The One Thing (21 page)

There was a time when I’d anxiously awaited this moment. A time when I’d peeked around doorways and held my breath when I’d walked into stores, hoping I’d see
something—anything—besides Ben. But now that it was actually happening, it made me desperately anxious.

The man looked normal enough. Sure, he was old, and yes, he moved wearily. But he looked like somebody’s great-grandfather—the sort of guy who listens to AM channels and refuses to
use a microwave, the sort of guy whose smile lines never actually smoothed out flat.

I collapsed back in my seat and covered my mouth. I have this bad habit of laughing when I get overwhelmed, which is unfortunate because laughter isn’t appropriate in certain
circumstances. Like during my fifth-grade school play, for instance, when I’d momentarily forgotten my lines. And just before I’d walked into the courtroom during sentencing for the
school prank.

So now, as I looked at this man—at the sag in his skin and the gloomy light that cloaked his body—I started to laugh. There was something about him that resurrected the same unease
I’d been feeling off and on for weeks now. And it terrified me.

S
everal months ago, my parents sent me to a shrink, probably because I was newly blind, easily agitated, belligerent to my teachers, and
fantastically sarcastic. Oh, and also because I was suddenly jolting them awake at all hours of the night with my newest and grandest hobby—chronic sleepwalking.

The shrink’s name was either Dr. Samuels or Dr. Smithton. It was some time ago, so I’m not exactly sure. What I do remember is slouching in her squeaky leather chair as she
cheerfully grilled me about my school and my friends and my nonexistent eyesight until my butt went numb. In the end, she declared that I was a normal teenager adjusting to new and difficult
circumstances. And the sleepwalking thing? Just a temporary side effect.

For the next month, though, my temporary side effect led me to wake up in the bathtub, on the stairs, and in the hall closet. I argued with lamps and raked invisible leaves off the living-room
carpet. But it wasn’t until a couple months ago that I actually wandered out of the house in the middle of the night. I awoke to find myself sitting in an unknown location on an unknown slab
of concrete, wearing exactly what I’d gone to sleep in—a T-shirt and my very worst underwear—with no cell phone, no cane, no shoes, and no clue what to do.

Did I yell for help? No. Wait for assistance? Not exactly. What I did was listen to my inner jackass, who told me to stand up and start walking. So I stepped into the street, in front of a car,
and immediately got hit. In the end, (a) I sprained my wrist, and (b) I vowed to never again set foot in the Outside World by myself, and (c) I stopped walking in my sleep, and (d) I realized that
I was shitty at decision-making because I rarely thought things through.

So I was lying in bed the next morning, wondering what to do, which made me think about getting hit by a car, which made me think about the school prank, which made me think about the mess
I’d created with Sophie, which made me think about what I’d said to Ben, which made me think about selling myself out to Mason, which made me come to the conclusion that I was probably
one lousy decision away from having the National Society of Crappy Decision Makers put up a monument in my name.

Fact was, I’d waited and waited for something to happen with my eyesight—to see something besides Ben Milton and the landscape around him—and now that it had? Well. I had no
idea what to do about it, other than tell Ben.

But Ben would not pick up the phone. Like, ever. None of the Miltons would, for that matter. And I’d left so many messages on their landline that their voice mail was overflowing,
screaming digital profanities in my ear every time my phone connected with theirs.

Maybe they’re just busy,
I reasoned, trying not to get overly paranoid. They couldn’t all hate me. Not all of them. Not Mrs. Milton.

But three days became four, and four became six, and then all of a sudden a week had passed, and I wondered if maybe all of them
did
hate me.

“Fine,” I muttered out loud, blinking back tears and chucking my phone on my bed.
Fine.

I got to work researching. Holing up in my room on the computer, tabbing through articles of inexplicable science. Minds capable of incredible feats. People who achieve incomprehensible
miracles. Brains that stretch beyond gray matter. But after hours of searching, I came up empty. I learned of a man who could lift a car on his own. A woman who was able to digest metal. Some guy
who had the ability to move objects with his mind.

Even in a world of anomalies, I was an anomaly.

It struck me as kind of unfair that Clarissa had the type of O and M specialist who took her for picnic sessions at Alexander Park while I was stuck with Hilda, who, the very next day, dumped me
in the middle of town and told me to cross Seventh Street on my own.

“Well, first off,” I said to Hilda, “I’d have to find Bush Street in order to even get to Seventh Street. Which I can’t do.” I was leaning against a parking
meter, arms crossed, laying out all the reasons why she couldn’t trust me to navigate on my own.

“Pfffft,”
Hilda said. “You have learned quickly, even though you don’t wish to admit it.” She waited a beat for me to respond to that particular morsel of
bullshit. I did not. “Now: you try,” she prompted.

“I’ll get lost if I try,” I pointed out as the wind changed direction. I caught a strong whiff of baked goods from Big Dough.

“You will not get lost. It is only a five-minute walk. Worst-case scenario, you will explore.”

Why is it that whenever someone gives you a worst-case scenario, it really isn’t the worst-case scenario? I remembered exactly what it had felt like to get hit by a car, and I wasn’t
keen on duplicating the experience. “I will explore my own death.”

She snorted. “You are dramatic. It’s a beautiful day, and plenty of others are outside enjoying the weather. You won’t be alone.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” I muttered. “Nothing alleviates the fear of doing something poorly like having a big audience.”

No reply.

“Hilda?”

