The Eye of the Beholder

By Rose Q. Addams

I opened my locker door, eyes still smarting from the storm of tears. I couldn’t take another day of this. Even if it was the best opportunity I’d ever had.

I’m done with this place. I seized my bag and scrubbed my eyes—the source of most of my trouble—with my sleeve.

I closed the locker much more gently than I wanted to and marched to the door.

Sayonara, I thought toward the building.

As I opened the door, someone shouted behind me. “Oriana! Wait!”

I continued out, unheeding. Anyone who wanted to make fun of me again could chase me for the privilege.

“Please?”

I slowed, my body fighting my mind for control of the situation, and frowned down at my rebellious feet. Traitors. Clenching my fist, I continued at a snail-like pace until the footsteps drew even with mine. A pair of pumpkin-colored Chuck Taylors kept pace with my self-decorated shoes.

“You okay?”

I looked up at—Drake?—the only other student who hadn’t worn SynesTech to school, and relaxed just a smidgen.

“Yeah. ‘Cuz I’m never coming back here again.” The anger in my belly gave me courage that I hadn’t had earlier.

His usually stoic face wrinkled in—what? Irritation? Dismay? “Why not?”

“Haven’t you heard?” I snapped, inwardly cringing at my own spite. “In case you hadn’t noticed, you and I are the only students not wearing SynesTech, and since I’m new, weird-looking, and a scholarship student, that makes me a target!” I kicked a pebble so hard that it ricocheted off the fence and shot into the street. “No one’ll say anything to you because your parents made SynesTech. Me? I don’t get that privilege.”

“You’ve only been here a week. It’ll die down.”

I frowned. “Yeah, and so did the Great Chicago Fire.”

Silence.

“I don’t know why it’s got to be a status symbol,” I continued. Since he hadn’t left, I might as well rant to an audience. “It’s a toy, no offense to your parents. Simulating synesthesia seems… a bit overboard. You don’t need to customize the world just because you’re rich.”

“It was supposed to be a tool,” he said. “It’s supposed to help people understand what their loved ones may be going through, though apparently it’s a big help with dyslexia, too.”

I harrumphed. “And every one of our classmates using one to toy with their perception of reality is…?”

“An adverse side effect,” he said. “Gotta have marketers stick their noses into everything.”

“Well, since I don’t wear their fancy little glasses,” I continued, conceding his point with an understanding eye-roll, “my eyes are very visible.”

“I’ve noticed,” he said, and I glared. His eyes twinkled, but not nastily. What was his problem, then?

“And, since my family’s genetic makeup determines that hazel eyes turn orange at thirteen,” I said testily, “I get to be the weirdo. The living manga character. The true-born ‘natch’ freak.” I spat the words flung at me earlier that day, and Drake winced a little, as though I was insulting him. I shrank inside, seeing in his eyes the pain I’d felt. So I finished in a whisper. “Don’t tell me it’ll blow over. It won’t. Not unless you can make orange eyes something else.”

“I can’t,” he said. “But maybe I can help. A little. If you won’t tell anyone what I’m about to share.”

I blinked, puzzled, and he stared at me, eyes ever-so-slightly narrowed as if deciding whether I would tell him the truth.

“Who would I tell?” I said finally, and his face softened in an honest smile.

“All right,” he said. “Then I’ll tell you.” He looked stone-serious, and I grew just as solemn.

“I actually have synesthesia. Not the kind where different letters are different colors, or the kind where you smell fruit or see shapes if you hear certain noises, but when I see different shades of orange—I hear music. Different shades are different songs.”

I squinted, a bit skeptical.

“That’s why my parents made the SynesTech. To understand better. And I know it sounds crazy, but every time I see you, I hear music, too. When I see your eyes. It’s never the same song, ‘cuz the color of your eyes never seems the same shade. And… I like seeing you. I don’t want you to leave… especially because of me.”

His voice had grown soft, and I realized this really was important to him.

“If I left, I wouldn’t leave because of you. You didn’t make fun of my eyes.”

“But I didn’t stand up and say anything good about them either. I should’ve defended you before now.”

I thought about this. “Maybe. But it’s too late for that. Will you stand up for me now, if I stay?”

He nodded, and I found myself smiling.

“So what kind of music do you hear?”

“All different kinds. It’s not that consistent. Lighter shades tend towards calmer music, but it’s not a hard-and-fast rule.”

“Your shoes?”

“You noticed!” He sounded pleased. “Footloose. Kenny Loggins.”

“And my eyes? Right now.”

He grinned, wide. “Setsuna Drive. IA.”

“Do you have a favorite shade?”

“That’s like asking if I have a favorite song.”

“Do you?”

“I’ll tell you another time.”

We arrived at the crosswalk, where he and I would have to part ways. The difference between scholarship and paid enrollment stretched before me, and I swallowed, still nervous about tomorrow.

“I’ll meet you here in the morning?” His voice was hopeful, sincere.

“Yeah,” I said, looking up as the sun burst through the clouds overhead, warming the earth, then back at him as it bathed him in a tangerine glow. “Yeah. I’ll see you.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Rose Q. Addams loves cheesecake, wears many hats, and blames her expansive, loving family for her love of reading. Some of her earliest memories are hearing stories of Heidi, Winnie the Pooh, Paul Bunyan, and the prophet Ehud who stabbed King Eglon— which explains how her taste runs wildly throughout genres. She can be found searching her hometown for a rumored giant bird (or pterodactyl, stories differ), or scribbling madly on any paper she gets.

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