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AlsobyNoraRaleighBaskinTheTruthAboutMyBatMitzvah


SIMON&SCHUSTERBOOKSFORYOUNGREADERSAnimprintofSimon&SchusterChildren’sPublishingDivision

1230AvenueoftheAmericas,NewYork,NewYork10020www.SimonandSchuster.com

Thisbookisaworkoffiction.Anyreferencestohistoricalevents,realpeople,orreallocalesareusedfictitiously.Othernames,characters,places,andincidentsaretheproductoftheauthor’simagination,and

anyresemblancetoactualeventsorlocalesorpersons,livingordead,isentirelycoincidental.

Copyright©2009byNoraRaleighBaskinAllrightsreserved,includingtherightofreproductioninwholeorinpart

inanyform.SIMON&SCHUSTERBOOKSFORYOUNGREADERSisatrademarkofSimon&

Schuster,Inc.TheSimon&SchusterSpeakersBureaucanbringauthorstoyourliveevent.Formoreinformationortobookanevent,contacttheSimon&SchusterSpeakersBureauat1-866-248-3049orvisitourwebsiteat

www.simonspeakers.com.AlsoavailableinaSimon&SchusterBooksforYoungReaders

hardcoveredition.BookdesignbyDrewWillis

ThetextofthisbookwassetinLeafandWeiss.MTN0110

FirstSimon&SchusterBooksforYoungReaderspaperbackeditionMarch2010

TheLibraryofCongresshascatalogedthehardcovereditionasfollows:Anythingbuttypical/NoraRaleighBaskin.

195p.;22cm.Summary:Jason,atwelve-year-oldautisticboywhowantstobecomeawriter,relateswhathislifeislikeashetriestomakesenseofhisworld.

ISBN978-1-4169-6378-3(hc)


http://www.SimonandSchuster.com

http://www.simonspeakers.com

1.Autism—Juvenilefiction.2.Schools—Juvenilefiction.3.Families—Juvenilefiction.4.Autism—Fiction.5.Schools—Fiction.6.Familylife—

Fiction.PZ7.B29233An2009

2008020994ISBN978-1-4169-9500-5(pbk)

ISBN978-1-4169-5844-9(eBook)


forSteve


Contents

Acknowledgments

ChapterOne

ChapterTwo

ChapterThree

ChapterFour

ChapterFive

ChapterSix

ChapterSeven

ChapterEight

ChapterNine

ChapterTen

ChapterEleven

ChapterTwelve

ChapterThirteen

ChapterFourteen

ChapterFifteen

ChapterSixteen

ChapterSeventeen

ChapterEighteen

ChapterNineteen

ChapterTwenty

ChapterTwenty-one

ChapterTwenty-two


ChapterTwenty-three

ChapterTwenty-four

ChapterTwenty-five

ChapterTwenty-six

ChapterTwenty-seven

ChapterTwenty-eight

ChapterTwenty-nine

ChapterThirty

ChapterThirty-one

ChapterThirty-two

ReadingGroupGuide

Teaser:TheSummerBeforeBoys


Acknowledgments

Ionceagain,havemanypeople to thank for theirhelpandsupport inwritingthisbook.

First and foremost I givemy love and thanks tomy editor at S&S,AlexandraCooper,who is just the right combination of intelligent andkind,cheerleaderandcoach.

ToRobinMillay,oneofmysmartest,oldest,mostgenerous(shebuysmebooksfornoreasonatall!),andmostencouragingfriends,whoreadanearlydraftofthisnovel—andstillencouragedme.Andworkedwithmeonthisallalongtheway.

To Estée Klar-Wolfond, founder of the Autism Acceptance Project,whoansweredallmye-mailsandthenspoketome(foralongtime)onthephone,whichturnedeverythingaroundandhelpedmefindmywayintothisstory.

ToMichaelMoon,currentpresidentoftheAutismAcceptanceProject(TAAP.com), who read a slightly-later-than-first draft of this story andgavemethegreatestpraise:“IwastouchedbythebookforIcouldrelatebacktomychildhood.”Comingfromhim,itmeanttheworldtome.

Tomy“Children’sauthorswhobreakfast”breakfastgroup,thankyoubothTonyAbbottandEliseBroach.

To the amazing artist, JamesGulliverHancock,who “drew” Jason’swordssoperfectly.

And to Lizzy Bromley, book designer extraordinaire, who alsohappenedtohavefoundJGHinthefirstplace.


ChapterOne

Mostpeopleliketotalkintheirownlanguage.Theystronglypreferit.Theysostronglypreferitthatwhentheygoto

aforeigncountrytheyjusttalklouder,maybeslower,becausetheythinkthey will be better understood. But more than talking in their ownlanguage,peopleliketohearthingsinawaytheyaremostcomfortable.Thewaytheyareusedto.Thewaytheycanmosteasilyrelateto,asifthatmakesitmorereal.SoIwilltrytotellthisstoryinthatway.

AndIwilltellthisstoryinfirstperson.Inothe.Menothim.Minenothis.Inaneurotypicalway.Iwilltry—Totellmystoryintheirlanguage,inyourlanguage.

IamJasonBlake.

Andthisiswhatsomeonewouldsay,iftheylookedatmebutcouldonlyseeandcouldonlyhearintheirownlanguage:

That kid is weird (he’s in SPED, you know). He blinks his eyes,sometimes one at a time. Sometimes both together. They open andclose, open and close, letting the light in, shutting it out. The worldblinksonandoff.

Andhe flapshishands, likewhenhe is excitedor justbeforehe isgoing tosaysomething,orwhenhe is thinking.Hedoes that themostwhenhe’sonthecomputerorreadingabook.Whenhismindisfocusedonthewords,itseparatesfromhisbody,hisbodythatalmostbecomesaburden,aweight.

Weight.Wait.Onlyhisfingersdon’tstandstillwhiletheywait.Theyflapattheends

ofhishands,attheendsofhiswrists.Likeinsectsstuckonastring,stuckinanet.Likemaybetheywantto

flyaway.Maybehedoestoo.


Infirstgradetheyputathick,purplerubberbandacrossthebottombarofhisdeskchair,soJasonwouldhavesomethingto jigglewithhisfeetwhenhewassupposedtobesittingstill.InsecondgradeMatthewIversonsentaroundanotesaying, If you think JasonBlake isa retard,signthis,andMatthewgotsenttotheprincipal’soffice,whichonlymadethingsworseforJason.

InthirdgradeJasonBlakewasdiagnosedwithASD,autisticspectrumdisorder. But his mother will never use that term. She prefers threedifferent letters: NLD, nonverbal learning disorder. Or these letters:PDD-NOS, pervasive developmental disorder– non-specific. Whenletters are put together, they canmean somuch, and they canmeannothingatall.

Fromthirdgradeuntilthisyear,sixthgrade,Jasonhadaone-on-oneaide,whofollowedhimaroundschoolallday.Sheweighedtwohundredand three pounds. (Jason asked her once, and she told him.) Youcouldn’tmissseeingher.

Butthethingpeopleseethemostishissilence,becausesomekindsofsilenceareactuallyvisible.

WhenIwrite,Icanbeheard.Andknown.Butnobodyhastolookatme.Nobodyhastoseemeatall.

School doesn’t always go verywell. It is prettymuchamatter of timebeforethefirstthingofthedaywillgowrong.

ButtodayI’vegottenfar.Itisalreadythirdperiod.Mrs.Hawthorneisabsentandsowearegoingto the library insteadofartclass.This isagoodsign.You’dthinkartclasswouldbeoneoftheeasiestclasses,butit’snot.Imean,it’snotthatit’shardlikemath,butit’shardlikePE.Alotofspaceandtimethatisnotorganized.

Anythingcangowronginthatkindofspace.Butnotinthelibrary.Therearecomputersinthelibrary.Andbooks.

Andcomputers.Keyboardsandscreensanddesks thatarebuilt insidelittlecompartmentssoyoudon’thavetolookatthepersonsittingnext


toyou.Andtheycan’tlookatme.Whenwegetintothelibrary,somebodyisalreadysittinginmyseat,

atmycomputer.AttheoneIwant.NowIcan’tbreathe.Iwanttologontomy Storyboard website. I was thinking about it all the way here. Ihavealreadyhadtowaitsolong.Idon’tknow.

“Jason, this one is free,” the lady says. She puts her hands onmyshoulders.ThisladyisaladyIshouldknow,butherfacelookslikealotofother facesIdon’tknowsowell,andIgroupthemall together.Herfaceispinched,buthereyesarebig,roundlikecircles.Herhairdoesn’tmove, like it’s stuck in a ball. She belongs in the library or the frontofficeormydentist’soffice.

Butsheisherenow,soIwillassumesheisthelibrarian.Iknowfromexperiencethatsheistryingtohelpme,butitdoesn’t.I

canfeelherweightonmyshoulderslikemetalcuttingmybodyrightoffmyhead.Thisisnotagoodthing.

Ialsoknowshewantsmetolookather.Neurotypicalslikeitwhenyoulookthemintheeye.Itissupposedto

meanyouarelistening,as if thereverseweretrue,whichit isnot:Justbecause you are not looking at someone does not mean you are notlistening.IcanlistenbetterwhenIamnotdistractedbyaperson’sface:

Whataretheireyessaying?Isthatafrownorasmile?Whyare theywrinkling their foreheador lifting their cheeks like that?

