The Schwa Was Here

At the end of their school day, the students left with preci­sion and care, unlike the mob scene at most other schools. Many students were escorted by Seeing Eye dogs, parents, or na

The strangest thing of all was the way drivers used noisemakers to guide their student to the car. Some clicked, some whirred, some whistled—and no two -were the same. It was amazing, because every kid found their way to the right car with just a couple of toots or clicks.

Moxie spotted me before I spotted Lexie, and he brought her to me.

“Moxie? What’s wrong, boy?”

“Hi, Lexie.”

It only took an instant for her to recognize my voice. “Anthony, what are you doing here? Is my grandfather all right?”

“Yeah, yeah, he’s fine. I’m here because I needed to talk to you.”

“So you came all the way here? Couldn’t you wait till I got home?”

“Yeah, I guess, but I didn’t want to.”

Someone pulled up to the curb, rolled down the window, and blew a slide whistle.

“Do they do that at all blind schools?” I asked Lexie.

“I don’t think so,” she said. “This one is just weird.” She turned her head slightly to the side. “I hear my driver further up the street. C’mon, you can ride home with me.”

She led me to a black Lincoln—a car service that the Craw- leys had hired to take Lexie to and from school. The driver had a Pakistani look about him, and rather than using a plain old noisemaker, he was playing the harmonica. Badly.

“My father started him off with a kazoo. I gave him the har­monica because it’s so much more dignified. I figure he might actually be able to play by the end of the school year.”

We got in the car and sped off, with Moxie lying across our feet.

“Your grandfather says you’re angry at me.”

“He told you that?”

“Yeah, and I think I’ve got a right to know why. I mean, you dumped me in the middle of a concert, and now you’re the one who’s angry at me?”

Moxie sensed a little anger on my part, and he barked. It was the first time I had ever heard him bark.

“Dumped you? Is that what you think?”

“No, I guess not. I guess you just fired me. That’s just as bad. So now I want to know why you’re the one who’s angry. If any­one should be mad, it’s me.”

“I’m not angry. I’m just... disappointed.”

“Why?”

“Because you dumped me.”

“Now you’re just playing games with me.”

“No, I’m not,” she said. “As long as you were being paid, we couldn’t really be dating, could we? I even said that at the con­cert, didn’t I?”

“Yes, but—”

“So if Calvin is my paid escort, my grandfather gets what he wants, and then you could ask me out for a real date.” And then she added, “But you didn’t.”

My jaw swung open like Wendell Tiggor in math. Words failed me.

“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 di

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 di

“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 gri

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.