The One Thing (8 page)

“I will absolutely play with you. Later on,” said Ben. He nodded in my direction. “Right now, I’m sort of busy with Thera.”

She turned to glare at me. I smiled innocently at her shoulder. And she took off, back to wherever she’d come from. Probably Satan’s lap.

B
en introduced me to his best friend and teammate, Teddy—a short, bushy-haired kid wearing swim trunks identical to Ben’s. I
couldn’t help but notice that the right side of Teddy’s face was covered in puckered, rubbery-looking scars, which were creepy and compelling, all at the same time. I’d like to
say that I wasn’t the sort of person who would stare at them, but, well, I couldn’t stop staring. They were just so...there. Finally, he turned his head slightly and his moptop hair
swept over them a bit, freeing me from my moral non-dilemma.

“When I met Teddy, he was ass-up in a hospital bed,” Ben informed me after introducing the two of us, “getting skin harvested from his butt cheek to graft to the burn spot on
his face.”

How was I supposed to respond to that? I snuck yet another glance at Teddy, who seemed perfectly at ease with the subject matter. “Oh. Well. That’s...um...interesting,” I
finally said. And then naturally, I afforded myself a quick look at his face again to inspect the skin, which, incidentally, did not look like the skin of a kid’s butt.

Ben went on to say, “He was my roommate—room two twenty-two at Memorial. I was there for some testing and bored out of my goddamn skull.”

“Ben. Don’t cuss,” I said, but both boys kept yammering on as if I hadn’t spoken. They bantered back and forth about Teddy’s white ass—Teddy claiming that it
was more handsome than Ben’s face, and Ben submitting that it was whiter than the white incisors on a white polar bear, and so on and so forth.

And then finally Teddy said, “Dude. Admit it. The only reason you decided to be my best friend was so you could get away with calling me ‘butthead’ without getting in
trouble.” I laughed so hard that I started making squeaky dolphin noises.

Then there was a rather loud announcement about an upcoming race, and Ben said, “Gotta run, Thera.” He pointed with his head to the pool. “It’s time to carpe my
diem.”

“What do you know about carpe diem?” I said through a chuckle.

“Everything. I read all about it in the
C
s.”

I laughed again. It sounded like Ben’s exclamation-point laugh, which was sort of weird but sort of nice.

“I’ll be in the water in five minutes,” he said. He saluted me, Teddy said good-bye, and then the two boys took off, disappearing into a throng of bathing suit–clad
kids.

The first words Ben’s mom said to me that afternoon were, “Careful, I have dog poop on my scrubs.” Which was disturbing because she said them during another one of her
surprise-attack hugs. She did not, in point of fact, reek of dog crap. She smelled vaguely of incense and peppermint and kindness. As soon as she pulled away from me, she led me to a set of metal
bleachers, next to—to my complete and utter humiliation—Mason. Seeing as how I’d shown up at his house last night wearing a Loose Cannons T-shirt and poorly faking my blindness, I
figured he thought I was a lunatic fan who had weaseled my way into his life by pretending to be blind so his little brother would take pity on me. Which was mortifying even though it wasn’t
true.

All right, so maybe the lunatic fan part was true. I mean, if I happened to stumble upon a hint today that helped direct me to the next Loose Cannons concert...well, let’s just say I
wouldn’t be upset.

At any rate, Mason failed to acknowledge me when I said hello. Actually, check that; he acknowledged me by immediately sliding away from me, presumably cramming himself next to some woman,
because I heard a surprised little “Oh!” as he moved.

I chatted idly with Mrs. Milton, keeping tabs on Mason with my senses (while appearing not to be keeping tabs on Mason with my senses). I could practically feel the aggravation crawling out of
his pores, could hear his choppy, annoyed breaths.

Honestly.

Sure, he’d become something of an instant celebrity recently, but just how arrogant was he to believe I’d come to the swim meet just to be around him? I silently fumed, tapping my
foot in time with the
swoosh-swoosh-swoosh-swoosh
of the swimmers cutting through the water. Mason’s aversion to me was maddening, frustrating, and...well, sort of absorbing. Did he
really believe I was a crazed fan, or did he just find me atrocious-looking? Probably a little of both. I didn’t bother with makeup anymore. There were too many little bottles and too many
little tubes and too many little opportunities to turn myself into a clown.

Whatever the reason, Mason refused to speak to me. He did, however, exchange pleasantries with another spectator and offered a hand to what sounded like a little girl who was struggling up the
bleachers. “Whoa, there,” he said, and I felt the bleachers rise slightly as he stood. There was something genuine in Mason’s voice. Something authentic. It made me feel strange
for some reason—either hurt or confused or exposed. I didn’t know what it was, exactly, except that there was a lot of it.

I grumbled under my breath for letting him get under my skin. Mason was not just a complete egotistical jerk—he was a complete egotistical jerk who obviously believed that I idolized him.
And he was dead wrong. Sure, I loved his music. And yes, I’d likely give up my right kidney to learn the location of his band’s next concert. And of course, I thought he had an amazing
voice. But that didn’t mean I
worshiped
him, that didn’t mean I’d go to such ridiculous lengths just to be near him.

Mrs. Milton nudged me with her elbow. “Ben’s race should be coming up any second.”

“Yeah?” I said, glancing covertly at Ben. He stood next to the pool, his entire body rocking with laughter as Teddy made faces at him. “Has he always loved to swim?” I
asked, reaching down to scratch my calf. In my haste, I inadvertently brushed my arm against Mason’s. It was the smallest of touches and lasted only a fraction of a second, but something
inside me lurched as a sharp bolt of electricity reverberated between us. I jerked away and folded my arms across my chest.

