Free At Face Value by Emily Franklin Page B

of those haunted houses where you plunge your hand into a bowl of “eyeballs” that turn out to be peeled grapes.
    From the rest of the class I hear a few giggles and one low, but discernible, “better than a bunch of noses.” I look up, about to feel the balloon of happiness inside me pop. In an instant, all the good feelings from finding out that Eddie likes me could evaporate. And why? Just because some idiot makes one little comment? I breathe deeply and say nothing. It’s not decency that keeps me quiet, but Eddie’s eyes locked on mine.
    “As you move your hands around inside,” Harold informs everyone, “you’ll come across objects that might feel familiar. But are they?” He holds up a key. “Is a key felt with the hands the same key we see with our eyes?” Eddie and I fight the urge to laugh. Harold Connaught’s fun, but he tends toward the overly dramatic.
    I slide my left hand over soft fabric. Velvet, I think, and my fingers find a circular object. A button? No, a—
    “I think I’ve got a shoelace,” Eddie says. He’s far enough away from my hands that I can’t feel the lace to check whether he’s correct.
    Harold nods. “Cyrie—you find something, too.”
    I search for something recognizable. “A giant paper clip?”
    “Perfect for clipping your …” A giggle starts from the audience but is silenced by Harold’s teacherly gaze. “Yes, a paper clip.” Just as he says this, my hands find something else: Eddie’s hands. Without changing his facial expression in the slightest, he gives my hands a squeeze. I fight the urge to shriek or climb over the box and grab him.
    “And now we’ll add more hands to mix,” Harold says, waving someone over from the doorway.
    Leyla emerges with her eyes cast downward, her hair in front of her face, and a sweatshirt around her waist. She glances at me before she sticks her hands into the box, and I give her my I have a secret now, too look. She makes her eyes wide and coughs to let me know she understands. It’s great to finally have a friendship where we can communicate without words. Which, I realize, may also be the point of this bizarre box exercise: to experience something without relying on your preconceived notions of what it is.
    “I feel a toothbrush,” Leyla says, her brow furrowed as though she’s really concentrating on the task at hand.
    “Me, too,” Eddie says. Ever-competitive, he is probably snaking his way around the box to find every item on offer. My own hands flail, bumping into a sponge, a pacifier, something unidentifiable, a sock I hope isn’t dirty, and then, finally, the toothbrush.
    I smile, feeling accomplished. Eddie—my crush who reciprocates my feelings—is right in front of me. My genuine friend is beside me. And I too have found the toothbrush. “Got it!”
    “Great!” Harold claps and comes closer to us. “Now find the item you’re most attached to and hold it for a second.”
    I pause. Stick with the toothbrush, or go back to something else? What if we have to do a skit with the object we choose? The toothbrush will no doubt lead to issues relating to the face, and since there’s no way I want to tread down that road, I quickly flick my hands around trying to find something else. Where’d that sock go?
    “Find something meaningful.” Harold roams the class, his voice lustrous and insistent. “When you have it, let me know.”
    “I’m looking,” Eddie says. His voice sounds funny. Choking, almost. I look at his face but it gives nothing away. I think back to our “to be continued” conversation. To our hug.
    In the dark of the box, my fingers wriggle, hoping to find the limp sock. But instead, they find something much, much better. A hand. And it’s got calluses. From painting. My knuckles graze his knuckles and, just as I think it couldn’t get better, his hand unfurls and grips mine. I’m holding Eddie’s hand. He’s holding mine. I could pass out.
    I look at Eddie. His face remains