Excerpt from Not If I See You First by Eric Lindstrom, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

"Are you sure you're in the right class?" I say. "Calculus for Geniuses is down the hall. This is just Trig."

"I guess you're in Kensington's class? Isn't it kinda early for this?"

I don't know what this means, or who Kensington is. A teacher from Jefferson, maybe.

"Hey, douchebag," says a male voice to the left of Douchebag. "She's really blind."

Interesting. The second voice is softer, and calm in a way you don't often hear insulting big heavy jock voices. It's familiar but I can't place it.

"No, Ms. Kensington does this thing where you need to pretend—"

"I know, and she doesn't hand out canes. Besides, it's first period on the first day."

"But if she's really blind then why would she wear a blindfo—"

"Trust me, dude; just shut up." Harsh words but said with a friendly voice.

For my scarf today I chose white silk with a thick black X on each eye. It was that or my hachimaki with Divine Wind written in kanji, but I didn't want to confuse the noobs with a mixed message. Either way, I know I made a mistake leaving my vest at home.

I usually wear a frayed army jacket, arms torn off, covered with buttons that friends bought or made over the years. Slogans like Yes, I'm blind, get over it! and Blind, not deaf, not stupid! and my personal favorite, Parker Grant doesn't need eyes to see through you! Aunt Celia talked me out of it this morning, saying it would overwhelm all the people from Jefferson who don't know me. She's wrong, it turns out. They need to be overwhelmed.

I hear shuffling and the creak of wood and steel as someone sits down hard to my left.

"Hi, Parker." It's Molly. "Sorry I'm late. I needed to stop by the office."

"If the bell hasn't rung, you're not late." I try to sound casual but actually let her know that being my buddy just means helping with certain things in classes, not life in general.

"Hey, so your name's Parker—" Douchebag says. "Awww," I interrupt him with my sweet voice. "You figured that out because you just heard someone say it. And I know your name for the very same reason. Douchebag isn't very nice, though, so I'll just call you D.B."

"I'm—"

"Shhh . . ." I shake my head. "Don't ruin it."

The silence that follows is the perfect example of the thing I love most about being blind: not seeing how people react to what I say.

"I—" D.B. says, and the bell rings.

.. .. ..

. . .

"The stairs down to the parking lot are ahead," Molly says.

I sigh inwardly. Actually, I'm tired; maybe I sighed outwardly, I'm not sure.

Classes let out a while ago but Molly and I worked out a schedule to do our homework in the library after school for a couple hours and afterwards I call Aunt Celia to pick me up. Molly's mom is a teacher who also came over from Jefferson— she teaches both French and Italian—and they carpool.

"Good," I say. "Those stairs have been there at least two years now. I bet it'd be really hard to get rid of them with the entire parking lot being five feet lower than all the classrooms."

Silence.

I consider reminding her of Rule Number Four, understanding that it hasn't been long since I gave her the list, but it's been a tiring first day and I don't have the energy.

I don't need a chaperone anywhere on school grounds. I know exactly where the handicapped parking space is and two years of Dad parking there trained the unhandicapped people to stay the hell out of it. Molly insisted she was walking with me just because, but I knew better. The combination of blind people, stairs, and cars terrifies the sighted, but it's actually pretty safe. Cars are only dangerous when they're moving, and they only move in certain ways and places, and they make noise you can hear, even hybrids. Stairs are like bite-sized paths that your feet can feel the size and shape of all the time.

Excerpted from Not If I See You First by Eric Lindstrom. Copyright © 2015 by Eric Lindstrom. Excerpted by permission of Little, Brown Books for Young Readers. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.