A Blind Spot for Boys by Justina Chen

room. I was glad for it. The presence of my new camera felt reproachful, but I didn’t know where to store it—my microscopic closet was already crammed with shoes, books, old art projects. Then I glanced at the hope chest and knew I’d found the perfect coffin. When Iopened the lid, I caught the familiar whiff of cedar along with the expensive perfume Dom had given to me on our third-to-last date. I had tucked that bottle away along with every gift Dom had given me because they were too painful to see out in the open. As I nudged aside the boxes filled with other childhood mementos that Mom had saved, I touched the plastic container that held my first camera, bright red, inherited from Dad. My hand recoiled.
    Selfish.
    The night after the ophthalmologist confirmed that Dad was going blind, Mom had come into my bedroom to check on me. Sitting beside her on the bed, I asked, “Is Dad going to be okay?” Mom’s answer had been an emphatic “yes,” but she had worried her bottom lip.
    Dad would never be okay if he didn’t take this chance to travel and photograph. I knew that. I lay down on my bed now, my eyes tearing. I was selfish to stand in his way. What was the worst thing that could happen to me? Repeat junior year because I bombed Chem?
    Selfish.
    My entire life of the best still lay in front of me; Dad had spent a life settling for second best because of us. Me.
    Selfish.
    I finally opened the package, labeled with my name, and withdrew the brand-new camera from its plastic bag. Once it was freed, I blew a speck of dust from its sleek black exterior. The weight of the camera felt right in my hands, but I knew which hands would appreciate it more. Which hands should have been documenting life. Which hands were empty now.
    So I picked up the phone and dialed a number I knew by heart: Reb.
    “Hey, are there still two spots left on your trip?” I asked.
    “Oh, my gosh! Your parents actually want to go?”
    “Pretty sure.”
    “Then I’m pretty sure there’s room for them.” Reb continued in a breathless rush, “You have to go with them.”
    “How? You said there were only two spots left.”
    “There are. But if you’re okay helping Grandma Stesha out during the trek, I’ll ask her if you can take my place.”
    “I can’t do that.”
    “This is probably going to be the only time you’ll ever photograph Machu Picchu with your dad.”
    My eyes overflowed with tears at her offer. I bit my lip. “I know.”
    “So just say yes.”

    Down in the living room, my parents were sitting on the couch, the flames in the potbellied stove banked low. I lifted the dream camera and took their photo. The flash startled them.
    “Shana!” Mom said, hand to her heart. “You scared me half to death.”
    Into my father’s hands, I placed the new camera, the next best thing to lifelong sight.
    “Dad,” I said. “We’re taking you on a photo safari to Machu Picchu.”

Part Two
    But the eyes are blind. One must look with the heart.
    —Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

Chapter Six
    I
f anyone had told me that my parents were capable of mobilizing for an international trip in two weeks, I would have bet an entire year of rat removal with me doing the rat-removing honors that they weren’t. How many of our travel plans had been canceled due to last-second emergencies and panic attacks over the impending cost? But there was Mom, hauling home three sets of rain gear she’d found on the extra-reduced clearance rack, placed there for good reason. Honestly, compared to the puce-colored rain jacket and matching pants, the Paradise Pest Control uniform was haute couture.
    “Ta-da!” Mom cried, holding up the rain gear like hard-won trophies. “Try them on! Come on!”
    “Mom,” I complained, frowning at myself in the mirror, “we’re going to look like our own paramilitary troop.”
    “Shana’s got a point, hon. This gives new meaning to ‘dressed to kill,’” Dad agreed.
    “Double O Seven would rather be shot than