Under the sunlight of a hot June day, Ignatius William Koehl put me under a spell. The mess of a birds-nest on his head, the slope of his nose, the angle of his mouth, the set of his jaw, the curve of his neck that fell into sharp collarbones and shoulders—I tried to erase it all. I blotted out the yellows, the golds, the peaches, the browns, the beiges and pinks. I replaced his details with generics: a mass of broad declines and sudden inclines. Ultimately Minecraft Steve sauntered into my mind's eye, and I burst out laughing.
"What's so funny?" Iggy asked, an arched eyebrow indicating the previous silence.
I waved my hand. "Nothing. It's just – what you said. It has a sort of – of – Minecraft effect."
"Minecraft. I've heard of that. The game with all the squares where you build all those different buildings?"
"Yeah. My brother is so OCD about that game. Everything has to be absolutely symmetrical. Even the landscape." I chuckled, remembering Kae's insistence on making the sand around his property into a perfect rectangle—he'd probably spent an hour poking at the squares of sand.
"Do you have a younger brother?"
"Oh, no, he's older. He's a junior in college."
"Oh, so my age."
I just about choked on my spit. "What? You're a junior? I could've sworn you were my age."
"How old are you?"
"Seventeen. I'll be eighteen next month."
Iggy shrugged. "Close enough. I'm twenty."
"Wow." I studied him, tilting my head. "You look so young though."
He chuckled, turning to face me. "And twenty-year-olds are supposed to look old?"
I pouted and crossed my arms. "If you're older than me, you're old."
His chuckle erupted into a laugh. He let his head fall back toward the sky, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose.
I had to laugh with him, the sound contagious.
Around us, the number of children had dwindled to five. They dawdled, poking at the ground or chasing squirrels or picking blades of grass. Some screamed and some talked, but most of the noise was the honking of nearby traffic, birdsong, and rustling leaves.
Once sobered, Iggy threw his arm over the back of the bench and looked to me. He leaned his head into his hand as he said, "I have a question for you. It's something I ask everyone."
I hopped in anticipated and lifted my legs to sit crisscross applesauce. "Hit me."
"Can you explain the color blue to me?"
His face filled with hard lines, and my skin crawled with the sensation of his eyes boring directly into mine. The corners of his mouth dipped down.
Images of oceans and skies and delphinium petals and crayons flashed through my mind. Blue was wet and cold and the shade of his eyes.
"Can you explain what the color blue looks like without comparing it to something you see?" His Adam's apple bobbed.
"It's wet," I told him.
His mouth stuck open. He forced it shut, opened it, closed it again. Finally he murmured, "You're the first. The first who's ever had an answer."
I smiled. "My mind doesn't work like everyone else's." I grabbed at the hem of my pastel-blue and grass-stained pants. "What does the color blue look like to you?"
"Part of the nothing." His voice was soft, a mimic of a whisper. "But I think, if I had to choose what blue was to me, it'd be music from the fifties. Big band and swing and doo-wop. Patti Page and Elvis. It's blue to me."
"Then what's yellow?"
"Country." He smirked.
I leaned forward, captivated. "I want to live in your world for a day."
He snorted. "It's rather boring in my world."
"It's still fascinating to me."
"Well, I did say you could ask me a million questions about being blind."
A broad smile tugged at the corners of my mouth. "So you'll tell me more about your boring world?"
"I don't think I have much of a choice."
I clapped my hands and squealed, "Yay! Thank you!"
He winced and rubbed his ear. "Ow. You have some vocals on you."
"My brother complains of that too."
"If multiple people have complained about it, maybe you should work on it."
I stuck my tongue out at him, a bit pleased that he couldn't see it.
"This Friday. I'll answer more of your questions. That work for you?" Iggy tilted his head.
I nodded vigorously. "Definitely! Friday. After my shift?"
"After your shift."
All the kids had left, and the workers headed home. So we did the same.
__________ __________
"What're you doing Saturday?"
Mom busied herself at the stove, tending to the kettle, while Sam sat at the kitchen island with her hands folded under her chin. They both smiled at me as I entered the kitchen.
"Why? What's Saturday?" I asked as I slid into the seat beside Sam.
