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the floors newly polished. As they passed the cafeteria, Natalie could hear faint radio music and the muffled clanging of pots in the back as the cooks prepared for another year of pizza, subs, and Tater Tots.
    “Hey, Nat!” A boy’s voice suddenly rang out, echoing in the empty hallway.
    Natalie’s mother touched her shoulder. “To your right,” she said quietly.
    “It’s Jake,” the boy said as he came toward them. “Jake Handelman.”
    Natalie smiled. She liked Jake, who apparently knew how helpful it was when people announced who they were. She must have mentioned this once, how much she appreciated that.
    “Hey. So what are you doing here so early?” he asked.
    Natalie could see him then. The baseball hat on backward, the cheeky face and wide smile, the bulky black T-shirt. It helped that Jake was so big—as big as the tuba he played in the marching band. At the end of their freshmen year, she and Jake had been elected class representatives to the student council.
    “Couldn’t wait to be back in school, huh?” he had teased.
    Natalie’s smile began to fade. She did not want to have to tell him that she was leaving.
    But Jake didn’t wait for an answer. “I was thinking,” he said, “that we need to get those proposals written up for the first student council meeting.”
    Natalie felt herself sinking. They had both pushed for healthier food in the cafeteria as part of their campaigns. A lot of the kids wanted a daily salad bar and a machine that sold bottled water.
    “We should get together one afternoon next week. Maybe Friday?”
    “I can’t,” Natalie said. “I won’t be here, Jake.” She swallowed hard. “I have to go to a different school—”
    When Natalie’s voice faltered, her mother moved in. “Her glaucoma, Jake. It’s at the point where there is nothing more we can do.”
    “Wow. I didn’t know. . . . Yeah. . . . But my grandfather had glaucoma. He had to take eyedrops like every day. I guess I didn’t realize someone our age could get it, too.”
    Natalie was nodding. Eyedrops. He didn’t have a clue! While memories of past surgeries flashed by, she sniffed and brushed the end of her nose with her hand, a nervous gesture. “Yeah, anyone can get it,” she said weakly.
    Jake hooked his thumbs in the pockets of his baggy shorts. His lowered voice sounded sincere. “I’m really sorry, Natalie.”
    “Thanks,” she told him. “Good luck to you, Jake.”
    “And you, too,” he replied as they turned to go.
    “Stay in touch, okay?” he had called after them.

THE WORST
    Unbelievable. On the second floor of Norland Hall at the Baltimore Center for the Blind, a whole walk-in closet full of canes hanging on hooks surrounded Natalie like a stalactite nightmare. Natalie heard the voice repeating: “Find one that fits.” But her hands froze and the voice echoed in her head.
    Definitely, absolutely, the worst thing so far, she thought. Forget the weird kids and a Braille lesson where she learned that there are six dots in a Braille cell and that different combinations of dots stood for different letters. A single dot, or bump, was a while b, c, e, i, and k all had two dots—but each set of dots was arranged differently! Impossible! How in the world were a bunch of bumps ever going to mean something?
    But by far, the cane was her greatest fear because of all it represented—and all that it would strip away—like her freedom, and her anonymity. They may as well hang a sign around her neck, too: PATHETIC BLIND PERSON.
    “Natalie, go ahead, hon,” urged the woman who was Natalie’s new cane instructor. “Lift a cane off the wall and see if it’s the kind you want.”
    But Natalie didn’t want a cane. She didn’t need a cane. What would her friends think if they saw her right now? Would she even want to tell Meredith about this?
    The instructor, Miss Audra, patiently repeated the instructions. “Just choose one,” she urged. She was a young teacher. From what Natalie