Ayomide Sowore

She was sure the boy was blind.

His almost transparent blue eyes were blocked by a thin layer unrecognizable to others, but to the girl they were so clearly there. And the way he looked at her. No one had ever looked through her before. So instantly she was sure he was blind. She was known for her inexplicable beauty, an aggressive beauty, unavoidable. So she was sure he was blind. 

When she first met him, he smiled, but not at her. That was when she knew. At first, she was panicked that her beauty was fading but when she looked down the locker-covered hallway, there was no one. Though it was a time between class periods, when her peers were supposed to overflow the empty hallways, there was no one there to her elitist eyes. So she was sure he was blind. 

She had to approach him first, touching his arm to grab his attention and that was when he flinched and directed his eyes toward her, but not at her. So she was sure he was blind. 

“Here.” She looped her arm around his. “Let me take you.” And continued to do that. Her beauty would have to shine bright to him through one of his remaining senses, touch. But over time, he started to pull away. She panicked, fearing that her acts of beauty were failing, but her kindness to the blind boy became the subject of conversations. So she was sure she was doing the right thing. 

She then started wearing perfume. A replica of his favorite smell. Once, she had heard him say in his firm, rich voice (a trait that must be very important to a blind person) what that was, so she wore that scent every day. He smiled at the aroma, but not at her, so she was sure he was blind. 

So she sang. “You are blessed with the voice of an angel,” her mother used to say before she became one herself. Her father detested her voice. It reminded him too much of his former life, the one that contained his only happiness, so he, like everyone else, stuck to compliments only about her physical appearance. The boy clapped at her voice, and through her elitist eyes, he was the only one she saw clapping, despite the thunderous applause that echoed through the room. But, while clapping, he looked to his right where someone was seated, someone not worth her notice, and his lips moved. He was without a doubt whispering his kind words about her performance. He didn’t remove his eyes from the stupid nothings surrounding him, not even to look at her. But the consistent union of his hands was directed towards her. So she was sure he was blind. 

She ran to him as soon as she left her stage. Her arms wrapped around the width of his back and her lips searched for his ear. “It’s me,” she whispered. She knew his heightened sense of hearing would allow him to recognize her beauty the way his other senses had failed to. 

He glared intensely down at the girl while his hands moved to unlatch hers from his shoulders.  

“Stop,” he finally said to her. 

She studied his eyes, now directed straight at her, filled with rage. 

“I can’t do this anymore. You’ve been bothering me for weeks and you just don’t seem to get it.” His eyes were filled with vulnerability now. “So I’ll just say it. I don’t want…” But his voice faded as the girl applauded herself for the accomplishment. He finally looked at her. With emotion. So she smiled beautifully at the boy, knowing he couldn’t see it, but he would feel the beauty in the baring of her teeth and the stretch of her lips along her gums. 

He stopped speaking. There was no point. It was then that he finally figured it out. 

He was sure the girl was deaf. 

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Ayomide Sowore is a writer from a small town in New Jersey who is about to enter her Junior year of high school. This summer she attended a pre-college program Columbia University where she developed many pieces. Among singing, reading, and playing soccer, writing is a great passion for her!