Whatdoesthatmean?Howcanyoulistentoallthosewordswhenyouhavetothinkabout

allthatstuff?ButIknowIwillgetintroubleifIdon’tlookatthelady’seyes.Ican

forcemyself.Iturnmyhead,butIwilllookathersideways.Iknowtherightwordstouse.LastyearJane,myone-on-one,taughtmetosay,“IamokayjustasI

am.”IamokayjustasIam.ShetoldmeIhadtosaysomethinginthissortofsituation.Shesaid

that people expect certain things. She said that people willmisunderstandmeifIdon’tsaysomething.

This is one of themany,many things I need to run through inmymind,everytime.AlsothethingsmyOT,myoccupationaltherapist,has


taughtme:Look people in the eyewhen you are talking (even if thismakes it

harderforyoutolisten).Talk,evenwhenyouhavenothingtosay(that’swhatNTsdoallthe

time).Trytoignoreeverythingelsearoundyou(evenwhenthosethingsmay

beveryimportant).Ifpossibleputyourheadandyourbodyback togetherand tryvery

hard not to shake or flap or twirl or twitch (even if itmakes you feelworsetodothis).

Don’tblink.Don’tclickyourteeth.(Thesearethethingspeopledon’t like.These

arethethingstheyhearbutcan’thear).

“Iamokay justas Iam,” I say,and I takea step forward. Iwant thelibrariantotakeherhandsoffmyshoulders.Theweightofherhandsisalmostunbearable,likelead.Liketheleadapronthedentistputsonyouwhenyougetanx-ray,a crushing rockwhile the techniciancounts toten.Andyoucan’tmove.

Ortheywillhavetodoitalloveragain.Also, Iwant to standclose, so therewillbenoconfusion that I am

next in line.Thepersonat thecomputer turnsaround to thesoundofmyvoice.Itisagirl.Mostgirlslookthesame,andIcan’ttellonefromtheother.

Longhair.Earrings.Differenttoneofvoice.AGirl.Idon’tknowwhothisgirlis,orifshealreadyhatesme,butchances

areshedoes.Thegirldoesn’tsayanything,soIhavetolookatherfaceandfigure

it out.Her eyes are squinched up, and her lips are pressed so tightlytogethertheyalmostdisappear.Irecognizethatsheisunhappyorevenangry,butIdon’tknowwhy.

“Youarebreathingonme,”shesays.“You’resogross.”“Gross”couldmeanbigor refer toameasurementorweight,but in

thiscaseitdoesn’t.Itmeansshedoesn’tlikeme.Sheis,infact,repulsed


byme,whichishowmostgirlsreact.Mymomtellsmenottoworry.Mymom tellsme Iwill findagirlfriendoneday, just likeeveryoneelse. Iwillfindsomeonewhoseeshow“special”Iam.Iknownogirlwilleverlikeme.NomatterwhatIdo,nomatterhowhardItry.

ButmaybeIamwrong.Ihopeso.I hope I amwrong andmymother is right. But usually I am right

aboutthesethings.

“Iwasherefirst,MissLeno,”thegirlsays.MissLenoisthelibrarian’sname.“Jason, here,” Miss Leno is saying. “Sit here. You can use this

computer.”ButIcan’tusethatcomputer.Idon’twantto.Ican’t.Mybreathingis

too loud insidemy ears. I stiffenmy body, solidifymyweight, so shecan’tmovemewithherhands.You’dbesurprisedathowquicklypeoplewill try to move you with their hands when they don’t get what theywantwiththeirwords.

I wish Jane were here with me right now and then this wouldn’thappen.Wordsdon’talwayswork.

“Jason,holdstill.There’snoneedtogetsoupset.Thereareplentyofothercomputers.”

MissLenoistryingtoshiftmyweightoffmyfeet,andshe’stryingtopretend she’snot, as if she’s justwalkingwithme, insteadof pushingme,whichiswhatshe’sdoing.

“Jason, please.” But she doesn’tmeanplease. There is noplease inanythingMissLenoisasking.Sheispullingme.

I feel off balance, like I am going to fall. I need to shiftmyweightback and forth, back and forth, rock to stabilizemyself. I can feelmychance tousemy computer getting further and further away fromme.Thereisn’tevenenoughtimeleftintheperiod.Imightnotgettologonat all, even if this girl does get up.A hundred little pieces threaten tocomeapart.

“Jason, please, calm down. Calm down.”Miss Leno’s voice soundslikeaXeroxmachine.

Sometimesthereisnothingtoholdmetogether.


ChapterTwo

TherearesomewriterswhoknowthingsandpostthemontheInternetsootherwriters can learn them.Someof themsay that thereareonlysevenplotsinthewholeworld:

Manvsnature.Manvsman.Manvsenvironment.Manvsmachine.Manvsthesupernatural.Manvsself.Manvsreligion.Itcouldbeawoman,too,buttheyjustsay“man”inordertomakeit

easierforthemselves.Becausetheyallseemtobeabletounderstandit,because they are only speaking in their own language. In an NTlanguage.

ButIcandothattoo.WhenItry.Veryhard.Itmeansmanorwomanvsnature.Manorwomanvsmanorwoman.

Andsoon.Otherwriterssay thereareonly threeplots:happyending,unhappy

ending, and literary plot (that’s the kind of ending that is uncertain).There is awhole book calledTwentyMaster Plots, which I happen toown.And another authorwrote that he thought therewere thirty-nineplots.

Butreally,ifyouaskme,thereisonlyonekindofplot.One.Stuffhappens.That’sit.


Thisiswhathappensnext:“C’mon, Maggie, get up. Give him that computer. You’re not even

doinganything.”NowAaronMillerisstandingbehindme.Me,whoisbehindthegirl

who isusingmycomputer.MissLeno,behindbothofus, stillhasherhands onmy shoulders. If she doesn’t let go, I don’t knowwhat willhappen.

Butstuffusuallyalwayshappens.IhaveknownAaronMillersincekindergarten,frombackwhenIwas

thesameaseveryoneelse.Youmightnotevenhavepickedmeoutofacrowd.Nobodywasverygoodatanythingbackthen,anda lotofkidsdidweirdthingsanddidn’tknowenoughtohidethem.CharlieKarlwethispantsseventimesthatyear.ChelseaGreygotcaughtsneakingintothecubbiesandstealing themeatoutofall the sandwiches shecouldfind.LizaDuchampspickedhernoseandateitduringcircletime.Nowthatsamegirlisrunningforsixth-gradeclasspresident.

AaronMillerwasmyfriendinkindergarten.I’dliketosayhestillis,butbydefinitionIcan’t.Hehasn’tcometomyhouseinfiveyears.Hehasn’t invitedmetohisbirthdaypartysincesecondgrade. IamprettycertainIamnotonAaronMiller’sbuddylist,eventhoughheisonmine.Butheisalwaysnicetome,andwhenIsitathistableatlunch,hewilltalktome.

Hedoesn’tgetangrywhenIdon’ttalkbackthesameway.“Anyway,you’renotsupposedtobeplayinggamesonthecomputer,

Maggie,”Aaronsaystothegirl.Thegirl’snameisMaggie.“What is ityourbusiness?” thegirl,Maggie,says,butshestopsher

typingandlooksatAaron.“Everything is my business, Maggie,” Aaron says. “And you’re just

beingstubborn.You’rebeingmean.”Maggie says, “I’m notmean.” She immediately signs off and closes

thewindowshehasopenonthescreen.ThenMaggietakesherfingersoff the keyboard and pushes her chair back. It screeches, but I don’tmoveoutoftheway.Imightbemistakenaboutwhatsheisdoing.

I’mnot.“Allyours,Jay-Man,”Aaronsays.Butthereareonlytwenty-threeminutesleftintheperiod.“Ow,”Maggiesays,butIknowIdidn’tdoanythingthatcouldhave


hurther.Iamjustsittingdown.Sheisjuststandingup.Iwant tosay thankyoutoAaron,but Ineed toclaimmyseat first,

justincasesomeoneelsecomesoverandtakesmyturnfromme.Thathas happenedmany times before. And then all this workwould havebeenfornothing.Ineedtoopenmywebsite,becausethecomputersatschoolareslow,and thiswill take time too.Thesooneryoucanbeginsomething,thesooneritisdone.

Iamloggingin.“That is very nice of you,Maggie,” I hearMiss Leno saying. “I am

sureJasonappreciatesitverymuch.”TheStoryboardhomepagerollsontothescreen,bitbybit,fromthe

top down. I had to get special permission to go to this website. Mymother had to write a letter and even the principal, Dr. T., had toapprove.And then the librarian,whowasnotMiss Leno, but the onebeforeher,unblockedthesiteforme.TheschoolhadtovalidatethatallStoryboard users are under seventeen and that the site is monitored.ThereisaStoryboardsiteforadults.Butthatoneiscompletelyseparate.

Nowall Ineed todo is type inmyscreennameandpassword.ButMissLenohasnotwalkedawaythewaysheshould.Sheisstillstandingnearby.Usually shewalks around the library asking kids if they needhelp,orshesitsbehindherdeskandchecksoutbooks.Orgoesintotheback roomand I don’t knowwhat theydoback there, but Iwish shewouldgonow.

