Sophomore Hailey Hill places her books on her desk and sits in her seat with a certain grace. The chatter of incoming students surrounds her as she focuses intently on the movement of her hands, methodically pulling out the materials she needs.

The bell rings and the class settles down to a dull hum.

She knows the drill.

Look up at the board where the teacher has written the assignment that the class will be starting with.

Read and begin.

Hill stares intently up at the board, scouring for the daily schedule.

The boy in front of her is already pulling out his book and flipping to a designated page.

The girl next to her harbors a determined look on her face and holds a calculator in one hand while punching numbers in with the other.

Somehow, all at once, the sound of pencil on paper rises and clouds the air.

Hill’s pencil does not join the harmony.

Not yet.

She is still looking at the board.

She is adjusting her eyes, trying to see the normal sized words that, to her, seem to be a mile away.

When people look at Hailey Hill, the first thing they usually notice is something related to her eyes.

They sometimes notice that her left eye does not follow her right eye.

They sometimes notice that she has to stand incredibly close to see things and sits in the front of all of her classes.

They sometimes notice that she has to stare a little longer and look a little harder to recognize shapes and colors.

“I’m looking through a black t-shirt,” she says, describing the vision in her left eye.

Since she was 2 years old, the effects of bilateral retinoblastoma shadow her, as they will continue to do so for the rest of her life.

The chemotherapy and surgery that were needed to rid her eyes of tiny tumors have left scars that make it hard to see anything.

So she must resort to staring.

And squinting.

And trusting herself that what she thinks she sees is what she’s supposed to be seeing.

No matter how unclear things maybe.