“That’s a start. How are you going to make this better?”
“I don’t think there’s any making it better, is there? There’s just making it as good as I can after the fact.”
“Is there anything you want to talk about? Anything you need to tell me?”
“Not tonight.” Maybe not ever. My phone buzzes on the floor next to me.
“Get your call. You can tell me tomorrow.”
Maybe.
She adds, “I love you anyway.”
“I love you anyway too.”
It’s almost nine when Bailey leaves. I’m still fired up, so I dance for a while, and then I decide to do homework. I dump the contents of my backpack onto my bed and sort through my papers and notebooks and pens and gum wrappers, and all the miscellaneous rubbish I’ve stuffed in there, including We Have Always Lived in the Castle, which I carry everywhere.
Buried in the mess is a white letter-size envelope.
What’s this?
I rip it open and start reading.
I’m not a shitty person, but I’m about to do a shitty thing …
At first I think he’s making it up. I read the letter again. And again.
You know how it’s easy to believe everything is about you, especially when something goes wrong? Why me? Why do I have the worst luck ever? Why is the universe so mean? Why does everyone hate me? My mom used to say sometimes it’s actually about the other person and you just happen to be there. Like sometimes the other person needs to learn a lesson or go through an experience, good or bad, and you’re just an accessory in some way, like a supporting actor in whatever their scene happens to be.
Maybe, just maybe, this whole nightmare is more about Jack Masselin than it is about me. Maybe this whole thing happened to teach him a lesson about how to treat other people.
I sit and think on that for a while. This was the thing Mom did—looked at all sides of things. She believed that situations and people were almost never black-and-white.
Ten minutes later, I’m reading everything I can find on prosopagnosia, which leads me to an artist named Chuck Close, neurologist/author Oliver Sacks, and Brad Pitt. According to the Internet, they all have face blindness. I mean, Brad Pitt.
What if the entire world was face-blind?
If everyone had prosopagnosia, there’d be hope for the homely. No one would ever say “You’re too pretty to be fat” or “She’s pretty for a fat girl” because looks would stop mattering. Would people still care if you were overweight or too thin? Tall or short? Maybe. Maybe not. But it would be a step in the right direction.
At fat camp, we had to try to put ourselves into the skin of other people, just like Atticus told Scout: You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view … Until you climb inside of his skin and walk around in it … Skin’s so fascinating anyway—I mean the way it expands and shrinks. I used to weigh twice what I do now—that’s two times more—and my skin fit me then and it fits me now. Weird.
I try to put myself in Jack Masselin’s skin and imagine what he sees when he looks at me. Do I look different, in some way, from everyone else? Or do I blend in? Then I imagine that I’m the one with face blindness. What would the world look like?
I pull up a new document. I write:
Dear Jack,
Thanks for explaining your douchiness. I don’t think prosopagnosia gives you the right to be a jerk, but I’m at least glad you’re not rotten to your core. Maybe there’s hope for you.
Libby
p.s. I have questions.
On the other end of the phone Kam says, “I wish you could have seen it. The look on her face when you threw yourself around her, and then when you just hung out there and wouldn’t let go.”
I force out this kind of halfhearted laugh that sounds like I’m being strangled. “Man, I bet she looked surprised.”
“As surprised as that chick in Psycho when Norman Bates interrupts her shower. So what did Wasserman say?”
“Oh, she was really fucking thrilled. Community service and counseling. For weeks.”
“Shit.”
“I know.”
“But it was worth it.”
“Says the man who doesn’t have to do it.”
He’s laughing again. “But wait, it gets better.”
Great.
“Remember the girl who got cut out of her house a couple of years ago?”
“What about her?”
“That’s her.”
“Who?”
“Libby Strout. She’s the one you rodeoed.”
I feel like I’ve been punched in the face again.
“Are you sure?” I try to sound like I don’t really give a shit, but here’s the thing—I do give a shit. I give five million shits, which is why I feel like I’m going to be sick all over these Legos.
“Oh, I’m sure.” He’s laughing.
I do my strangle-laugh again, only it sounds worse this time.
“Man, you sound rough.”
“I think she broke my throat.”
“So do you remember her?”
“Yeah. I do.”
Outside, the neighborhood is asleep. I climb out my window and into the tree that acts as a ladder to the roof. I snake all the way up it until I’m there, and then I walk to the edge, over by the gutter. My weather station is anchored near the chimney, battered and lopsided. When I was six, I fell off the roof and cracked my head open. Without thinking, I reach up to feel the scar.