Iwill focusonmyStoryboardscreennameandpassword.Thereareonlytwenty-twominutes left inthisperiod,andIneedtosee ifIgotaresponsetomylastposting.MissLenomakesascratchysoundfromherthroatwhilethefinalgraphicsformywebsitestarttoloadonthescreen.Shehasstillnotwalkedaway.

Iamtryingtoremembermylistofthethingsapersoncouldwantbutdoesn’t tellyouwhat it is.Sometimesthey justwant tosaysomething,andtheyarewaitingforyoutolookatthembeforetheywillsayit.Thatis often the case. But Miss Leno was already doing a lot of talkingwithoutmelookingather,sothat’sprobablynotit.

Sometimespeoplestandaroundwhentheyarewaitingforyoutodoorsaysomething.Something they thinkyoushoulddoor say.So theyjustwait, like that’sgoing tohelpyouunderstandwhat it is theywantyoutosayordo.


Itdoesn’t.“AndIamsureJasonwantstosaythankyou,don’tyou,Jason?”Miss

Lenofinallygetsitout.Iwantsobadlytocheckmystoryposting.IamverygratefulthatAaronhelpedmetogetonmycomputer,but

nowIjustreallywanttoviewmywebsite,andIdon’tunderstandwhatMissLenowantsmetodo.Ican’tsaythankyoutoAaron;heisnothereanymore.Icanhearhisvoice.Heisallthewayacrosstheroombythecard catalog now, and if I get up, I could lose my computer all overagain.Does shewantme to say thankyou toMaggie?Maggiedoesn’twantme to talk toher.EvenMissLenomust know that.Besides, shedidn’twant to get up and giveme the computer. She just didn’twantAaronnottolikeher.

AllIneedtodoislogonandscrolldowntomyentry.Ifsomeonehaswrittentome,therewillbeanumbernexttomyname.AllIcandoiskeepmyeyesonthescreen.

“Well,Mr.Blake.Showinga littleappreciationwouldgoa longwaywithyourfellowclassmates,”MissLenosays.Hervoiceisangry,butsheiswalkingaway.

Showing?How do you show appreciation? Appreciation is an emotion. It’s a

feeling.Youcan’tdrawapictureofit.Whydopeoplewanteveryonetoactjustliketheydo?Talkliketheydo.Lookliketheydo.Actliketheydo.

Andifyoudon’t—Ifyoudon’t,peoplemake theassumption thatyoudonot feelwhat

theyfeel.Andthentheymaketheassumption—Thatyoumustnotfeelanythingatall.


ChapterThree

EverymorningIgetup,awordpops intomyhead,usually justbeforebreakfast.

JustbeforebreakfastandrightafterIbrushmyteeth.OrjustasIambrushing my teeth. Sometimes I know what the word means, andsometimesIdon’t.

Isayitoutloud.Itcouldbeahardwordoritcouldbeaneasyone.Thismorning it is “confluence.” Iwatchmyself in themirror, and I

hear theword“confluence.”Iamnotsurewhat“confluence”means.Ihave an idea, but I am not sure. I think it has something to do withcoming together. A confluence of ideas. I think I have heard thatexpression.

Isayitoutloud.“Confluence.”IamlookinginthemirrorandIamthinkingthatifIdidn’ttalkandI

didn’tmove,ifIheldmyhandsatmysidesandstoodverystraight,I’dlook likeanyother twelve-year-oldboy.Myhair isshortanddark.Myeyesarenicely formedand lightbrown in color.Mymouth isnormal.My lips,anevenshape.Myskin isgood.Myteetharewhite.Myearsdon’tstickout,andIknowtheyareclean,eventhoughIcan’tseethem.Icleanthemeveryday.

Confluence,liketworiverscomingtogether.Iamlikealeafonariver,ridingalongthetopofthewater,notquite

floating, not quite drowning. So I can’t stop, and I can’t control thedirectionIamgoing.Icanfeelthewater,butIneverknowwhichwayIamheading.

But I might feel lucky this day and avoid the sticks and branchesscratchingandpullingatme.

Mydadtellsmethereisnosuchthingasluck,goodorbad.


Mydadistheguywhoputsthewordsuponthetelevisionwhileyouarewatchingabasketballgame,orafootballgame,orsometimesbaseball.He sits in a trailer outside the arena or the stadium or the field andwatcheseverythingonascreenwhilehetypesintoacomputer.Heputsupthescore,thenames,thestats,andinterestingfactsthathisproducertellshimto.Sohewatchesalotofsports.

Andhesaysthereisnosuchthingasluck.Lifeiswhatyoumakeofit,mydadsays.

Mymotherisadifferentstory.Thatisanexpression,sincesheherselfisnotreallyastory.Beingabletounderstandabstractexpressionslikethatis a sign of intelligence. IQ tests are filled with them. Like “People inglass houses shouldn’t throw stones” or “A penny saved is a pennyearned.”Part of the scoringon the test dependsonhowwell you canunderstandandinterpretthosesayings.

Lotsofneurotypicalsdon’tevenunderstandthem.ButIdo.Mymotherwantstohelpme.Shewantsmetobehappy.AndIthink

mymother wants to fix me. She wants me to bemore like her, eventhoughshedoesn’tseemsohappyalotofthetime.

And if shecan’t fixme,at least shewants toexplainhowIgot likethis.

Sosheislookingforareason.Areasontoexplainme.Itcouldbe:ThemercuryintheDPTvaccinesAwaywardchromosomeAmutatedgeneToomuchpeanutbuttereatenduringthefirsttrimesterNotenoughoxygenduringdeliveryNotenoughpeanutbutter(istheresuchathing?)Smokingduringpregnancy(butmymotherdidn’tsmoke)Maybe it’s the air pollution, or the fertilizers in the vegetables, or

hormonesinthemilk,acidrain,globalwarming.Maybeit’srayscomingoutofthetelevision.Orthemicrowave.


Ormaybeitisjustme.

One of the two responses to my story is from someone who callsthemselvesNique79,which I thinkmightbe likeNickor evenNickie,but people like to spell things differently online. Becausemaybe yourrealname,thewayyouspellit,isalreadytaken.

Mystoryisaboutaman,thestoryIpostedontheStoryboardwebsiteunder the category Miscellaneous, which is where you post anythingthatisnottruefanfiction.Allmystoriesareoriginal.

Themajorityofthefanfictionpostingsarecontinuationsorretellingsofsomeoneelse’sstory,orevenmoviesor televisionshows, likeHarryPotter. Or Star Wars. Or CSI. Or Pirates of the Caribbean. And TheGilmoreGirls.

Butmystoriesarealloriginal,sotheydon’tgetasmanyhits.Mystoryisaboutaman.Iwrote a story about amanwho can’t talk becausehehas a giant

tumor growing in his throat. He was born with it, but nobody knowsthat, so they just think he’s really stupid and that he doesn’t haveanything to say.Sohe lives alone at the edgeof his village,wherehecarves fantastic figures out of wood, like little bears juggling and fishjumpingupoutofthewater,sailingthroughtheair,atinyhummingbirddrinkingfromaflower,andthenhecarvesalittleboyforhimselftohaveasafriend.Eventhough,ofcourse,thewoodenboycan’ttalkeither.

IknowIborrowedalittlefromthePinocchioidea,andIhopenobodywillnoticethat.Buttheydon’thaveaPinocchiocategoryanyway.Iclicktoopenthefirstcommentonmystory.

Nique79writes,Greatstory.Keepwriting.ThesecondcommentisfromPhoenixBird,butIdecidetowaituntilI

gethomefromschooltoopenit.ItislikesavingthelastpieceofcandyfromyourHalloweenbag,whichyoushouldn’tdo,becauseitgetshardandstickstothewrapper,andevenifyoucanpickallthepaperofftheslimycandywhenyoutrytoeatit,ithurtsandgetscaughtinyourteethforareallylongtime.

But that’s probably not what I really mean, since eating oldHalloweencandydoesn’tsoundgoodatall.


ChapterFour

Thereisnoexplanationformylittlebrother,Jeremy.Theredoesn’tseemtobeawordorlabelorreasonforwhatheis.Hesimplyis.Heisatypicalneurotypical,whichmeanshe’sneverhadanaidein

school, and when he wants something or doesn’t want something,nobody seems to have a problem understanding what it is. And eventhough he is only nine years old, he is better thanme at figuring outwhat other people want from him. On the other hand he is afraid ofbananas, and fromwhenhewas twoandahalf until about last year,Jeremyrefusedtowearsandals.Hewouldkickandscreamuntilhistoeswere safe inside a clean pair of socks and solid shoes. But nobodythought too much about that. Some of the weird things he does mymothersaysare“modeledbehavior,”whichisjustanotherwayofsayinghelearnedthemfromme.

Likehistemper.AndsomeofthethingsJeremydoesthathavenothingtodowithme

getblamedonmeanyhow.Like how hewon’t eat any food on his plate that has touched any

otherfoodonhisplate.Somymotherboughtthesedisheswithseparatecompartmentsandsaidtheywereforme.ButitwasalwaysJeremywhocouldn’t takea forkfulofhispotatoeswithoutgetting themalloverhismeat.

Notme.Hedoesdoalotoftalking,butthatdoesn’tmeananything.Because

eventhoughitisharderformetotalkthantolisten,andeventhoughitisalsohardformeto listen,I thinkit ismuchharder forNTsto listenthanitistotalk.ThisissomethingIhaveobservedovertheyears.

