Ears for Eyes

Summary: Bonnie is your typical moody teenager, except for the fact that she's been blind since birth. Not that this bothers her—or so she says. But where one glance could mean life or death, awkward is going to a whole new level.

Chapter 1: A Recipe for Awkwardness

Quote of the Chapter: But Bonnie, wouldn't you much rather be gifted with the obvious talent of sight? I'm sorry; I can't hear your obnoxious question over the sound of my Gibson Archtop. Bonnie Cadman

And flowers might wilt when we walk past And self-help might help when it makes us laugh Only finding questions in answers You and I are just walking disasters Walking Disasters ~ The Wombats

Here's some advice for all aspiring parents of disabled children. If your child is blind, don't ever let them use a cane, because they will be avoided like the plague. It's kinder, and less mortifying, to leave them be and allow them to snatch at the scattered pieces of whatever normality they may, or may not still possess.

I ditched my cane at the age of eleven – my parents wanted proof I could manage regular school instead of the depressing 'helping school' I went to – and the constantly bruise-covered shins are definitely worth it.

Sound sour don't I? Scarred for life perhaps? Possibly emotionally traumatized due to family antics? You bet. No arguments here. Especially when the school charity case (a.k.a. me) has to resort to listening at the door of her own dorm room to find out if her two best friends are indeed talking about her behind her back.

Just to let you know, I'm not normally one to eavesdrop. But it's hard not to when you have super, bat-like hearing.

But Bonnie, wouldn't you much rather be gifted with the obvious talent of sight? I'm sorry, I can't hear your obnoxious question over the sound of my Gibson Archtop. Yeah, that's right, I have a vintage guitar. Your jealousy is understandable.

I bought it trying to improve my status as an urban/indie I'm-disabled-but-still-uber-cool type of girl; something that is proving much harder than you would have thought considering I would rather stay in, writing dreadful, melodramatic, self-questioning, teenage poetry with my narcoleptic guide dog, Charlie, than attend a music festival, surrounded by dippy guys smoking cigs all night. People say guys always look hotter with a cigarette hanging out their mouth—personally, I just find it annoying.

Charlie, my guide dog of four years, nuzzles his fuzz-covered head into my hand. I aim to scratch his neck but miss completely and end up jamming my fingers into that awkward cranny formed between his pointed ears and oesophagus. Charlie gives a strangled sort of gasp-come-yelp and jumps backwards. His faint panting tells me that he's still nearby but out of reach, probably not wanting to be brutally assaulted again.

I'm so socially awkward that my best friend is a dog – and even he is awkwardly avoiding me. How awkward. I'm sorry—this is slightly awkward. But in awkward situations I tend to overuse and abuse the word awkward.

Recipe for Awkwardness:

Take one medium sized, sightless bowl.

Add a cupful of cornflakes with a quirky attitude verging on gawkiness.

Sprinkle with a dusting of musical talent to increase sweetness.

Pour in milk of embarrassing, overbearing maternal love until the cornflakes become overly-soggy and drown in it.

For extra flavour, take a self-destructive lemon and squeeze out juice of stubbornness and determination.

Add some raisins that can cause a tendency to vomit when speaking publicly, a serious procrastination problem, excessive clumsiness and a bad habit of chewing nails.

Eat slowly – too much awkwardness can cause stomach cramps.

That is an accurate summery of my life. Awkward, isn't it?

My ability to wander off tangent so freely amazes me: one second I can be talking about the ramifications of cane-using, the next, comparing my life to cereal. It takes a special kind of talent to do that.

I press my ear against the door to hear better, but the voices are still muffled and barely legible… stupid door; it's too think and solid. Probably oak, it definitely feels like oak; rigid, but smoother than silk. People say that silk is smooth—clearly those people have never pressed their ear against a door of well-polished oak.

'Are you definitely sure?' Rachel's voice is unmistakeable: it's like a box of cherries, ever changing. Sometimes you get a sugary and squeaky tone, others it's rich and deep.

'Positive,' replies Percy. His voice is more constant compared to Rachel's, sure he uses inflection, but the tone is mostly the same. Like the oak, it can change its shape, but underneath it'll always be that solid oak.

'But Bonnie can't be like you, can she?' Rachel gives a pause, 'It's just, she always seemed so…normal.'

'And I don't?'

'Not really,' she says offhandedly, 'but, are you sure?'

