I hear a “Damn, girl,” from Keshawn before Mr. Levine says, “Well done, Libby.”
A couple of the kids applaud.
“Thank you.” For some reason, this means something, not the applause, but Mr. Levine. What he thinks of me matters. “I was housebound for a while, so I had a lot of time to think about it. And I’ve had a lot of time to think about it since.”
We all look at Jack, but he says nothing.
Mr. Levine turns back to me. “So why did you punch him?”
I want to go Look at him. He’s perfect. He’s never had a bad day. Okay, he has this strange disorder that keeps him from recognizing people, but no one’s ever called him fat or ugly or disgusting. No one’s sent him hate mail or told him he would have been better off killing himself. His parents never received hate mail just for having him. Also, he has parents. I doubt he knows what it’s like to lose someone he loves. People like us, we can’t touch him because he’s too good for you and me and the rest of these kids and this punishment. Not to mention his friends utterly suck.
I want to say Why wouldn’t I punch him?
But I don’t really have an answer other than “I was mad.”
And I know it’s not enough because of the look on Mr. Levine’s face. I’ve seen it before. It’s the look counselors get when they analyze you, when they know the answer before you do, but they’re not going to tell you because you have to think of it yourself.
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.”