When Jeremy was born, everyone was afraid I would hurt him. Mymotherwouldcarryhimdown to thebasementwithherwhenshedidthelaundry,andshecarriedhiminhislittlebabyseatintothebathroom


withherwhenshetookashower.MaybeshethoughtIdidn’tnotice.ButIdid.Andwhenever theydid letmeholdhim, someonewas always right

next to me. My grandmother, whose hands shake more than mine,wouldkeepherarmrightunderthebaby,evenwhenIwassittingdownandtheyputhimonmylap.

Mygrandmotheralwaysshoutsatmewhenshetalks, likeshethinksIamhardofhearing,whichiscompletelytheopposite.Ihearvery,verywell.Mygrandmothersmellslikechemicalsandfakeflowers.IknowmygrandmotherwhenIsmellher.Idon’tliketolookatherface.ButIcantellit’sher,everytime.Idon’tlikeherverymuch.

“Youare so goodwith yournew little brother. I can tell you lovehimverymuch,” my grandmother said that day. She said each word veryslowlyandveryloudly.

ThatwasthefirsttimeIreallyunderstoodwhataliewas.Ibarelyknewmynew littlebrother.Hedidn’tdoanything. Ididn’t

lovehim.Hepoopedinhisdiaperandthenhesmelled.Andhecried,soI’dhavetoputmyhandsovermyearsastightasIcould.

Iknewwhatlovewas.ItwashowIfeltitsometimeswhenIwaswithmymother.ThewayI

wouldsometimesfeeljustmyheadorsometimesjustmytoesandthey’dfeelwarm.AndIfeltsafewithmymother.Icouldbreatheeasily.IknewIdidn’tlovemynewlittlebrother.

ButmydaddytoldmeIwould.Soon,he toldme. Soon Jeremywouldbemybest friend.Hewould

wanttoplaywithmemorethananyoneelseintheworld.Hewouldletmeshareallhistoys,andhewouldlaughwhenImadeajoke.Mydadwasteachingmesomegoodjokestotell.

“Soon”meant Ihad towaitanothermonthuntil Jeremycouldevensmileandanother tenmonthsat leastuntilhewouldbeable towalk.Andthenhewouldprobablyfollowmearoundthehouseandwanttodo


everythingIwasdoing.Butnotyet.All Jeremy did then was cry and poop and take up space in my

mother’sarmsandmakeithardformetobreathe.Iwas lookingat theskinat the topof Jeremy’sheadthatyoucould

seebecausehedidn’thaveanyhair.Therewasatinyroundholeinhisskull that moved in and out. I wondered how he could do that. Mymothersaid it’scalleda fontanelleand thatallbabieshaveone.But Iwasn’tsureaboutthat.

Hemoveditupanddown,inandout,inaperfectrhythm.Maybehewasgoingtobereallyamazing.Ijusthadtowait.

“Don’t you, Jason?” Now my grandmother was talking even louder,which I already knew people would do when they thought I wasn’tlistening.ButIwasalwayslistening,I justdidn’thaveanythingtosay.“Don’tyoujustlovethislittlebabyboy?”

MymotherhadtoldmeIneededtoanswerwhenthathappened.Shehadalittlesignshe’dmakewithherhands.Ineededtosaysomething,nomatter how hard it was. If someone asks you a question, you aresupposedtosaysomething,especiallyiftheyaskittwice.Eventhoughyou’dthinkthey’dgetthehintthefirsttime.IhadalreadylearnedthatifIconcentratedonmymouthlongenough,Icouldgettherightwordstocome out. At least one right word. But most people don’t wait longenoughfortherightwords,soIopenedmymouth.

“No,”Isaid.“You don’t mean that. Of course you love your little brother,” my

grandmothersaid.Isaiditagain.“No.”That’swhenshetookmybabybrotheroffmylap.


ChapterFive

“Areyougoingtoreadyoure-mailsnow?”Jeremyisaskingme.ThebestthingaboutJeremyisthatIdon’teverhavetoanswerhim,

notwithwordsanyway.AndIdon’teverhaveto lookhimintheface.Hedoesn’tevenwantmeto.HelikestotalktomewhileheiswatchingTVorreadingoneofhiscomicbooksorbitinghisnails,whichiswhatheisdoingrightnow.Heisveryseriousaboutbitinghisnails.Mymomisalwaystellinghimtostop,soJeremydoesn’teverdoitwhenshecanseehim.ThatisonethingIreallyadmireaboutmylittlebrother.Heisverytrickyaboutbitinghisnails.

I want him to be a little more quiet about it, though. The clickingnoisehisteethmakeonhisfingernailsbothersme.

Myhandsflyaroundmyhead.Idon’t really thinkaboutdoing this. It ismore likemyhandsknow

whattodoallbythemselves.Theyknowitmakesmymindfeelbetter.“Oh,sorry,”Jeremysays.Andhestops.Orhetriestobemorequiet

aboutit,Iamnotsurewhich,becauseIkeepmyeyesonthescreen.Iamwaiting formyWebpages toappear. Itwon’t take longnowthat Iamhome.Mycomputerisfasterthantheoneinthelibrary.

“Sonow,areyougoingtogoontheInternetnow?”ButtheInternetisnotreallyaplaceyoucango.Itisnotreallyanetatall,butitisthebiggest,mostcomplexplacein

the whole world. It hosts hundreds of languages, millions of words,billions and billions of bytes of information every single second. Andsimilartowhatgoesintomybrainandwhatcomesoutofmymouth,itisveryhardtoexplain.

But I will try, because I love Jeremy. I tell him aboutmy story onStoryboard.

“You are the best writer in the whole world, Jason.” Jeremy is stilltalking. “I bet a hundred million people read your story and you aregoingtobeafamouswriterwhenyougrowup.”

Jeremyknows,becauseItoldhim,thatprobablyveryfewpeoplehaveviewedmy story since I posted it last week and that only two peoplehavewrittencomments.ButthatishowJeremyis.Hedoesn’tthinkvery


much about themeaning of thewords that come out of hismouth. Ittookmealongtimeandmorecarefulobservationtofigurethisout.

Peopledon’tmeaneverything they say,mymotherhas toldme.Sohasmyphysicaltherapist.

Thenwhydotheysayit?Whydopeoplesaythingstheydon’treallymean?Sofarnoonehasgivenmeaverygoodanswertothat.

Iclickonmysecondresponse,theonefromPhoenixBird,theoneIwassavinguntilIgothome.

NowIamhome.I feel I could have written your story. It is so

beautiful. I have to go to cheerleading practice but Ican’twaitforyournextstory.

I read it again. Sometimes the same words and letters can havedifferentmeanings,soyouhavetobecareful.

“Whyareyousoquiet,Jason?”Jeremydoesn’tmeanquiet. Iamalwaysquiet.Hemeansstill. I can

feelmybody sitting in this chair. I can feelmy feet (insidemy shoes,touching the floor)andmy legs(flatontheedgeof theseat),myheadand my arms, my fingers (resting on the keyboard but not pressingdown),allatthesametime,whichIusuallycan’tdo.Andnoneofthemismoving.

Iamstill.IamcompletelystillandIknowit.Ireadthecommentonemoretime.Becausesomethingtellsme—That thisnote is fromagirl.Therearesomeboycheerleaders,butI

don’tthinkaboywouldadmitthat.SoIthinkPhoenixBirdisagirl.SoIthinkagirlhasjustsaidsomethingnicetome.


ChapterSix

LastyearforoursummervacationwewenttoNewJersey.JeremyreallywantedtogotoDisneyland,butwewenttoNewJersey.

We stayed in a house on the beach. One afternoon Dad and Jeremydrove to Six FlagsGreat Adventure, becauseDad said itwas just likeDisneyland. I didn’t want to go. I don’t like rides. I don’t like brightlights.AndIreallydon’tlikecrowdsandloudnoise.

SixFlagsreallyisn’tanythinglikeDisneyland,evenJeremyknewthat.“Sorry,Jason,”mymothersaidafterJeremyandDadleftforSixFlags

GreatAdventure,whichwasreallyodd,becausetherewasn’tanyreasonforhertobesorryforme.Ididn’twanttogo.Unlessshewasreallysorryfor herself, which happens sometimes, but she’d never say that. Sheprobably didn’t like staying in our beach house playing Scrabbleanymore.Mymotherisn’tasgoodatScrabbleasIam.

Shemightbesorryaboutthat.“SohowaboutyouandIgoouttoaspecialrestaurant?”mymother

askedme.Wewereinourrentedhouse,butwehadsomestufffromhome.We

hadourownsheetsandpillowsandblankets.Ofcoursewebroughtourown Scrabble set. My mom also packed for me a plate, a glass, andsilverware,sothenJeremywantedhisownfromhometoo.Momdidn’twant to, butDad saidwe couldmake room in the car. ButMomwasmad about it. I couldn’t tell from her face, but she did shut the doorreallyhard.Soshecouldbesorryaboutthat.

“Sohow’boutit,Jason?Justyouandme.Likeoldtimes,”mymothersaid.

“Justlikeoldtimes,”Isaid.ItwaseasysometimestojustsaythelastwordsIhadheardwhenI

knew she wanted me to say something. I knew my mother wantedsomethingfromme.

