understood I needed to do something before I answered her questions. I dropped my backpack outside the bathroom door, had a much-needed piss, and went in the kitchen. She was waiting for me.

“Well, tell me.”

“Can you wait a while? I need to start dinner. Dad’s got a night MBA class this summer and he has to eat early. I want to have dinner ready by five so Dad can leave at six. Mom said she’d be home too. We’ll go for a walk after dinner.”