The kettle screamed, and Mom poured three cups full of water. She swished the tea bags and faced us. "There's a showing at the gallery that evening. Some big buyers are coming by. I was wondering if you'd like to join me?"
"You mean those fancy shindigs where everyone's wearing their finest and sipping champagne from flutes?" Sam's eyes lit up.
I scrunched my nose. "Why would you drink alcohol from a musical instrument?"
Sam laughed, shaking her head. "Not the instrument, Ang. Flute's another word for a champagne glass."
"Fancy people." I rolled my eyes and grinned into my cup of tea.
"So what do you say, Angie?" Mom prompted. "Interested?"
I blew at the steam off my tea. "I'll be there!"
Sam and I stole away to my bedroom, leaving our mugs unwashed by the sink and sneaking off with a handful of Snickerdoodles.
Stretched out on my bed with a cookie in her hand, Sam said, "I'd love to come along with you. An art gallery sounds like a prime time to show off those sexy dresses in my closet. But alas, I have a date with Niam."
I chuckled. "You make it sound like a bad thing."
"It's not. But – I don't know. The art thing just sounds better." She crossed her legs and flashed me a crooked grin. "Speaking of sexy dresses and dates, anything new in the boy department?"
I swallowed a mouthful of Snickerdoodle, crumbs falling into my lap. "Not really. Oh! Well, on Friday, Ig—" I stopped myself short. I'd promised to keep his first name a secret. "Will agreed to keep answering my questions about being blind."
"Uh-huh. And, uh, will you and Will be all alone?" She shot me a suggestive glance.
"Samantha Nadine." I swung a pillow at her, and she laughed, fixing her hair.
She caught a piece of cookie and threw it into her mouth. "Alright, fine, vanilla. But what's this obsession with knowing about blindness? Or is it just an excuse to spend more time with him?" Her expression suggested that she already knew the answer.
My lips pursed, and I ignored the heat rushing to my cheeks. "I'm just fascinated by it, Sam. I don't know what it's like to be blind, and I want to try to understand it more."
"Or," she drawled, "you're fascinated by the boy himself, and you want to understand him more."
"Or both."
"You know, curiosity killed the cat, Ang."
"But satisfaction brought it back."
Sam erupted into laughter, covering her mouth with her hand.
"What?"
"You're just very vanilla, honey."
I crossed my arms. "Well, you're a vixen."
"Fashion terror."
"Feather face."
Sam broke into a hard laugh. "What?"
I barely managed through my chortles, "I don't even know!"
__________ __________
The following week mimicked a sort of routine: I spent the early mornings relaying the days' events to Vanessa, with a new bouquet whenever the old ones lost its petals; morning until lunch I assisted Mrs. Gibbens in her ASL class; and after lunch, I worked at the computer and the waiting room of the language evaluation department.
Sometimes, if I had prior permission from Matt, I'd linger after lunch and help with the dirty dishes. The kitchen was quite possibly my favorite place (excluding the playground): always filled with music and laughter and gossip. Justin kept us entertained as well, reenacting his scenes from previous plays or gushing about an upcoming production.
After my shift, Iggy, several other workers, and I would stay with the kids until their guardians came to pick them up. Because I often joined in the kiddy games, that week I didn't talk to Iggy much, aside from passing comments in the hallways, punctuated with 'Iggy's and 'new kid's.
Come Friday, my stomach knotted with excited butterflies. I would be alone with Iggy—offered a unique perspective of the world of a blind person. That morning I skipped downstairs, hummed while I ate my breakfast of toast and a banana, and danced as I dressed for the day.
Sam had texted me to encourage me to wear something sexy and showy, but I didn't own anything like that. So I settled on a pair of white and pink plaid cotton shorts, one of Kae's old T-shirts that had an image of a T-rex trying to do push-ups printed on it, and floral-pattern knock-off Keds. I plaited my hair into two tight French braids and tied them off with white ribbons I had decorated after graduation.
When I looked in the mirror, I mused that I just needed a teddy bear and I could pull off being twelve. I laughed, shoved my wallet, keys, scrubs, and phone into a brown purse Sam had gotten me two years ago, and headed to Hope and Miracles.
