Free Out of Order by A. M. Jenkins

like Grace would a guy like me try to be a better person than I really am.
    What they say about how opposites attract is absolutely true. Grace and I are opposite, but we’re perfect for each other.
    I raise my head up, rest my chin on my arms. Chlorophyll’s taking out a book like she always does. And those glasses. I’m not saying anything, she’s not saying anything. Just like always. But I guess I do appreciate the pencil thing, and I’d like to say something to let her know that was pretty cool.
    â€œOpposites attract,” I blurt. I don’t know why. It’s what I happened to be thinking, so that’s what came out.
    Chlorophyll opens her book without looking up.
    Then I get this dim idea that maybe it sounded like I was saying something about her and me, which I wasn’t—Jesus, no way! But of course it came out all wrong. As usual.
    But then I realize it doesn’t matter that I screwed up. Chlorophyll didn’t hear a word I said. She’s got her nose in her book.
    I guess the vaccination’s already working.
    I relax and put my head back down.
    And from then till the end of the period, all I hear is the sound of a page being turned every once in a while.
    Â 
    After school I bug Grace to call her dad at work and get him to give us the okay to go out for ice cream. Ipromise to have her home before he gets off work. It’s so all-American, he can’t refuse. And he doesn’t.
    So I take Grace to the Marble Slab. Me personally, I don’t like having my ice cream slapped around by some technical-school dropout with zits and glasses like the big end of a telescope. But I do like to watch Grace standing there almost breathing on the glass while she watches the guy mix Hershey’s Kisses into her double Dutch chocolate fudge. She gets so happy over little things. I could buy her a Porsche, and she wouldn’t be as excited as she gets about a crummy little dip of ice cream.
    She’s standing there, and I’m standing right next to her, and suddenly it’s the best afternoon of my life.
    I get a Dr Pepper and we sit down. I’m sipping my drink, but mainly I’m busy not saying much because Grace and I get along a lot better when I keep my mouth shut.
    â€œDid you see that new guy at school today?” Grace asks between bites. “The one who’s visually challenged?”
    â€œNo,” I tell her. I watch her take another dainty little bite off her spoon. She’ll eventually polish off the whole thing, I know, but you would never guess it to look at her.
    â€œHave you ever wondered what it would be like?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œBeing visually challenged.”
    I think fast. I don’t know what visually challenged is. So I’ve got to decide, quick—which answer is better, yes or no? “Yes” will sound more sensitive, but “no” is the truth and I won’t have to back it up with facts.
    â€œYes,” I try. Going for sensitive.
    â€œReally?” She sounds surprised. “What do you think it would be like?”
    Shit. “I dunno.” Jesus, what should I say? “Bad,” I finally guess. And then, when she just takes another bite of ice cream, I give my slow wise nod—twice—and add, “I think it would be really bad.”
    â€œI think the whole world would seem different.” Grace’s drifting into analyze mode. “I think you’d perceive things as three-dimensional, as existing in space rather than as something you just look at. I mean, just sitting here, the world out there”—she gestures toward the other tables, the counter, the pimply-faced guy—“could be two-dimensional, as far as we know, until we touch it. It could be a picture, or a film.”
    I stir my straw in my Dr Pepper. I nod my head, but I’m thinking about how today Jordan Palmer was telling Gutterson that he and this girl videotaped themselves doing