I knewevery time,but therewasnothing I coulddo.So sometimesshe would cry. Sometimes she would just close her fists very tightly,squeezehereyesshut,andthat’swhenIcouldlookather.Mymother’sface is very beautiful, like hills of softness, and careful arches of tiny


hair,andmovinglips,whiteteeth.

WewenttotheChannelMarkerrestaurant,justmeandmymother.Justlikeoldtimes.Mymotheraskedforatableinthefarthestcornerlikewealwaysdo.Buttherewasawait.Wehadtowait.

Weight.“We canwait, can’twe, Jason?”mymother said. “Relax your face,

Jason.Takeoutyourbook.”WesatdownonahardwoodenbenchandIstartedtoread.“Relaxyourface,Jason,”mymothersaid.Sheputtwofingersonthe

side of my head.We still waited. And I readmy book that mymomalwaysbringsforme.

“Jason,Ihavetousethebathroom.I’llberightback.Stayhere.Okay,Jason?Juststayhere.I’llberightback.”

Inoddedagain.Ikeptmyeyesonmybook,eventhoughitwashardtoconcentrate.

Itwasnoisy in the restaurant.Every time thedoor opened, I couldhearcarsdrivingon the road. Iheardadogbarkoutside,and Iheardthe wood floor creak when someone walked by the doorway to thekitchen.

Myoccupationaltherapistwasteachingmehowtotryandblockoutallthesesounds.Shetaughtmetohearthemonebyoneandthensendthemaway.

Hearthem.Holdthem.Andletthemgo.Until,finally,allIsawwerethewordsonthepageandallIheardwas

myownbreathing.AndIknewIwascalm.Icouldwait.I kept reading. I knew I was calm, and I was proud ofmyself.My

mother would come back from the bathroom, and I would not beblinkingor flappingor rocking. Iwouldbe reading,andnoonewouldknowanydifferent.Noonewouldhavetoseeme.

Iheardtwopairsoffeetcomeclose.Andthengirls’voices.“Askhim.Comeon,askhim.”“No.Youaskhim.”Ikeptmyheaddown,butIletmyeyesleavemybooktotheshoes.


Thegirls’shoesonthefloor.Twogirls.Andthenahand.Agirl’shand.Itwavedatme.Atme?Icouldlookupandthendownagain.Itwasagirl,hermouthturned

up,herteethshowing.Hereyesweredirectedrightatme.Iwasn’tsurewhatshewastryingtosay,butIknewshewantedsomething.

DidIknowher?WasthissomeoneIwassupposedtoknow?SometimesIhavetroublerecognizingpeopleIamsupposedtoknow.

Especially if there is nothing forme to use as a clue, like a particularkindofhair,verylongorverystraightorveryblack,incombinationwithsomething else, like a beard or glasses or being very fat, or braces ontheirteeth.OrwheretheyarewhenIseethem,likethedoctor’sofficeorthegasstationorthelibrary.

Sometimes someone’s voice, a hat they always wear, who they arewith,ortheirperfumecanhelp.

Iwishedmymotherwould comeback. Shewould knowwho thesegirlswere.Shewouldtalktothem.Ilookedinthedirectionshewalkedaway.Thereweresomanypeople,somanylegs,andsomuchnoise.

WhatamIsupposedtodo?“Youthinkhe’scute—youaskhim.”“Katie!”“Hedidn’thearme.Askhim.”Ididhearthem.IheardthemandthenIunderstood.Butitwastoo

late.ItriedtothinkofeverythingIwassupposedtodo.Butitwastoolate. The button ofmy jeans was pokingme in the stomach, and thecollarofmy shirtwas rubbingonmyneck.The lights from the ceilingwerehurtingmyeyes.Therewasahorriblesmellcomingfromatraythatwentby.

Iknew.Thegirlwaswavingatme, I thought.Shewants tobemy friend.She

thinksIamcute.Cute.Noonehadevercalledmecutebefore,otherthanmymother.

Noone.Iknewwhatitmeantnow.Butitwastoolate.“Whyishedoingthat?”Doingwhat?WhatwasIdoing?IknowwhatIamdoing.Icanfeelit


butIcan’tstop.It’stoolate.“Ew,Katie.Look.”“Ishesmilingatyou?”“Ew,no.It’sjusthisface.Let’sgo.”Theystoodup.Thegirls’shoesandthegirls’voices.Thevoiceswere

whispersnow,buttheywerelouder.Icouldhearthem.Theshoesweremovingaway.

“Ew,gross.He’ssoweird.Move,Katie.Well,movefaster.”

Acoupleofdayslateritoccurredtomewhathadhappened,andwhatitmeantandwhatitwouldmeantomeforever.

I thought then, my mother was wrong about me and girls, andgrowingupandhavinganormallife.AboutfindingsomeonewhothinksI’mdifferentspecial.

Abouthavingagirlfriend.

Untiljustnow.UntilIgotane-mailfromPhoenixBird.Who’sdefinitelyagirl.


ChapterSeven

PhoenixBirdwroteastory,andsheaskedmetoreaditbeforeshepostsit.Ireadit,butIdon’tanswerherrightaway.Iknowshecan’ttellifI’vereceivedhere-mailorreadherstory.Thereisnowaytocheckstatusonthiswebsite.MaybeshewillthinkIamawayonvacationandcan’tgetto my computer. Or our power was out. There are many reasons apersonhasn’tcheckedtheirfavoritewebsite.Itcouldbeanything.

ItmakesmefeelalittlebitlikeIamlying,butIneedmoretime.PhoenixBird’sstoryissetinthefuture,butitisn’tsciencefiction.You

canjusttellitisn’tsciencefiction.It’ssomethingdifferent.There are basically two types of fiction, literary and genre. Science

fictionwouldbe one typeof genre fiction, but there are somany, likemysteries,westernnovels,crimenovels,fantasy.Andromance.

Genre is kind of like how you know what is going to happen in aparticularkindofbook.Inacrimestoryyouknowyouaregoingtolearnwhothebadguyis,buthemayormaynotgetcaught.Inamysteryyouwantthemysterytobesolved.Infantasytherehastobemagic,maybeevenvampiresorwerewolves.

Romancegoeslikethis:Boygetsgirl.Boylosesgirl.Boygetsgirlagain.Theend.Itcan’tbeanyotherway.

PhoenixBird’sstorydoesn’tseemtofitintoanyofthesecategories.Itisaboutaworldwhereeverysinglepersonlivesintheirownapartment—everyone,everymanandwomanandeventhechildren.Thechildrenseem to come into the world pretty much self-sufficient, so they canalreadywalkand talkand take careof themselves.This savesa lotoftimeandmoney.It’snotthatthepeopleareallthesameinthisworld,buttheyareallequal.Noonehastorelyorleanordependonanyoneelse.

In PhoenixBird’s story everybody has food and clothing.No one is


evercoldorhungryorhomeless.Allillnesshasbeencured.Nooneevergets sick andneeds adoctor.Nobodyneeds anyhelpdoing anything.Andshedoesn’twritethis,butIamguessingthatnoonefeelsleftout,becausenooneisleftout.

Inthestorytheworldisperfect:Nobodyneedsanybodyelse.

Adjudicate.That’sthewordthatcameintomymindthismorning.IthinkIknow

whatitmeans,orIcanfigureitout.Usuallyyoucanfigureoutawordbyitsplaceinasentenceorbybreakingitdown.Iseetheword“judge”in“adjudicate.”

“Adjudicate.”Iwatchmymouthinthemirror.IwonderifIampronouncingitcorrectly.Idon’tknowwhere thiswordcame from,but Iwillcarry itwithme

today.It’sSaturday.Myparents’datenightistonight.

“Chickennuggetsareallreadyonthetray,Suzy,”mymothersays.IknowSuzyhasalreadyseenthechickennuggetsontopofthestove.

Iwatchedher turn on the oven to three hundred fifty degrees, so sheknows.

“Just turn on the oven for a couple ofminutes before you want tocookthem,”mymothersays.Shehaslipstickon,andshestraightenedhercurlyhair.The first timeshedid that, IcriedwhenIsawher.AndthenIranoverandtriedtopullherhairfromherhead.Itdidn’tlooklikeher,andIgotscared.NowIamusedtoit,eventhoughIthinkitlookslikesheiswearingawig.

“Jeremyneedstobeinbedbynine.Hehastobrushhisteeth,andhecanreadonebook.Thenit’slightsout,”mymotherissaying.Thensheturnstome.

Mymotherused toputme tobedeverynight.Sheused to lie rightnexttomeundermycoversandtellmeastory.ShewouldliewithmeuntilIfellasleep.Icouldsmellherhairandfeeltheheatthatcameoff


herbody.Letyourarmsgo,mymotherwouldsay.Letyourhandsbestill.Letyourfacerest.Letyourfeetrest.Onebodypartatatime,andIwouldclosemyeyesandknowshewasnotgoingtoleaveme,soIcouldfallasleep.

ButthenshesaidIgottooold.Ineededtogotobedbymyself.“Jasoncan...”Shedoesn’tfinishhersentence.“Wewillbefine,Mrs.Blake,”Suzysaid.“Youtwogetgoing.It’slate.”“Jasoncantakecareofhimselfnow,”mymotherwenton.Mydadis

standingby thedoor.Hehashiscoaton,whichmeanshe is ready toleave.Hishandsareinhispockets,andIcanhearhiscarkeysjingling,whichmeansheisworriedaboutbeinglate.

