Holding Up the Universe (18 page)

When it's my turn, I say, “The real reason I'm here is because I'm king douchelord of the universe.”

The guy with the bow tie who must be Mr. Levine goes, “In English, please, Jack.”

I hunch forward and stare at the floor. I look like I'm trying to come up with just the right words, which I am. But the main reason is so I can avoid eye contact. Sometimes I want to close my eyes and forget that I can see. Because sometimes being face-blind feels a lot like being regular blind.

Mr. Levine says, “What's your Why?”

“I don't have a Why, only an Oh Shit and a What Was I Thinking.” I crack a grin at him, and then I catch Libby's eye. I stare at her and she stares back.
She's read my letter. She can out me right here.
I wait for her to say something. When she doesn't, I clear my throat. “For what it's worth, I wish I hadn't done it.” It's the first honest thing I've said all day.

Afterward, she finds me in the parking lot, half in the Land Rover, phone to my face.

“So when did you put it in there?”

“What?”

“The letter.”

I say into the phone, “I'm going to have to call you back,” and hang up on Caroline just as she goes,
Who are you talking to?
I say to Libby, “When I grabbed you.”

“Did you think a letter was going to magically make everything okay?”

“Did it?”

“What do you think?”

“You can't blame a guy for trying.”

I flash her a smile, but she shakes her head and waves a finger at my face. “Don't do that.”

“All right. Let's be real, then. You said you've got questions. Ask me anything.” My phone buzzes in my pocket.

“How long have you known about the face blindness?”

“I figured it out around fourteen. It wasn't this kind of overnight revelation, though. It was more like this process. I had to put the clues together, so it took a while.”

“So you can see my face, but you can't remember it.”

“Something like that. It's not like faces are a blank. I see eyes, noses, mouths. I just can't associate them with specific people. Not like how you, as in Libby, can take a mental snapshot of someone and store it away in your mind for next time. I take a snapshot, and it immediately goes in the trash. If it takes you one or two meetings to be able to remember someone, it can take me a hundred. Or never. It's kind of like amnesia or like trying to tell everyone apart by their hands.”

She glances down at her hands and then at mine. “So when you turn away and then you turn back, you're not sure who I am?”

“Intellectually, I get that it's you. But I don't
believe
it, if that makes sense. I have to convince myself all over again
This is Libby.
I know that sounds crazy.”
What's crazy is standing here talking about this to someone other than myself.

“Is it true it's hard to watch TV or movies because you can't keep the characters straight?”

“Like people, some shows and movies are harder than others. Monster movies and cartoons are easy. Crime shows aren't so much. I'm always wondering,
Where's the bad guy?
And
Who the hell is that?
”

I'm looking at her, and I'm charged with all this crazy, heart-pounding adrenaline. It's almost as if she's interviewing me, but I don't mind because it's the first time I've talked about this with anyone, and it's kind of feeling a lot like
freedom,
like
Here's a person who might actually be able to get who I am.

“How is it, you know, to have it?”

“It's like having a circus in my mind and always jumping through hoops. It's like being in a crowded room where at first you don't know anyone. Always.”

Her eyes go bright and kind of intense. “Like coming back to school five years later and you're trying to figure out if you knew him or her or them, but everyone looks different, and so the people you knew before are just…people.”

“Right. You don't know their histories and details, all the things that make them who they are now. And you're the only one who feels that way.”

“While the rest of them go to class and go to lunch like,
Oh, look at me, I've been doing this forever. I know you and I know you and time never stopped, and here I am.
”

“Yeah.”

Her eyes are large and the lashes are long. The color of her eyes is this very clear light brown. Like amber or whiskey. I'm having a hard time seeing the girl in the crane in this girl here. Even though the girl in front of me is big, she's much more delicate in person.

She goes, “Do you ever wonder if it's everyone else who sees the world differently? Like, maybe you see people the way they're supposed to be seen?”

“Identifiers. That's what I call it. Everyone has at least one thing that stands out.”

“Is that why your hair's so big?”

“My hair's big because it's so damn awesome, baby.”

She makes this
hmm
sound as if she doesn't quite believe it, and then she tilts her head to one side, scrunches up her forehead, and says, “I feel like I know you. You know, from way back when.”

My pulse speeds up. It starts buzzing the way my phone is buzzing. I'm thinking,
You don't know me, you don't know me,
like I have some power over her mind and, whatever happens, she cannot find out I was there that day she was rescued from her house. If she does find out, she might think I'm making fun of her
because
I saw her being rescued from her house, that this is why I grabbed her.

She says, “Did you go to Westview Elementary?”

“No, ma'am.” Before I can say anything else, my phone buzzes again.

“Do you need to get that? Someone really wants to talk to you.”

“They can wait.”

She's still studying me, but finally she shakes her head as if she's clearing the slate. “I'm having that ‘I feel like I know you' feeling a lot these days.”

“You're in good company. Or maybe shitty company, depending on how you look at it.” I smile. She almost does, but stops herself. “With face blindness, I seem to constantly lose the people I love.”

She goes quiet for a second. “I know what that's like.” And walks away.

I drive home and collect my little brother, and we scavenge the garage for robot materials. This is where I store the wreckage from all the creations I've built and later taken apart.

