Status: In Progress

These Eyes Are Blind

What's My Name Again?

“Hey Frank,” A voice that Frank recognizes to belong to Patrick says. It’s coming from behind him so he turns around to fake the courtesy of looking at the person who’s speaking to him. Obviously he can’t see, and when he swings around he hits someone in the ankle with his cane. He can’t exactly see how crowded it is in here though so he doesn’t know who to dodge and account for.

These halls are so narrow and there’s literally no reverberation back at him, which is hellish in Frank’s mind. He can’t really tell where anything is. When he steps, the ground doesn’t make an echoing sound, and that’s one of the only ways he’s able to tell where things are. The room just absorbs all sound, and it makes things a lot more difficult for him. He’s going to have to memorize the layout of the school either way, but in this instance it’s more vital. He’s got to do it quicker, because he can’t rely on his ears in this place. Other places, sure, but not here. This is all about memory.

Frank is already not liking this school. He’s not fond of how twisted the corridors are, or the people, or the teachers, or the way it smells vaguely of gym socks and burning hair. The only good thing about this place is that no one here knows him yet. All the people at Frank’s old school knew him, some before the accident, and apparently he changed a lot between the ages of nine and ten, and lost most of his friends because of it.

Frank doesn’t buy that even a little bit. He hasn’t actually changed that much over the years. He just can’t see anymore. He’s still the same person. His friends all used him changing as an excuse to not have to be friends with the blind kid. Mostly he just swears more than when he was a little kid, but that’s because he didn’t know any swear words when he was younger. That’s the biggest way he’s changed over the years.

“So Frank, how’s the first day been going so far?” Patrick asks. Frank tries to figure out where he’s standing, but it’s not easy. This is not a good place to play Marco Polo. Frank doesn’t even know where Patrick is.

“Oh just great. I’ve already pissed off a teacher, and I think my only friend is the secretary,” Frank shrugs.

“You think ever so highly of me,” Patrick says.

“I’m more okay with trusting the old lady who let me ditch my first class, thank you very much,” Frank says.

“I helped you find your locker. And the front door. And-” Patrick stops himself, “you know what? Never mind. Let’s get lunch.”

“I’ll follow you,” Frank says.

“I assumed you would.”

Frank tries to argue with Patrick for a long moment about not wanting to have to grab his shoulder for Patrick to lead him the way there. Frank doesn’t want to be babied, and Patrick is being too nice. It’s weird. Patrick finally wins when it becomes obvious that standing in the middle of the hallway during the middle of a lunch period is not a very good idea. Frank may be good at dodging cars, but real moving people are another story. They’re scarier. Also it seems like they’re trying to walk right into Frank. He assumes this is mostly just because people are trying to get a closer look at the blind guy, like he’s a zoo animal.

Patrick eventually gets him to a part of the hallway where he won’t be trampled, and then leads him the way forward, weaving through people so that they don’t get stepped on. Patrick is short, so is Frank, so they’re not bad at getting through the barricade of people who trying to make it impossible to go anywhere. Frank can’t see a freeway, or any cars for that matter, but he imagines that this is what rush-hour must look like.

“So do you have any actual friends then?” Frank asks.

“Yes!” Patrick says defensively.

“Ah, but can you count all of them on one hand?”

Patrick doesn’t say anything for a long moment before he sighs and says, “Maybe.”

“That’s essentially the same as saying yes,” Frank laughs.

“I still have more friends than you if you’re honest about how distrustful you are,” Patrick retorts, and guides Frank into some variety of lunch line. It doesn’t smell very good in the cafeteria. It smells like a high school cafeteria which is pretty self-explanatory.

“Hold up, are you being distrustful of my lack of trust?” Frank asks, “Ironic.”

“There’s a difference between distrust and doubt,” Patrick says. “I’m sure you trust some people.”

“I don’t trust a single person on the planet. Except maybe Velma from Scooby Doo. That show would have been over by the first episode if it weren’t for her.”

“Not your own mother?” Patrick asks.

“My mom doesn’t even trust me. Trust has to be mutual otherwise it isn’t there at all.”

Patrick doesn’t respond immediately. Instead they reach the front of the lunch line and Patrick helps Frank grab food. Apparently there are some things he has to avoid if he’s not keen about projectile vomiting. Frank listens to Patrick on that one. He’s new to this school. It’s already making itself out to be pretty shitty, he wouldn’t be surprised at this point to find out that they’re serial food poisoners.