“I’mheretohelp,Mrs.Blake.JasonandIgobackalongway,”Suzysays.Sheiswavingmyparentstowardthedoorwithherhands.

Suzyhasnevermademefeelstupid.Sheneverseemsuncomfortablearoundme.ShehasbeenbabysittingforussinceIwasverylittle,sincejustafter Jeremywasborn.Herkidsareall grown,she toldme.WhenSuzytalks,sheusesherhandsalot.Icanlookatherhands,andtheysaymorethanherwords.

RightnowSuzy’shandsaresaying:IlikeJason.Still, whenmymom and dad head to the door, my brain starts to

buzz.Itfillsupandliftsoffmybody.WhenIwaslittle,IthinkIbelievedit reallydid lift offmybody,orat least Ididn’tknow ithadn’t.NowIknow better. I want to reach up and touch my head, because eventhoughmybrainknowsmyheadisstillattached,mybodyhasstoppedbelievingme.

I have to remember that I am breathing. In and out. Listen to thesound it makes in my nose andmy ears.My chest goes up with thesound.Iamsupposedtonoticethis.Itissupposedtohelpconnectmyheadbacktomybodybeforemyhandscanflyaway.Mymotherdoesn’tlikeitwhenmyhandsflyaway.

I keepmyeyesaway from thedoorandmymomanddadand thefeelingIwillhavewhentheyleave.Suzyhastoldmeitishomesickness,even though I am home. Suzy says it means I love my parents verymuchandIdon’twantthemtoleave.

Ihavetobreathe.Mydadcomesoverandkisses the topofmyhead. “Have funwith

Suzy,”mydadsays.“Wewillbehomebeforeyouknowit.”


Iknowwhathemeans.Hedoesn’twantmetofeelscared.MydadsmellslikethecolognethatIboughthimforFather’sDaylast

year.Thatmakesmefeelgood,likeweareconnected.Itrytoslowdownmybreathing.Icanfeeltheheavinessofhisheadonthetopofmyheadwhenhekissesme,soeventhoughIdon’twatchhimwalkbacktothedoor,Icanstillfeelit,andweareconnected.

Ihearthedooropen.“Good-bye, Jason. Be good,”mymom is calling out. I hear Jeremy

runninguptothedoor.“Bye, Mom. Bye, Dad,” Jeremy says. His voice sounds muffled,

because he probably has his face stuffed into my dad’s coat. I don’tknowhowhecandothat.Thatmakesithardertobreathe.

“Iloveyou,”hesays.Themusiconthetelevision.Therefrigeratoricemakershutsoff.My

dad’s keys get louder. Jeremy’s voice. He is upset about something.Something about cookies. The sounds from outside. A car. The doormustbeopen.

Ihavetobreathe.Iknowtheywillbeback,becauseIambreathing.IfPhoenixBird’sstorywerereal, Iamthinking,Iwould livealoneand

soIcouldnoteverbehomesick.Thatwouldbegood.Myheadwouldn’tbebuzzing.Icouldbreatheeasily.

IknowmymotherworriesthatIwon’tbeabletolivealone.Notnow,shesays,butsomeday,shesays,somedayyouwillwantto.ButIdon’t.So it would be good if PhoenixBird’s story were real. If I lived in herstory.

But itwouldn’t be good, because I lovemymother and father, andthatiswhyIamhomesickevenwhileIamhome.

If I lived in the story, I wouldn’t need my mother. I wouldn’t behomesickwhenshegoesout.Andshe’dbehappy.

“Iknow. Iknow,Carl.” It’smymother’svoice,which isoutside thedoorandthedoorisstillopen.Sheisnothappynow.ShewantsmetoactlikeJeremydoeswhenheishomesick.Herunsupandsmothershisface,butIcouldn’tbreatheifIdidthat.That’swhatshewants.Iknowthat.

ButIwouldn’tbeabletobreathe.Acardrivesby.Mymother’sshoesareonthewoodenstepsandnow

onthepavement.Mydadcoughs.


“Stopit,Liz.Jasonlovesyouverymuch.Youknowhedoes,”mydadsays.Hishandisonthemetaldoorhandle.

“Ifyousayso,”mymothersays.Thedoorswingsshut.ButifwelivedinPhoenixBird’sstory,mymotherwouldn’tbesosad.

IknowPhoenixBirdiswaitingtohearwhatIthinkofherstory,butIamafraid.WhenIwaslittle,IusedtothinkthattherewasactuallysomeonewatchingmewhenI typed into thecomputer,because it respondedsoquickly. Or that someone was actually inside. The first time I got aninstantmessage,Irantothewindowtoseewhowasthere,whocouldknowIwasatmycomputer.

WhocouldknowwhatIwasdoing?AndeventhoughIknowbetternow,apartofmestillworries.Istill

worrythatsomeoneisthere.ThatifItypeintomycomputer,ifIanswerPhoenixBird,shewillbeabletoseeme.

TonightIwritebacktoPhoenixBird.I have a few comments. There were little mistakes and a place I

thoughtshecould“showmore”andnotjust“tell.”Itellheritwaslikewatchingatelevisionshow,andyouwouldn’twanttojusthaveablankscreen with a narrator telling you the story. Like that long, boringbeginningofStarWarswithallthewordsmovingacrossthescreen.Youwanttoseepictures.

It’sreallygood,PhoenixBird,Iwriteinmymessagetoher.ItellherIcanhardlywaittoreadtheending.


ChapterEight

BeforeIgotobed,Ialwaysgetanhourofcomputer time.Ihaveonlysevenminuteslefttonight.

“Well, I’llbe in tosaygoodnight,”Suzytellsme.Shestands inmydoorway.“You’rereallygoodonthatcomputer,aren’tyou?”

I look up at the ceiling of my room, where my dad has stenciledletters,thewholealphabet.

My dad painted my ceiling when I was four years old, when I firststarted spelling. I could spell anything then, anything I saw on ashampoo bottle, a road sign, a grocery bag. At firstmymomand dadthoughtIwasjustcopyingtheletters.AndtheythoughtitwasgreatthatIcouldformmylettersinastraightline.ThentheyrealizedIcouldspellanything,notjustcopy.AnythingIhadseen,evenonce.TheythoughtIwassomekindofagenius.

Sotheytoldanybodyandeverybodywhowouldlisten.Atleastmymomdid.Imayhaveonlybeeninnurseryschool,butIknewwhatwasgoing

on.Itwastheoldbaitandswitchroutine.“No, he isn’t hard of hearing. Look, watch how he can write his

letters.Jasoncanwritehisnameandallournames,anything.Andhe’sonlyfouryearsold.Justturnedfour.”

I had a blue plastic writing boardwith amagnetic pen that erasedcleanwhenyoulifteditoveryourheadandshookitbackandforth.

“Ofcoursehetalkswhenhewantsto.Andhecanspell.”MCDONALD’STARGETCLOSEDUNITEDSTATESPOSTALSERVICEKITCHENAIDVOLKSWAGENAITORO’SAPPLIANCESTORE

“Why is he writing all those meaningless words?” my grandmother


said,mygeniusapparentlylostonher.“Well,anyonecantalk,”mymothercountered.“JustlistentoBobby’s

kid.Hejustwon’tshutup,willhe?”Bobbyismymother’sbrother,UncleBobby,andhis“kid”isnamed

SethZimmerman.Mydadisprettyquiettoo.Hetalks,butmostofthetimehelistens.

ButthatdayIrememberexactlywhathesaidtomygrandmother.Andtomymother.

“It’snotmeaninglesstoJason,”mydadsaid.“What?What’snotmeaningless?”Mymother’sfaceredandhereyes

wet,even thoughshewasn’tcrying.Shewashurting,evenIcouldseethat.

“Ineversaid—,”mygrandmotherstarted,butmydadinterruptedher.“Thewords.And theletters.Justbecauseyoudon’tunderstandtheir

meaningdoesn’tmeantheydon’thaveone.”Thatafternoonmydadmademyceilingspeak.

“Oh,my,”Suzysays.“HowisitInevernoticedthatbefore?”I can tell by the sound that Suzy’s neckmust be bent all the way

back,hervoicebendswithit.Sheislookinguptoo.Sheisnotcomingall the way into my room, but she is close. When I looked up, shelookedup.

The letters of the alphabetdon’tmove, but if I stare at them, somewillbecomeblurryandotherswillmove forward, somebecomedarkerandotherslighter,shadesoftheblueandredandyellow.Itrytospellwords, holding on to the letters in my mind and imagining theirmeaning.OrIcanjustlookattheirshapes,asiftheyhadnosoundoftheirown.Justarcsandcurvesandstraight,verystraightlinesthatwillnevertouchbutcontinueforeverintoinfinity.

Someoftheletterslookliketheycamefromthesamefamily,tallandthin,andtheirchildren,thelowercaseletters,lookexactlyliketheydo.LikeM,andN,andT.Othershavechildren thatarenothing like theirparents.LiketheycamefromawholeotherstrandofDNA.Soyoucanput the mother and her child right next to each other and they looknothingalike.LikeE,andA,andD.


ThebigDandthelittleDfaceincompletelyoppositedirections.Theydon’tevenlookateachother.Buttheyarerelated.Theymakethesamesound.

Theyareafamily.PartofthewholefamilyoftheEnglishalphabet—oflettersthathave

resonance tomakewords that sounddifferent indifferentmouthsandhave different meanings to different people. People even argue aboutwords,andsentences,aboutspeechesandbooksandletters.