No reply.

She’d already gone.

What the
hell
?

For a second, I almost burst out laughing, but only to prevent myself from yelling out something wildly inappropriate. Because really. What was Hilda thinking? I drummed my fingers on the
parking meter. I felt marginally manic, edgy, and jumpy, ready to scratch my way right out of my skin.

I threw both hands up in the air. Fine.
Fine.

Spinning on one heel, I strode away. Only toward Big Dough instead. Judging by the potent, familiar smell of baked goods, the place had to be close.

Given that I’d probably paid attention to only a quarter of what Hilda had told me over the past several weeks, I didn’t have a solid plan for navigating down the sidewalk. I just
walked. Cane tapping, feet slapping defiantly on the pavement, nose pointed toward the distinguishable scent of Big Dough, I just walked.

It wasn’t pretty.

I traveled in quick spurts and jerky, clumsy stops, my free hand running down the bumpy brick-faced storefronts as I searched for the bakery’s entrance. Since I’d spent half a
lifetime in Big Dough, you’d think I’d know the storefront when my hand passed across it. But I did not. I opened three glass doors—barreled into three random
businesses—before I jerked open the fourth door, where a familiar bell signaled my entrance.

Big Dough: shining in front of me like a beacon of complex carbohydrates.

I stood there, half in and half out of the bakery, completely shocked. I’d actually made it here without killing myself.

I could hear my pulse hammering in my ears, and I could hear the traffic on the street behind me, and I could hear the radio crackling overhead, and, if I really listened, I could hear
congratulatory, enthusiastic applause bursting from a sudden standing ovation in my brain.

Which made this either the corniest or the grandest moment of my training thus far.

I took one step inside and inhaled. Sure, I’d spent hours upon hours inside this campy, sixties-style bakery, but I hadn’t put as much as a toe in here since I lost my sight.

It smelled the same, only different.

The strongest of scents—the sharp peppermint and the caramel, the bitter dark chocolate, the mocha, the cinnamon—those were still there. But now I could catch subtle hints of butter
and brown sugar and cream. Of yeast and flour, and—
oh God
—mellow, smooth white chocolate.

Probably I looked like I was missing a few dials and knobs, standing there with my nose pointed up to the ceiling, a ridiculous smile on my face, but I didn’t even care. So I took my time,
savoring every victorious step as I made my way to the front counter.

The owner of the place, Sal, was an ancient cornball of a guy who had a beaky nose, a long gray braid that he’d always worn in a hairnet, and the very interesting habit of whistling every
time he said his
S
s. “Snickerdoodles are on sale,” he told me from behind the counter—probably hailing a taxi, a couple of dogs, and a waitress.

“Great.” I almost laughed instead of speaking, and I ordered a snickerdoodle, a double chocolate crinkle, and an oatmeal raisin.

“And a surprise,” Sal added.

I smiled. “And a surprise.” Sal always gave out a bonus cookie with every order—sort of a taste test for whatever new creation he’d recently conceived.

I found a seat and rustled through the bag for a cookie. Sliding it out, I held it to my nose. Holy mother of God: double chocolate crinkle. I took a bite, chewing leisurely and nodding along to
an old Drift District song, its descending bass line winding its way out of the overhead speakers. I’d probably eaten only half the cookie when the door dinged. To my surprise, and in a giant
flump
, someone sat directly beside me. And then blew an unpleasant Romanian exhale in my face.

I swallowed, my cookie sticking somewhere in the middle of my throat.

Her breath all up in my face, Hilda said, “We have a saying in my country: ‘
Cum î
ţ
i a
ş
terni, asa te vei
culca.
’”

Oh shit.

“The meaning is this,” she said when I didn’t reply. “‘You must put up with the unpleasant results of a foolish action or decision.’”

“Hilda, I—”

“But this decision, which I observed from open to close,” she said, plucking the cookie out of my hand, “was not foolish.” She whistled, long and low, and then chortled.
Chortled. I could practically feel her whole body rocking with it. “It was momentous. Yes?” She paused for a moment, chomping on my cookie. Through a full mouth, she said,
“Congratulations.”

Um.

“You’re not mad?” were the three dazzling words I finally threw together after a significant delay.

“Mad?
Pish,
” she said. “You think I am only...old battle ax? You chose a destination, traveled independently, and arrived safely. I am pleased. Today, we
celebrate.” She rustled around in my bag and shoved a cookie in my hand.

“For real?”

“For real,” she said, and the words sounded so hilariously odd coming out of Hilda’s mouth that I cracked up laughing. Breaking off a piece of cookie, I popped it in my
mouth.

Sal’s surprise cookie.

It was all salt and all caramel and all chocolate, completely different from anything else I’d ever had here, yet absolutely perfect.

B
ack when I could see, I dreamed in vivid Technicolor: light, color, texture, and sound, all synchronized into movies in my head. But when my world
disappeared, the visual quality of my dreams began to fade with each passing night. The emptiness from my waking hours crept in, and my once-bright images blurred, became nebulous, and then finally
blinked away, leaving nothing but random voices, thoughts, and ideas.

But tonight, I
dreamed
.

Aware in some corner of my consciousness that I was dreaming, I recognized the closed wooden door in front of me, the smell of mothballs escaping from the hall closet, the family portrait on the
wall beside me. I was standing in the upstairs hallway, in front of the door to my old bedroom. I could hear frantic whispering behind the door.