“Okay so it’s like really crowded in here,” Patrick says when they apparently get to the part of the large lunchroom with tables. Frank doesn’t know how to picture the room, because he’s not sure how big it is quite yet. He’s fairly sure that one of the walls is made up of windows, probably the side furthest away from him, because he can see only a blinding white in his eyes. He can’t see even the smallest bit of color because the room is just way too bright.

“I want to face the direction away from those windows,” Frank says pointing to where he thinks they are.

“How do you know there’s windows there?”

“I see light. It’s a long story. I know that there are windows somewhere in that general direction basically,” Frank says.

“Well okay. Are you okay with sitting at the loser table?” Patrick asks, “Well, one of many loser tables?”

“Any table that I sit at is the loser table,” Frank says, “and judging by what little I know of you, that’s true of you too.”

“Polite,” Patrick states, and Frank can feel the eyes rolling in the others head.

“Okay, just go, slowly, it’s kind of narrow between the tables,” Patrick says.

Frank makes it over to the table successfully, after hitting his hip twice on the corners, and sits down. He hears someone drop their tray on the table loudly and decides he may not like said person already. Frank's head snaps in their direction, trying to find wherever the new person is, because he’s sure that wasn’t Patrick.

Patrick points over to Frank, unknowingly to him, "That's Frank."

"A name that's straight to the point. I like it. What's up dude? I'm Pete."

Pete sits down and Patrick follows behind him. Pete sticks his hand out for Frank to shake, but Frank doesn't notice. Usually he would feel the wind or something from the gesture, but this room just isn't the best for that stuff. This room is awful actually.

"Pete? Is that short for Peter?"

"Never, man. It's just Pete, and if you wouldn't mind, could you shake my hand now, my arm is kind of tired."

Frank chuckles and sticks his hand out in Pete's direction. He realizes he’s miscalculated the guy’s position when Pete's arm comes from a little further away than he’d expected. Frank's face must show confusion because Pete and Patrick both laugh.

"He's just loud, man," Patrick tells him.

"Well I realized that when he started a drum line with his lunch tray on the table."

Pete laughs and shrugs, because he’s heard that he’s loud before, "Hey, what can I say? I like for my presence to be known."

"That's odd, usually losers don't like drawing attention to themselves."

Pete's eyebrows rise high and he looks over at Patrick. Patrick shrugs and Pete moves closer to where Frank is in front of him.

"Why would you assume that I'm a loser?"

"You're sitting at the table with Patrick, who evidently has fewer friends than he has legs, and a snarky blind kid. So, to be frank, we aren't the most popular crowd."

"So you just assume I'm not because you're not? That's like me assuming you don't get dressed on your own because you can't see. Don't be an ass."

"Whatever," Frank replies and for once he knows that he was stupid to assume. Pete was probably right.

"I'm kind of well-known here, I guess,” Pete says.

“The schools soccer team sucked before Pete came along,” Patrick adds.

“You’re overselling my addition, Patrick,” Pete says, “but anyway, that doesn't mean I can't befriend Patrick just because others think he’s a loser. Or you."

"So you don't think we're losers?"

Pete stuffs a piece of the nasty broccoli in his mouth and thinks for a second, "I don't think Patrick is. Who made up the rules on what's considered a loser anyway? You on the other hand... I think you might be a loser since you like to assume. Only losers assume."

"You just contradicted yourself."

"I am well aware of that."

“I think I’m a loser,” Frank says, “I never knew that it was a term meant to insult. Sounds more like a term of endearment if you ask me. I’m a Loser, that’s a Beatles song, and the Beatles are cool. So call me a loser all you like, I don’t care.”

Frank shakes his head and leaves it at that. He starts picking through his food but gives up after a couple of bites. It is honestly the worst thing he's ever tasted. It's like they are truly trying to kill everyone; a fate better than school in Frank’s opinion.

Frank's ears perk up when he hears a voice he recognizes. He’s eavesdropping, because he doesn’t particularly care about whatever it is the other two are talking about. He’s come to the conclusion that no one else is going to sit there though. Patrick doesn’t have a surplus of friends at all.

The conversation he’s listening to isn’t very interesting, but it’s horrifically idiotic. It's that kid though, what was his name... Blake? Frank hears him speaking about his failed attempt with a girl and Frank laughs. Like honest to god, laugh out loud, almost chokes on his water, laughs. He feels Patrick or Pete or both of them look at him, but he’s too busy trying to hear the rest of the epic saga wherein Blake can’t tell the difference between flirting and talking.