'I've already told you—she shows all the signs, and I'm definitely sure that thing said 'she' and—'

Percy's cut off by the ear-splittingly loud bell that rings out through the dorms. If your ears are still functioning you'll hear, behind that horrendous ringing, it actually says is 'Attention! Would all students who are currently eavesdropping please stop, since their roommate is about to leave for lunch and, consequently, find them out. Thank you.'

The cacophonous noise of students swarming the corridor fills my ears. I flatten against the door to avoid getting trampled by the oncoming horde—nothing is ever more terrifying than standing in the way of hungry teenagers.

Suddenly the door swings inwards and I topple forwards to the ground, making an oddly high squeak as my nose is crushed against the tattered carpet. I'm so uncoordinated it's laughable. If there was ever a person in the world who would actually slip on a banana skin; that person would be me.

I roll over and groan sorrowfully, reaching to prod my nose experimentally but instead jabbing myself in the eye—talk about insult to injury. Forgive me, but I dare you to smash your head against the floor, then shut your eyes and try to touch your own nose. People never realise how much their accuracy relies on sight—take that away and you're about as accurate as a seven year old with a hammer.

A snort of suppressed laughter comes from someone above me; probably Rachel, she really can be a bitch of a best friend sometimes—Percy says her hair matches her temper—I suppose if her hair's striped with the words 'rude and sarcastic, yet fiercely protective', that might be true.

'Come on,' a pair of paint-crusted hands grab my own and yank me upwards, 'up you get,' Rachel pulls me to my feet with a stagger, 'ach, you're all sweaty.'

I grouch and wipe my clammy hands against my jeans, 'I was at cello practice and the PAC* is a bloody space heater during summer.'

Our room, as per usual, has the heavy chemical smells of oil paint and sharpie. One of the oh-so-many perks of being blind-Bonnie is extra room space. Two girls, and a dog, in a four person bedroom leave plenty of extra room for stacks of Rachel's canvases, crates-worth of paint and my abundance of mostly unused music instruments and equipment.

'So…what were you guys talking about?' Yup, that's me, subtle as ever. Even the air is choking on our awkward silence—I love awkward silences, they're so big and heavy and quiet, not even crickets chirp because they're made too uncomfortable by how awkward it really is.

Can you see that big elephant in the room, you know, that one over there in the corner, yeah, the one that has 'What Percy and Rachel were just talking about!' painted on it in big, definable colours? Well I can't and I would seriously appreciate it if someone told me what the hell is going on.

'We were talking about erm—' Sweet sugar laces, it's horrendous how much that boy sucks at lying on the spot. Percy's the only person I know that can convince a teacher that the reason he couldn't hand in his History essay is because his dog ate it—and he doesn't even have a dog! Yet when you ask him what he was just talking about he's as quiet as a cricket during an awkward silence.

Percy is saved by a great peal of thunder that is, in fact, my stomach yelling in anger, 'I did not get breakfast and now you deny me lunch! I resent this predicament and demand you feed me at once!' My stomach is so demanding…and posh. I think it's because I was conceived at the Glastonbury Festival in England—I'm all about 'trashcans' and 'sidewalk', but when it comes to anything edible, you just try to keep me from my crumpets and tea, and beans on toast; who ever invented beans on toast deserves to be knighted.

'We were talking about you, we were wondering when you'd get back because I am hungry,' Rachel lies smoothly as she links her arm in mine, steering me out of the room.

As the floor beneath my ratty, now, paper-thin converse changes from worn carpet to polished wood Charlie's gentle snores become audible. I swear if he's not moving, he's sleeping.

'Charlie!' I call; the snores stop and the gentle padding of his velvet-like paws trotting behind us tell me he's following. Percy's rhythmic steps aren't too much further behind.

I shake myself out of Rachel's grip, if—when I fall I'm sure she'd appreciate me not dragging her down alongside myself.

I navigate through the corridors that I have long since memorised, I know them well enough that I could probably walk them with earplugs now.

Left. Right. Jump up that step. Outside to avoid your English classroom—you owe Mr. Vincent that essay. Round that bench that gave you that massive bruise on the first day. Under that low hanging branch that gentle brushes your head. Smack; forget to open the last door.

'Umphf—owww!' I clutch my right hand against my head. Underneath my dry, wavy/frizzy hair I can already feel a red welt beginning to form, no doubt tomorrow I'm going to have and impressive lump to add to my growing collection.

Time: ten minutes, give or take. Injuries: three. Nose, eye, head.

Dear Life,

Next time, instead of giving me lemons, could you please send something else? I'm allergic you see. So perhaps I could get something sweeter, not lime, raspberries, or maybe strawberries? Thanks.