“Actually,” Mrs. Milton said, her voice slightly guarded, “a few months ago Ben went through a bit of a swimming funk because of a falling out with another kid on the
team.”

I felt my mouth drop open. “Ben had a
falling out
? For real?”

Mrs. Milton muttered, “It was a girl.”

“Ah.”

“Ben had a huge crush on her,” Mrs. Milton explained, “and you know how Ben is when he likes someone. He goes all out, even if they aren’t the least bit interested. He
saved his allowance for months to buy her a video game.”

“Twenty-one Stones?” I asked. Suddenly I didn’t want to hear the rest of this story.

“That’s the one,” Mrs. Milton confirmed. “Anyway, when he gave it to her, she didn’t react the way he’d hoped.” While her words were matter-of-fact, I
could hear fierce maternal protectiveness hiding in her tone.

“What did she do?”

“Threw it in the trash and called him a...” She stopped, regrouped, and then tried again. “She called him a ‘stupid retard.’ He was heartbroken.”

I felt a sharp pang in the hollow of my chest, a clog in my throat. I whispered, “Is she still on the team? That girl?”

“No,” Mrs. Milton said in a sigh. “Coach has a strict policy about the kids treating one another respectfully.” She patted me compassionately on the leg. “Oh,
don’t get upset, hon. The kids at school prepared him for this kind of thing. He’s kind, trusting, an easy target. And anyway, he has Teddy, and now you—someone who can appreciate
what it feels like when life throws you curveballs.”

I nodded woodenly, and, eyes closed, tried to pull myself together. Beside me Mason was still as stone, but I’d swear I could feel his breath feathering against my cheek. I’d swear
that he was facing me, that his eyes were on me. Was he staring at me?

I dipped my head, letting my hair curtain my face for a few seconds. Then I raised my chin. I still felt his eyes on me—scorching like the desert sun. I twisted my hands in my lap. Why was
he staring?

Trying to take my mind off Mason, I peered across the nothingness to where Ben was getting ready for his race. He now sat on a wooden bench alongside the pool, so stuffed full of smiles that
they just spilled out of him. He pulled on a pair of red swim goggles that warped his face a little, like those mirrors that distort your chin and make your head look fat in all the wrong places.
Pumping one fist high in the air, he cheered for someone in the pool. There was something about the upward curve of his mouth that filled me with an overwhelming, protective affection. Some people
have so many layers to them that you can hardly see who they are. But when I looked at Ben, I saw everything that made him
him
.

Why would anyone intentionally hurt someone like him?

When they announced the next race, Ben approached the water. There was a long pause while he climbed the podium. He moved slowly and deliberately, as though savoring the moment. When he finally
made it to the top of the podium, he stood there for a long fragment of time. Supporting himself with the metal rails of the podium and peeling off his crutches, he scanned the crowd until he found
us. And then he smiled.

Instinctively, I smiled back and began to lift my hand to him, but I stopped, midwave, and ran my fingers through my hair.

Too late. Apparently Mason had already seen it. He made an irritated sound in the back of his throat.

I felt as though I should play it off, so with my gaze facing the pool and with all the innocence I could muster, I said, “Are you okay, Mason?”

He bit off a “Yes” through what sounded like clenched teeth.

Well. At least he’d spoken to me.

Ben, oblivious to my bonehead move, stretched his toes toward the water, leaning over the edge. I held my breath. Beside me, Mrs. Milton’s camera fired off pictures, one after another in
rapid succession.

There was a loud pop, a monstrous splash, and the stands erupted in cheering. Ben didn’t appear partially paralyzed in the water. He looked strong and confident, like any other kid, yet so
insanely different. As the race went on, I caught snatches of swimmers passing him. Though Ben moved slowly, deliberately, he had an obvious advantage on another swimmer, a chubby kid at his
ankles. When Ben turned around at the far end of the pool to make his final lap, he glanced behind him. And then, little by little, he slowed his pace, letting the kid gain ground on him.

I couldn’t believe it. He was deliberately letting the kid beat him.

This really shouldn’t have surprised me. Not really. Ben was just...good-hearted. CEO of the National Society of Encyclopedia Britannica Readers, president of the Department of Constant
Bucktoothed Smiles, grand pooh-bah of Letting the Fat Kid Win.

Who was I? I didn’t know.

O
nce I allowed myself to harbor the hope that I might completely regain my vision, the idea possessed me. That evening, my mind hopscotched between
the ways my life would stitch back together if my sight fully returned, how I’d reclaim the soccer field, the hallways at my old school, the afternoons with Sophie and Lauren. How my troubles
with my mother would dissolve.

Doubts snuck in there, too. I worried that my newfound sight was temporary, transient. That maybe nature would realize its mistake and return me to complete blindness. That if I didn’t
hurry up and figure out all the whys and the hows and the wheres, my little island of eyesight, along with the explanation for it, would disappear just as quickly as it had come.

Best I could guess, the crack I’d taken on my head had been the catalyst. Yet I wasn’t exactly dying to field-test this theory. Bashing myself on the skull with a hammer for another
inch of vision? No, thank you. My luck, I would knock myself right back into complete blindness. Besides, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was overlooking something crucial. I felt oddly
as though I were a moth stuck in a lamp shade, bumping around the light but missing the bigger picture.