Frank’s fairly sure that the kid didn’t hear him laugh, but Patrick asks him what he’s laughing about.

“Whatshisname sounds like a fucking douchebag,” Frank says, “I bet he’s the kind of guy who’s got a poster of a football player in his room who he’s secretly in love with, but would never admit to it, because he’s a jock and ‘jocks are supposed to be straight’. I’ve met lots of whatshisname’s.

“Who? Blake?”

“Sounds like his name,” Frank says, “what a douchey name as well.”

After another minute of listening, Frank honestly can't take any more of this, and decides to say something to the guy. Frank turns in the direction that Blake's voice is coming from and speaks out.

"How can you actually get upset because she doesn't want to sleep with you? I could write you an essay on all the reasons why she wouldn’t want to sleep with you. For one thing, if you’re gossiping about how she turned you down, just imagine how much you’d gossip if she hadn’t. Good on her, sounds like a smart person for turning you down. I mean come on, you haven't slept with her and you're running your mouth."

Patrick’s voice is shaky when he says, "Frank what are you...?"

"Hush, Patrick! This dude and I go way back. We’ve said like twelve things to each other, we’re practically family. Besides, I'm only stating the truth."

Patrick stops talking and rolls his eyes at Frank, because he doesn’t want to get caught up in whatever game Frank is playing. Blake keeps staring at Frank while his friends say snide things under their breath.

"Wow, you're actually speechless? Is my gorgeous smile getting to you? You’re so weak for me, aren’t you? First my ass, now my smile. What’s next? Are you going to ogle my tits?"

"I'm just trying to figure out how a blind prick has an opinion about anything."

"So because I'm blind I'm unable to have an opinion? Where is your logic, man?” Frank says, “Just because a bucket has a hole on the top doesn’t mean it can’t hold water! Just because a pencil doesn’t have an eraser, the lead is permanent. Just because both Madonna and I have eyebrows, we’re the same person. Dude, these are called fallacies, I’m pretty sure you should be able to build up an argument based on something that holds a little more water than your bucket with a hole on the top. My tip for you is not to become a lawyer.”

“What?” Blake asks, because he’s got the brain of a goldfish.

“Your honor, my client is innocent because both he and my mom have thumbs, and my mom has never committed a crime, therefore my client can’t have committed a crime,” Frank says.

“Frank, watch yourself,” Pete says.

“Did you just tell me to watch myself?” Frank asks, turning to look at Pete. “Really? Did you think that one through? What else should I watch? Hello! Blind guy!”

“You know what I meant.”

“I’m not going to walk on egg shells just because my good pal Blake over there is a sexist piece of shit.”

“What’d you call me?”

“I called you my pal, Blake,” Frank says obnoxiously, “do you not like that term? Buddy? Chum? Comrade? Mate? Oh maybe not that last one, that’s a little too British. Let’s keep it in the states.”

“What’s wrong with Britain?” Patrick asks.

“They pronounce jaguar weird. It bothers me,” Frank replies.

“What’s your name again, kid?” Blake asks Frank.

“I don’t recall,” Frank says, “Patrick, do you know what my name is?”

“Don’t bring me into this, I’ve never met you,” Patrick says, turning around in his seat.

“Well shit, I guess we’ll just never know,” Frank says.

“Pete, what’s his name?” Blake asks.

“Cool it, Blake. Leave the kid alone, he’s just a little... well, he’s a smartass.”

“That I am,” Frank says, “wait hold up, Pete. You’re friends with the prick who doesn’t know how to talk to girls?”

“Oh like the blind guy can talk to girls,” Blake says doubtfully, and his cohorts at the table with him all laugh. Apparently Frank is making enemies in two’s and three’s, which probably isn’t a good idea, but Frank has never been one to think things through.

“Why on earth would I want to talk to girls?” Frank asks, “I don’t want to talk to fucking anybody. I don’t want to talk to guys, or girls, or anyone outside and in between those spectrums. I just want to eat potato chips.”

“Same,” Pete says, nodding.

“Anyway, Blake, I’m gonna call you Blake if you don’t mind, your ‘pal’ card has been revoked,” Frank says, turning to face the direction of Blake again, “my suggestion to you is that you avoid interacting with anyone with a pulse, especially girls. And me. Don’t talk to girls, and don’t talk to me.”

“I wasn’t going to,” Blake says as a comeback, which is weak. Frank just frowns at it and wishes they could get some judges to go stand behind Blake and give him score cards for how weak that was.