Iggy leaned against the building—the boy was two-thirds leg. He sported white distressed skinny jeans, white Converse, a white V neck, and a thin denim jacket. As usual, a chain with a cross hung around his neck. And, of course, the gold-rimmed aviator sunglasses. But in his hand he gripped a white bundle—his probing cane, I assumed.
"Hey, Iggy!" I called, running up to him. "Your brother should definitely consider a future in the fashion industry."
He frowned. "Yeah, well, I need to have a chat with him." He held his leg out. "These pants are cutting off my circulation."
Once my laughter died down, I said, "So I'll see you after my shift?"
"I won't." That signature smirk of his surfaced, and he tilted his head.
"Har har."
During my shift, Mrs. Gibbens chewed me out for signing incorrectly, and lectured on the importance of keeping my facial expressions invested in the conversation. She threatened to dismiss me early for the day to work longer at the language office.
After lunch, I almost made an error with important paperwork, and so I slapped my cheeks to wake me up. Eyebrows furrowed, I focused on the task at hand—only glancing at the clock every half-hour until four p.m. hit.
Outside, I met Iggy on the other side of the playground, where people normally didn't linger aside from a few of the more introverted children who preferred playing in the dirt over playing with others.
"Hey, Iggy!" I waved, and glared at my hand when it occurred to me that he couldn't see me.
He responded with a groan. I entertained the idea that he'd rolled his eyes.
"Alright, tell me about your boring world. Go into agonizing detail."
"If I say I'm in agonizing pain because of you, will that count?"
I settled my hands on my hips. "No."
When all he did was sigh, I provoked, "C'mon, Iggy. Just tell me what you see right now."
He deadpanned, "Nothing."
"Ignatius William Koehl!"
He thrust his index finger at me. "Not fair. I don't know your full name."
"Ana."
"What?"
"Angela Ana Duff-Valentin."
"That's a mouthful. Angela Ana Duff-Valentin." He'd only pronounced my last name correctly. "This is what I see. A vast nothingness. In high-definition contrast is you, the most obvious because you're the closest. The trees and playground beside you are a dimmer contrast, because they're farther away. Everything else is a fuzzier contrast. Maybe it'd mimic a camera out of focus or something like that." He grimaced, turning slightly away from me.
I had closed my eyes and tried to imagine it. It had a nice aesthetic, very Instagram. I looked at him again. "You know, Imma set you up with my brother. He's an English writing major, with a focus in poetry. I think you two would be good together."
With a quick chuckle, Iggy smirked at me and said, "I'm sure your brother is a wonderful person, but I don't play for that team."
"Wow," I drawled, rolling my eyes. "Not what I meant. I just meant that you two would be able to create breathtaking poetry together."
When his smirk grew, I gaped at him. "Iggy!" I slapped his arm playfully, and he just laughed in response.
For a half hour, we lingered at the playground as the last of the children waited for their guardian. When I asked him to continue with the agonizing detail, he said that his world lacked detail, agonizing or otherwise. When the conversation died, I pretended to hike through a dangerous forest filled with deadly creatures. Which caused Iggy to comment, "How old are you? Five?"
"Hey, at least I'm getting older."
He shook his head.
At four-thirty-four p.m., his phone rang. In a robotic voice, it repeated the contact name: "Mom." He lifted it and said, "Answer" before putting it to his ear. "What's up, Mom? Nah, just at Hope 'n Miracles . . . Yeah, I have it . . . Someone from H and M . . . I do have friends, Mom . . . No, I know you know . . . Now? . . . Okay. Okay. Yeah. See you soon. Bye, Mom."
"Have to head home?"
"Yeah."
Together we weaved our way out of the building.
"Hey, new kid. Look, I'm sorry. I just wasted your time."
"On the contrary." I held a finger up, posture dignified and exaggerated. "I have learned that being unable to see is boring and that you see in varying degrees of clarity. I have learned that Ignatius William Koehl, blind superhero named after a saint, is actually just a faulty camera."
He laughed at the sky. "I'm hardly a hero."
"To those little kids, you are."
His smile was soft. "I suppose I am."
Once on the sidewalk, he said, "Well, I'll depart here. Until Monday, new kid."
"Later, faulty camera."