Blind Read Online Free Page A

groping around for Logan. But she wasn’t back yet.
    “Hey, Emma,” someone else said, and I recognized Blythe Keene’s musical, twinkling voice.
    I thought maybe I could feel her gloaty, working eyes bore a hole into my face, like she was trying to melt my sunglasses and get a glimpse of the damage. But then she put her hand on my arm and said, “Welcome back.”
    I said, “Thanks,” and she left her hand on my arm, like she wanted me to know she was still there, or was going to lead me away or something. People are weirdly casual about touching me now. It’s like I have to see by feeling, so everyone gets to feel me. Or maybe they just don’t want to shock me; it’s like the animal way of warning some other animal that you’re nearby and aren’t going to pounce. The truth is, I was surprised Blythe had come up to me at all. She’s like a dream girl, beautiful and funny and, I don’t know, herself, I guess. She doesn’t try as hard as everyone else, and she never has. I don’t know why. She didn’t ask how I was, and I was glad.
    But then I couldn’t think of anything to say and we were standing with her hand on my arm, so I asked how she was.
    She said, “I’m managing,” which was very Blythe—honest, not insane or melodramatic or anything, just okay and true. Because Blythe and Claire were best friends like Logan and I are. Inseparable. So even though Blythe’s life is perfect in every way, it’s also ruined. Then she offered, super casually, to walk with me to art. She wasn’t like, “Can I medevac your basket-case ass to art class because you’re blind flying the halls”; she just said, “Wanna walk to Fister’s together?” like we were old friends. Which I guess we are, in a way. I mean, I’ve known Blythe my whole life, but it’s not like she’s ever really paid attention to me.
    I tried to say, “Sure, thanks,” in a normal human voice, without crying or throwing myself into Blythe’s arms. I didn’t wait for Logan, just followed Blythe like a pitiful puppy.
    When Blythe said, “Hey, Zach,” my heart catapulted up into my throat. Zach Haze. I tried not to rock, not to turn my head too wildly toward the sound of his voice when he said, “Hey, Blythe. Hey, Emma, nice dog,” as if nothing had happened, a year and a half hadn’t passed, I hadn’t been blinded, and I hadn’t brought my K9 buddy dog to Lake Main after missing ninth grade. As if I weren’t an invalid. I knew if I opened my mouth I would barf my heart straight into the hallway, so I stayed mute, as usual. I’ve never been able to talk to Zach Haze. Once, in sixth grade, right after Benj was born, Zach asked me if my family was Catholic, even though he must have known we’re not, since my family is famously the only Jewish one ever to live in Sauberg. I’ll never know why Zach asked, because I tried so desperately to think of a fascinating answer that would engage him forever that I stood there for ten minutes like an absolute salt statue. And then he assumed there was something profoundly wrong with me, and never spoke to me again. Which is a tragedy, because I love him desperately. I always have. And he’s one of the few people who has only been made better by my new ability to listen closely: his voice is amazing, deep and smooth and patient—not like he’s slow or searching for the right word, but like he has all the time in the world to talk to you, and wants to mean what he says, so he gets his words right. They always sound sweetly musical, and you can feel the vibration of his voice coming up from the floor, so it shakes you up a little, makes your bones rattle and chatter.
    As soon as Blythe and I got to the art room, Mrs. Fincter, alternately called by everyone Fister, Sphincter, or Spinster, pulled me aside to say, “I heard you were going to be in this section. Do you think you can handle a regular art class?”
    As opposed to what? Not handling it? Dying? Taking an irregular art class? I waited