The Schwa Was Here

“I swear,” said Lexie, “you sighted people don’t see anything unless it’s staring you in the face.” And then she leaned forward and planted a kiss square on my mouth. It was a perfect hit, like she had a radar lock on my lips. Then she said, “Is there anything unclear about that, or do you need a Hallmark card?”

I looked around, self-conscious as anything, but there was no one to see us but Moxie and the Pakistani driver, who kept his eyes on the road like it was the hardest level of a video game.

“I guess I get the picture now,” was all I could say. Then a nasty little thought surfaced to ruin the moment.

“What about the Schwa?”

“Calvin’s my friend,” Lexie said. “He’ll understand.”

“I don’t think so. He thinks you’re going out.”

“Don’t be silly. No, he doesn’t.”

“Hey—you don’t know him like I do.”

“He’s my escort. We have fun together. He knows there’s nothing more to it than that.”

“You don’t get it, do you? If we start going out, it will crush him. He’s one of us handicapped sighted people who believes what he sees.”

Lexie pulled her shoulders back, getting all offended. “I think I’m a much better judge of character than you think I am.”

“All I’m saying is that we can’t do this to him.”

“So you don’t want to go out with me?”

I sighed. “I didn’t say that either.” 

12. A Horror Movie Blow-by-Blow, with the Undisputed Queen of the 3-B Club

Unlike my parents, I don’t know much about cook­ing. According to them, the only recipe I know is a recipe for disaster. I actually have a few of them. Here’s the lat­est: Take one blind girl who’s not nearly as insightful as she thinks she is, add one Italian ham, sprinkle generously with Schwa, then put in a pot and turn up the heat.

I asked Lexie out to dinner, and she suggested we go to a movie first. It didn’t occur to me that the movies with her would be an altogether different experience. Since I was no longer her paid escort, I had to shell out the money for it my­self. I didn’t mind. It felt like an accomplishment.

I knew the Schwa would have a cow if he knew about the date—more than a cow, he’d have a whole herd—but I put him out of my mind, for once allowing the Schwa Effect to work in my favor. I forgot him and let myself have a good time with Lexie.

Usually you took a girl to the movies so you wouldn’t have to talk, and so you’d be in a position to put your arm around her shoulder and, God willing, make out. But going to the movies with Lexie was like taking an Honors English class.

“Okay . . . now she’s walking toward the air lock,” I an­nounced. We were about ten minutes into the movie and I hadn’t stopped talking yet.

“How is she walking?”

“I don’t know—like a person walks.”

“Is she strolling, meandering, stalking?”

“Storming,” I said. “She’s storming down the hallway toward the air lock.”

The music flared, the air lock hissed open, and the audience screamed.

“Is that the monster?” Lexie asked.

“Yeah.”

“Describe it.”

“It’s big, and bluish green.”

“Don’t use colors.”

“Uh ... okay. It’s crusty like a lobster, and spiny like a porcu­pine. You know what that is?”

“I’m blind, not stupid.”

“Right.” I had forgotten about “tactile learning.”

“What’s happening now?”

“She tries to run , but the air lock closes. The monster backs her against the door. Its claws move forward. She opens her mouth to scream, but she can’t because she knows screaming won’t make a difference.”

“Shh!” said someone in front of us.

“She’s blind—you got a problem with that?”

The monster did its thing, and the audience shrieked, their voices blending into the squishing, crunching sound effects.

“What did the monster do?” Lexie asked.

“You don’t want to know.”

“Yes, I do!” She licked her lips. “Every little detail!”

By the time the movie was over, I felt like I was stumbling out of a day of state testing.

“Don’t worry,” Lexie said as we left arm in arm, “1 won’t ask you to describe the food on my plate.”

At dinner, however, she asked the waitress for a Braille menu.

“Are you kidding?” I told her. “This is just a burger place; they don’t have Braille menus.”

“He’s right,” said the waitress.

“Then I’d like the manager to come out and read me the menu,” she said.

“I can read it,” I told her.

“No, I want the manager.”

The waitress snapped her order booklet closed. “Sure, hon,” and she went off to find the manager.

“You like giving people a hard time, don’t you?”

Lexie grinned. “Only when they’re blind to the blind.”

In a few moments the manager walked out. No—strided out. This was one of those places famous for, like, fourteen thou­sand different burgers on the menu, and Lexie charmingly in­sisted that the manager read every single one of them, like it was his catechism. When he was done, she gave him the phone number of a place where he could order Braille menus.

That’s when I think I fell in love.

“What if he’d refused to read you the menu?” I asked after the manager was gone.

“Then I’d sic the Four-S club on him.”

“Don’t you mean Four-H?”

“No, Four-S. It stands for the four senses other than sight. It’s a club at my school. We have contacts with the mayor’s office and the New York Times, and we organize pickets in front of antiblind establishments.”

“You should call yourself the Three-B club,” I told her. “Blind Ball Busters.”

She laughed.

“I’ll bet you’re the leader.”

She didn’t deny it. “I’m a force to be reckoned with.”

“Just like your grandfather.”

When it came to body language, I wasn’t exactly bilingual, but still I could tell by the way she shifted that she wasn’t too pleased by the comparison. “I meant that in a good way,” I told her. “I mean, it’s like we all get our raw materials from our fam­ilies—but it’s up to us whether we build bridges or bombs.”

“What are you building?” she asked.

“I don’t know. A fast car, maybe.”

“To go where?”

She stumped me for a second, until I sidestepped the ques­tion with this: “It’s the road that matters, not the