~Bonnie

'How many times do I have to tell you to check for closed doors?' Rachel's tone has that same concerned, nagging edge that always graces my own mother's voice.

I blanch and mutter begrudgingly, 'Probably once more, at least.'

She huffs and pushes open the door for me, the hinges creak with a metallic squeal, as they have done everyday for the past year. Does no-one ever think to oil them?

I wander along the back wall of the large, echo-prone hall towards to our regular table at the back, gently running my hand across the panelled walls as I do so. The lunch room is the biggest at Goode—it's filled with enough, obscenely long tables to seat every Liverpool fan—actually, not that much, maybe every QPR fan.

The point is it's big, old and always full of rambunctious teens; if you times that by, say about five, because of the echo; the noise level is equal to that at a Rise Against concert—and that's including the screeching fans. In other words, it's pretty bloody loud.

I feel at the back of the chairs as I walk on; searching for the big X Rachel painted onto my favourite seat in acrylic paint after I accidentally strolled into the teacher's area one day and took a bite out of, what I thought was Rachel's apple, but what was actually my Latin teacher's pear. Safe to say, that was perhaps the biggest face-palm moment of my life.

The plastic, lumpy shape painted to the back of my chair is obvious at once; it makes a light scrape as I pull the chair outwards and flop into it lazily.

Charlie rubs his body up against my leg, coating my ankles with his short, coarse hair; he curls round my legs and then finally settles at my feet; probably to go to sleep again, he's always asleep. I drum an unknown song—probably some Frankie & the Heartstrings, I have been listening to them an unnecessary amount lately—with my fingers against the table as I wait for Rachel and Percy to get back with food.

'Ugh,' a bang indicates Rachel's dropping of her over-burdened tray that has not only her food, by mine as well, 'you need to stop eating so much, at this rate I'm going to loose the use of my fingers permanently,' she moans.

I suppress the twitching of my lips which probably makes me look constipated and say, 'I never know, maybe you're the one who can't lay off the bread. For all I know you could be as bloated as an exercise ball.'

Oh, Cheese Sticks. I've done it again. Every time I try to say something witty and whimsical I end up saying something depressingly truthful but cheery that just makes everyone uncomfortable as they are reminded that I might be unnaturally awesome (yup—that's definitely me) but I'll still always be Cadman-Can't-see.

'Sooo…' Silence—successfully broken, 'what am I eating today, Rach?'

A plate is slid towards me and Rachel puts a fork close to my hand so my still-drumming fingers brush against the tip of the spiky prongs at the end. Does anyone actually know what they're called? They must have some proper, scientifical-latinish name somewhere.

'We were late so everything decent's gone. There was pasta with sauce, but I know you hate tomatoes so I got you the salmon?' She raises her voice in a question for approval. I wrinkle my nose but let it slide. Rachel has no respect for was consists of proper food.

Grabbing my fork, I stab blindly down at the plate only to be met by the sound of the metal utensil clanging uselessly against the ceramic plate.

'Left.' Instructs Rachel. I twist my lips into what I can only hope is a scowl before moving my fork slightly to the left to find the squidgy piece of fish. I try not to gag as I swallow the tasteless, worryingly rubber-like chunk of salmon.

'Water?' I ask hopefully. Rachel slides a glass across the table and into my hand. 'Cheers,' I mutter through taking a large gulp, washing away the remnants of what I can scarcely call meat.

I reach to place it back on the table, but only as I let go do I realise that the surface I placed it on was not the table, rather the lip of my plate. It tips over with an unforgiving thunk as the glass crashes into the table, spilling everywhere. The liquid rushes over the edge of the table and dowses my lap in water, immediately soaking through my tattered jeans and right to my pants, trickling all the way down my leg. Charlie shifts, waking to find his head splattered with water.

I gasp and my lips contort and twist, withholding a long string of swear words. Answer me this; How does a simple glass of water, not even full, manage to soak someone so thoroughly? And why does water always feel so much colder on your lap than it does in your mouth? I think this is karma for eavesdropping. You know life's a bitch when even the blind girl get's a lap full of cold water.

Life: 1 Bonnie: 0.

Prepare yourselves, people. For this is the unepic story of Bonnie Siouxsie Cadman.

It's set during the summer of the Titan War II.

It might be Con-Ellen.

It might be Bon-Ellen.

^^^Most likely not^^^

It might be Bon-Ner? Con-nie?

It might be many things. But one thing's for certain;

it's going to be one hell of a story.