Peoplewillsay,Ididn’tsaythat.Or,Ididn’tmeanthat.Andtheotherpersonwillsay,Yes,youdid.Iheardyou.

Youcalledmeaname.Hetoldmehe’ddothat.Orthis.Buthedidn’t.Useyourwords.Useyourwords.Theyhavetobesaidoutloud?Itoldyounevertodothatagain.ButIdid.AndnowIamintrouble.BecauseIsaidso.And there they are, all the twenty-six letters but forty-four sounds

calledphonemes. If you look closely, there are diphthongs and schwasounds.Vowels, long and short. And consonants hard and soft. Somepeople talk in accents, so youwould spell the very sameword a verydifferentway,ifyouweretospellitasitsounds.

Toyou.Oryou.Therearedigraphswheretwolettersmakeonetotallynewsound,like

thandchandsh.AsinShush...Shush,Iamlookingatthelettersonmyceiling.“Getreadytoshutdownyourcomputer,okay,Jason?Andgetsome

sleep,”Suzysays.Irestmyhandsonmylap.Theyaretired.AndwhenIliedowninmy

bed,Iwillstoprocking.Itislate.IwanttotellSuzygoodnight.Iwanttotellherthankyouforletting

mebreathe.Iwant the letters to formwords inmymouth, but they stayon the

ceiling.“Iknow,Jason,”shesays.“It’slate,butI’mgladIgottoseeyou.”


Then, justas Iamabout to signoff,PhoenixBirdwritesmeback rightaway.

She must be sitting at her computer too. Right at this minute,somewhere. She could live inAlaskaor righthere inConnecticut.Buteitherwayshecan’tseeme.

Shesaysherstoryisforaschoolassignmentandshereallyneedstobringupherlanguageartsgrade.

Thanksforthehelp, shewrites.Ialreadyfixeditupandit’ssomuchbetter.IhopeIgetagoodgrade.ItisforalanguageartsassignmentandIneedtogetagoodgrade.Myparentsarekindofonmycaselately.Sothanks!

PhoenixBirdisworriedaboutschool.Justlikeme.

By second grade most everyone had caught up to my alphabet andspellingabilities. Iwasn’tsuchageniusanymore,andby thirdgradeIwasbehindinalmosteverythingelse:verbalskills,socialperformance,physical aptitude, and age-appropriate behavior. (Iwasn’t too good atcontrollingmytempereither,butIambetternow.)

Theteachersstartedpressuringmymomtohavemetested.A year later the only letters anybody cared about were ASD,NLD,

andmaybeADDor ADHD,which I thinkmymomwould have likedbetter.

BLNT.Betterlucknexttime.Ijustmadethatup.

Maybenexttimewasmybrother,Jeremy.


ChapterNine

Ihateartclass.Becauseitissonoisy.AndbecauseAaronMiller is not inmy art class, butEricDoyle is.

Eric Doyle doesn’t look anything like Matthew Iverson from secondgrade.Nothishair,orhiseyeglasses,orhisvoice—becauseEricDoylecan’tmakeanRsound—but forsomereasonIkeepmixing thetwoofthemupinmymind.

IalsohateartclassbecauseIdonotlikeMrs.Hawthorneverymuch,becauseMrs.Hawthorne doesnot likeme. She started to not likemelastweekwhenIbrokeherpotter’swheel.ButIdon’tknowifshelikedmeverymuchbeforethathappened.

Ididn’tbreakherpotter’swheelonpurpose,butthatdoesn’tmeanitwasanaccident,becauseIwasangrywhenithappened.IfIhadn’tbeenangryatMrs.Hawthorne,Iprobablywouldn’thavepushedthepotter’swheel by accident. I wanted to push Mrs. Hawthorne, but I knew Icouldn’tdothat.Iwascontrollingmyselflikemyone-on-oneaide,Jane,alwaystoldme,butJanewasn’twithmeanymore.Andbesides,Ididn’tknowthepotter’swheelwouldfallover.

“Whydidyoudothat?”Mrs.Hawthornesaid.“BecauseIamangryatyou,”Itoldher.Thepotter’swheelwasattachedtoachair,andyouweresupposedto

sit in the chair and put your allotment ofwet clay on thewheel, andthentheteacherwouldpushthepowerbuttonandthewheelwouldspinaround.Therearesomepotter’swheelsthatyouhavetospinwithyourownfoot,butthisonewaselectric.

Now it was in three pieces—the chair, the wheel that was stillspinning, slowly, and the rest of themetal frame. There was also wetclayallovertheflooroftheartroomandeveryonewasstandingaroundlooking.

I don’t thinkMrs.Hawthornewas even thatmad. I could hear hervoicewasloud,butherbodywasstill.AndIknewIwasn’tsupposedtobreak things. If this meant I would have to have a one-on-one aideagain,itwouldmakemymotherverysad.


Iwassorry.WhenIhadbrokenthingsathome:thestained-glasshangingbythe

front door, thewicker laundrybasket, thepicture frame, the controllerfor my video game. When nobody could hear me. Nobody couldunderstand.Whentherewerenowords inmyhead, thenthethoughtsbuiltupinsidemeandhadnowheretogo.

WhathadmademesoangrywithMrs.Hawthorneinthefirstplace?Icouldn’trememberanymore.

The energy that left my body and spilled into something else hadfinallyendedandstoppedandbroke.Thenoiseshatteredmyearslikeaverytightbandthatwastakenoffmybrain,anditwasover.

Butit’sneverreallyover.Things stopped for a while. Everybody stopped, and it was quiet.

Everybodywasjustlookingatthemess.There was the clay on the floor, landed in the shape of a dog, a

sleepingdog.Abigsleepingdog.Whatsounddoesadogmake?DidIreallymakeabarkingsound?I don’t remember, but suddenly everyone started laughing, like an

explosion in the room. All around me, and that was when Mrs.Hawthornegotmad.

Orsad.Iwassorry.Iwasreallysorry,buteveryonewaslaughing.Theirfaces

stretchedoutwide. I could see their teeth, and I started laughing too.Nothingfeltfunny,butIwaslaughing.

ThenMrs.Hawthorneranoutoftheroom,andwhenshewasgone,some of the boys threw the clay around the room. I hid behind myhands,butIcouldheartheirvoices.Onepiecelandedonhercomputer.The plastic keys made a hollow sound. Another plop of it hitMarcieFordandgotstuckinherhair.Shestartedcrying.

Latersomeoftheparentswantedmeoutoftheclassroom.Nobodytoldme,butIknewit.Theschoolcalledusall inforameeting.IknewmyparentswentintotheschooltotalktoDr.T.

Iknewtheywereinbattlemode.Thishasnothingtodowithhavingaone-on-oneaide,mymotherwas

saying.Ifanotherboyhadaccidentallyknockedoverapieceofequipment,


wewouldn’tbehavingthismeeting.Andif theteacherhaddoneher job,my father was saying. But I could have told him it was no use, theycouldn’thearhislanguageeitherthatday.

Mydadjustwasn’tusedtothatlikeIam.Sohekepttryingtotalk.

All thegrown-upsassumedI threwtheclay,andnoneof thekidseversaidanydifferent,butIdon’tthinkanyoneaskedthem.

Certainlynobodyaskedme.Evenrightthenatthatmeetingwithmyparents.

Later Lara Mok told me her mother said I was dangerous andshouldn’tbe inschoolwiththenormalkids.ThatIwasdisruptiveandholdingeveryoneback.Thatitwasonlygoingtogetworse.

Shedidn’tmeanforme.FortheNTs,shemeant.Fortheonesthatthrewtheclayaroundtheroomandletmetakethe

blame.

AllweekEricDoylehasmadebarkingnoisesatmewhen I come intotheartroomandsitdownatmyseat.

Iamusedtoit.Mrs.Hawthorneistryingtobenicertome.ButIstilldon’tlikeartclass.Mrs.Hawthorne showsushow todrawa face,withbig eyes, black

pupils,acapitalletterLforthenose,andahalfcircleforthemouthallinsideanovalcirclethatdoesn’tconnect.Mrs.Hawthornehastodrawmineforme.Shealsohelpsthegirlatthefarlefttable,too,whobrokeherarmatagymnasticsmeet.

Then,wheneveryonehasasclose toexactly thesame thingonourpaper,weareallowed todecorate the facewithcolor.Thegirlsputoneyelashesandredlips.Theboysblackentheteethandputonbaseballcaps.Wedo this project a few times every year. AtChristmastimewecanmakethefaceintoanelforaSanta.ForHalloweenitcanturnintoa witch or a cat. It is a leprechaun if we color it green and Mrs.Hawthornemakestheearsliketriangles.

Iamstaringatthelinesonthepaper.Idon’tseeafaceatall.Isee


straightblack linesandwhitespace. Isee thedistance fromthe topofthepagetothearcandfromtheparallellinestotheendofmypaper.

Iseecirclesandhalfcirclesandtheplacewheretheyintersect.Iseethe placewhereMrs.Hawthorne lifted hermarker and didn’t connectthe two lines.Therearewhite spots likebubbleson the surfaceof thebathtub.

Butnothingthatlookslikeaface.Nothing like the shadows, and pores, the hairs, the curves, all the

spots andwrinkles and blotches, the follicles, the wetness of the eye,saliva,teethwhenitislaughing,alltheplanesanddimensionsofaface.