“I’m disappointed with that, you could’ve tried harder,” Frank says, shaking his head. “Well see you around, Blake. That’s a figure of speech. I won’t be seeing you anywhere. That’s my gift to you though, because this way you can stare at my ass and I’ll be none the wiser, unlike the girls you prey on who, rightfully, punch you in the nose.”

Frank turns back to sit straight in his seat, feeling people still looking at him. Patrick himself is just oozing awkwardness.

“You probably shouldn’t have done that,” Pete says.

“Why? What sports team captain did I just piss off?” Frank asks.

“How’d you know he’s a sports team captain?”

“He’s got the mannerism of it. Self-righteous and arrogant.”

“Football,” Pete says.

“Oh it always seems to be the football players, doesn’t it? That’s so cliché. One of these days I would love to piss off, like, the captain of the chess team.”

“You did that on purpose?” Patrick asks.

“The power of infamy is one not to be trifled with,” Frank says.

Pete scoffs and shakes his head at Frank, "You're fucking looney, man."

“Call me what you want, it doesn't faze me,” Frank sighs, and lays his head on the table. Well, technically he lays it on top of his hands that are splayed out on the table. There's no way he'd lay his precious face on anything in this school. Look at that, even Frank's thoughts are sarcastic!

"So what are you gonna do when Blake tries to skin you alive?" Pete asks.

"Tell him what kind of designs I'm looking for."

"Man, you really are sick!" Patrick voices.

"Because I want tattoos?"

“No offense, but what’s a blind guy want tattoos for?” Pete asks.

“State of mind I guess. Intimidate my peers?”

“So for other people’s sake?”

Frank groans, “No, for mine. It’s not about anyone else.”

"Don't be a smartass, dude," Patrick says.

"I know we've only known each other for half a day, but I thought you knew me better than that. I am an ass. I mean, even Pete realizes it. Get with the times."

"I called you a smartass."

"Same thing, fucker," Frank replies. Pete slams his milk carton onto the table after he finishes downing it, to silence the two boys.

"Just shut up you two." Pete speaks and then laughs when he hears Patrick gasp loudly and whisper 'ow'.

"My bad. I'll improve my aim in at least two days," Frank says. Frank had been going after Pete, but he hit Patrick with his cane instead.

"You'd better hope so, and I'd better not be your target next time."

"With the way things are going, I'm sure you'll be my target, Petey," Frank says grinning cheekily.

"Don't you ever call me that again, Francis," Pete says in a warning tone.

"Holy shit! As long as you agree to never call me that again."

"Agreed. Here comes my hand, you should reach now," Pete says. Frank sits up and reaches for Pete's hand.

"Good, now that we've shaken on that, I think you should have your mom hire some body guards," Pete says collapsing back in his seat.

"Why? When I have two of the absolute greatest friends in the whole wide world right here?" Frank surges sarcastically.

"Hey, I helped you this time, but I don't know about next time,” Pete says, “He's not exactly going to strike with others around. At least not others like Patrick and I, who aren’t on his side."

"Yeah, because he isn't gonna strike," Frank says confidently.

"You keep thinking that."

"I will," Frank says stubbornly.

"Are you gonna drink your milk?" Pete asks.

Frank shakes his head quickly, "If it tastes anything like the crap they’re trying to pass off as food, I will pass."

Pete reaches over and snatches Frank's milk before he can change his mind, "This is actually the best thing they serve in this whole school. There hasn't been a milk incident in like 3 years."

"A milk incident?"

"Oh God," Patrick intervenes, "It was horrible man."

"What happened?"

Pete keeps drinking his milk so Patrick decides to tell Frank the story, which apparently was big news considering the size of the town, "So this kid went for his milk and when he started drinking it there were chunks in it. That shit was sourer than a lemon. Older than the dinosaurs. Smellier than Pete’s shoes. Luckily the kid’s parents didn't sue. They cleaned up their act on the milk after that. They didn’t get the memo on the sandwiches, oranges, apples, bread, salad, or anything else, but the milk, the milk is fine."

"Fucking nasty," Frank says cringing, and then trying to send away the little voice inside his brain repeating the phrase ‘Fortunately, the Milk...’ over and over again.

"You can say that again," Pete finally speaks.

Not too long after that the bell rings, and the lunchroom gets louder than it originally was. Everyone gets excited at the dismissal of a class, because they're closer to going home. Frank would very much like to go home, but right now, he has to have Pete and Patrick take him to his next class. Just a few more hours though.