I say, “Hey, little man, how was school today?”

“Okay.”

“Real okay or fake okay?”

“Somewhere in between.”

I meet Rachel in the park. We sit on our usual bench and she says, “So why did you punch him?”

Because I'm ready for my normal life. I just want to move forward like everyone else without being grabbed in cafeterias as if I'm some sort of prize heifer at a rodeo.

I tell myself,
This is the person you can say anything to, the person who knows you better than anyone.
But all I come up with is “I was mad.”

And then I think of three more questions I want to ask Jack.

The next afternoon, Mr. Levine is practicing free throws when we all walk into the gym. He says, “You're here. Excellent. Keshawn, Travis, Jack, and Libby, you'll be playing Natasha, Andy, Maddy, and me.”

“Playing what?”

“Basketball, Mr. Thornburg.” And he throws the ball to Keshawn, who catches it one-handed.

“Shouldn't it be all of us against Keshawn? You know, just to make it more even.”

“Quiet up, Mass.” Keshawn sinks a basket from the door, which is no surprise. During the time Rip Van Libby was sleeping, he's become Mr. Basketball three years running.

“This isn't about winning or losing. It's not a competition. This is about teamwork.” We all stare at Mr. Levine, who's doing this crazy back-and-forth shuffle-dance, like he's in a boxing ring. “Everyone in this room needs to learn how to play well—or at least better—with others.”

Of course Keshawn wins the tip-off. We run up and down the court, and except for him, we all suck, even the athletes among us. It's sad and embarrassing really, and the only thing we're learning is how to humiliate ourselves in front of our peers.

Every single time Keshawn makes a basket, he acts like he's just won the state championship. He's barking orders at his team and dribbling behind his back and through his legs and making these impossible jump shots, and honestly it's like playing with LeBron James, if he were a six-foot-six-inch baby. At some point, Mr. Levine grabs the ball from him and says, “This is not Keshawn hour. It's about helping out your teammates. It's about
we're all equal.
It's about pulling together.” He sinks a perfect three-pointer. “Take a time-out, Mr. Basketball.”

“What?”

“You can sit on the bleachers for a few minutes. It's not going to kill you.”

“Man.” Keshawn goes dragging off, the slowest human on earth. We wait for him to leave the court, and, two years later, he finally sits down.

Natasha rolls her eyes. Shakes her head at the ceiling.

Mr. Levine says, “If it'll make you feel better, I'll sit out too. Even numbers. Whatever's best for the group, right, Keshawn?”

Keshawn looks at him, then past him at Natasha, who raises a single eyebrow. He says to Mr. Levine, “Sure.”

So now we're three and three. We keep the lead until Jack passes the ball to Andy, who's on the other side. After Andy shoots and scores, Keshawn is on his feet. “WTF, Mass?” Only he doesn't spell it out
and
he shouts it.

Mr. Levine says to him, “Language,” at the same time Jack mumbles something about the ball slipping.

When it happens again, I think Keshawn's going to LOSE IT.

Jack says, “Hey, man, just trying to do my civic duty.”

Andy goes, “What does that mean?”

Jack shrugs. Does this kind of cocky half-smile. “I'm just saying it looked like your team could use some help.”

Andy throws the ball at him, a little too hard. Now they're having some sort of standoff, bristling at each other like two cats in an alley. “Why don't you keep the ball, Masselin? I'll get it back in about sixty seconds.”

Mr. Levine goes, “Enough, both of you. Jack, stop wasting time.”

For the next few minutes, Andy and Jack are each trying to win the game single-handedly. Andy is shouting at Natasha and Maddy, and Jack isn't even passing anymore, just moving the ball from one end of the court to the other and taking every shot. Until Natasha gets him cornered, and Jack has to get rid of the ball. To Andy.
Again.
The following thirty seconds go like this: Andy does a layup and walks by Jack, ramming him in the shoulder. Jack says, all sarcastic, “You're welcome.” Andy gets in his face like he wants to take a swing. Jack stands there, like he wants Andy to punch him. Mr. Levine gets in between them and rattles off this speech about getting along and playing out our feelings.

That's the moment I look at Jack, and he looks at me. And I know what's going on here. He's getting Andy confused with Travis. Same build. Same height. Same hair. Same color shirt. I try to imagine that Andy and Travis are strangers to me, that I'm face-blind, that every time I look at them and then look away, I have to put them back together.

I tell myself,
Let it be, Libbs. Let nature do what it's going to do. After all, doesn't he deserve to be shamed in front of not only these people but all people everywhere?

And now we're playing again, and suddenly I'm yelling at Jack, “Hey, pass it to me.” Even though I am the worst shot in this room, maybe in the world.

But instead of passing me the ball, he drives down the court himself. The next time he gets the ball, I jump up and down and wave my arms in his direction. “I'm wide open over here.” He shoots me this look, and I think,
Fine, if you don't want my help.
But then he's called on a foul. We stand next to each other, watching Maddy shoot free throws, and I say, “Just give me the damn ball before Mr. Levine makes us stay an extra hour.”

A minute or so later, Jack throws me the ball. As I start to dribble, Maddy steals it away, but when he throws it to me the next time, I aim for the basket. By some miracle, I make it.