AndtheysayIcan’trecognizeaface.ButMrs.HawthorneisgoingtobemadagainifIdon’tstartdrawing.

“Whatareyoudoing,Jason?”Mrs.Hawthorne’svoiceislikesand,likeherwordsarebeingrubbed

oversand.Ithurtsmyearstohearhervoice.Thereisnotanicepersonbehindthatvoice.IknowIamrightaboutthat.

“Jason,you’renoteventrying.”So I put my hands over my ears, even though I know I am not

supposedtodothat.MymomanddadfoughtreallyhardsothatIcouldstayinclasslike

everybodyelse,butImissJane.Janewouldhaveknownwhattodo.Shewouldhavecoloredinmypictureforme,orshewouldhavesaid

somethingtoMrs.Hawthornesohersandyvoicewouldn’tburnmyears.Shewouldtakemyhandsdownfrommyearsormyeyesandholdthemin a way that wouldn’t make me mad. She was round and soft andsmelledlikeDovesoapandcookies.

ButIdon’tneedaone-on-oneaideanymore.That’swhatmymothersays.That’swhatitsaysinmyIEP,whichis

moreletters.MoreinitialsthatdefinewhoIam.I’llbeonmyownoneday,mymothersays.Ineedtostart learning

howtotakecareofmyself.ButwhatIneednowistogetMrs.Hawthorneawayfromme.


NowIamsittinginthemainofficewaitingformydadtocomeandpickmeupfromschool.ThatisalsowhatitsaysinmyIEP—thatIgettogohomefromschoolwheneverIfeellikeIcan’thandleitanymore.Oroneofmyteachersthinksthat.

ButthistimeIamsureitwasmewhothoughtit.Usuallymyheadwouldbeticking.Icouldn’tbebreathingverywell.

Thedoors opening and closing down thehall echo, because thewallsareallglass inhere.Thephoneringsa funnyring.There isa two-wayradio.Thejanitormustbewalkingby.

UsuallyIwouldhidebehindmyhands.IknowIshouldfeelbadthatIamgoinghomefromschool,butallI

canthinkofisonething.I am thinking that when I get home, I can check my website and

maybePhoenixBirdhaswrittentomeagain,andmaybeIhaveonerealfriend.Andthat’sallanyoneneeds,one.

One.Plusone.Makestwo.AndthenIamnotasscared.Thewordthatpoppedintomybrainthismorningwas“regurgitate.”Regurgitate.ButIcan’tthinkofhowthatrelatestoanythingrightnow.


ChapterTen

Iwriteprettymuchallofmystoriesusingafirst-personnarratorsothatthe reader can really get an idea of what is going on inside mycharacter’shead.Theycanhearthestoryinthatvoice,andalsosoIcangetinsidemycharacter’slife.

AndIcanfeelwhathefeels.Youhavetodecideifyouwantittobeinpastorpresenttense.And

thesetting.Youhavetoknowwhereyouwantyourstorytotakeplace.WhenIgethome,IseethatPhoenixBirddidsendmetheendingof

herstory.Oneday,shewrote,inthevillageanewbabyisbornwhoisdifferent from all the other children before. As this child grows, shewants tohelpotherpeople.Nomatterhowmanytimespeople tellhertheydon’tneedher,shepersists.Shefindsjoyinhelpingpeople,“inthesmallestways.Inthebiggestways.”

Thoseareherwords.Ilikethem.

“We’redisappointed,Jason.That’sall,”mymotherissaying.“Thishasn’thappenedallweek,Jay-Jay.Whathappened?”mydadis

saying.EventhoughIthoughtIwantedtoleaveschool,eventhoughIgotto

checkmywebsiteandwritetoPhoenixBird,everythingfeltoutofplacewhenIgothomefromschool.Itisnotaholidayorvacationorathree-day weekend. It’s a Friday, and I am having lunch at home. It is aFriday,andIamhomebutJeremyisnot.Mydadisstillhere.Hehasn’tleftforworkyet.

MydadisneverhomewhenIgethomefromschool.Allthesethingsmakemyskinitch.Thesundoesn’tlookrightcomingintothekitchen.Ishouldnotbehere.Ishouldbeinschool.I can feel my head, everything is in my head.My heart is beating


insidemy head. The sounds inmy ears sound bigger and bigger.Mybreathingistightcominginandoutofmymouth.

Idon’tknowwhatmybodyisdoinganymore.Idon’twantto letmyparentsdown.Idon’twantmymothertosay

she is disappointed. But I couldn’t think about that when Mrs.Hawthornegottooclosetome.

Ididn’tpushheroryellordoanything.Icouldhavewantedto,butIdidn’t.I got under the table where I couldn’t see her anymore, but she

wouldn’t stop her voice, and then the nurse had to come.And then Idon’t rememberwhat happened exactly.Whose ideawas it forme tocomehomefromschool?

Ifeelmyfather’sarmallaroundme.Ismellthatcologneagain,andthe stubble of his face is rough, but I know it will not hurt me eventhoughitfeelslikeitcould.

I letmydadholdme.Healways leavesroomformetobreathe.HeneverbendsmybacksoIfeeloffbalance.Whenmydadhugsme,Ifeelhisfeetholdingusbothup.

Anarratorcanbeunreliable.Theycanbetellingthetruthorjustthetruthastheyseeit.Thereisa

famousbooklikethat,wherethenarratorislying.Hejudgeseveryoneinthebookexcepthimself.And sometimes it’shard to tellwhat is reallygoingon.Hardtotellwhatisrealandwhat’snot.

Ididn’tdoanythingtoMrs.Hawthornetomakehersendmehome.

ButlotsofpeoplereallythinkTheCatcherintheRyeisagreatbook.

Before I go to bed tonight, I check the Storyboard website and see ifanyone else posted anything about my story. And to check ifPhoenixBirdwrotemebackagain.

Shedid.Buthermessagedoesn’thaveanythingtodowithherstoryormine.


Shewritesaboutherdog.PhoenixBird has a dog named Blanche, who eats Cheerios and

Chinesefood,saladandeventhetomatoes,butnottheblackolivesandnot themushrooms. Iwould like tomeetherdogoneday,but Iknowthatwillneverhappen.

Thisisthekindofthingafriendwouldwritetosomeone,tosomeonetheywantedtohaveasafriend.IknowIamrightaboutthis.IamprettysureIamright.

Today,PhoenixBirdwrote,wasDiversityDayatmyschool.Shetoldmeallaboutit,howgreatitwas.Iwriteherback,butIam

not going to tell her about my day. Not about Mrs. Hawthorne. Notabouthidingunderthearttable.

Somethingtellsmethatwouldn’tbeagoodidea.


ChapterEleven

Saturday we are going to visit our cousins in Glen Rock. It is mymother’s brother, Uncle Bobby’s house and his wife, Aunt Carol, andtheirtwoboys,SethandLittleBobby.Wheneverwevisitthere,mymomgetsverynervous.IfGrandmaisgoingtobetheretoo,mymothercan’tevenfindherpocketbook.

“Iseverythinginthecar?”“Yes,Liz,”mydadtellsher.“We’reallset.”“My pocketbook,” my mom is saying. “Where did I put my

pocketbook?”“It’sonyourshoulder.”Jeremylaughs.ButMom isnot laughing. “Jeremy, your shirt.Whatdid you get on

yourshirt?Thatwasacleanshirtaminuteago.Youhaven’teveneatenanything. Go change your shirt. Carl,” she says to my dad, “go helpJeremychangehisshirt.”

Then she turns tome, and I see her face change. The wrinkles allbunchedupinherforeheadsmoothout.Hermouthdrops,butsheisn’tfrowninglikesheismadorsad.IfIhadn’tseenthisexpressionbefore,Iwouldhavenoideawhatitmeant.

“Jason,yourbelt,”mymothersays,sosoftly.Shehasaskedmethissomanytimes.“Canyoujustloosenitanotchortwo?Justfortoday?”

Ican’t.I’vetried,butitfeelsawful.Icanfeelthematerialofmypantssliding

onmy waist, moving and rubbing. I hate it. I know it looks funny. Iknowkidsinschoolsaythingsaboutmypantsandmybelt,howtightitis.Howitbunchesupintheback.OneboyaskedmeifIwasexpectingaflood,andIhadtoaskAaronMillerwhatthatmeant.

“Don’t pay any attention to him, Jay-Man,” Aaron told me, but Iwantedtoknow,andImadehimitexplainittome.

“Oh,”Isaid.Ilookeddownatmyanklesandsawthatmypantswerepulledsotightlythatmysocksdidshow.


Ilikemyshirttuckedin.Idon’tlikehowitfeelswhenit’sloose.

Mymother takesoneof thechairs fromthediningroomtableandsitsdownsosheisrightnexttowhereIamstanding.Iamstanding,readytogotoUncleBobby’s,waiting.Iamwaitingforeveryoneelsetobeready.

“It’sokay,Jason.I’msorry.”Shedoesn’tpullmetowardher,butsherestsherheadonmyshoulder.“It’sme.It’s justme.I justcan’tstandhearingallaboutSethanymore.Andnow,ohjeeze,LittleBobby.You’dthinkhe’dwonaNobelPrizealready.”

Mymother’shairsmellslikeHerbalEssenceandCurlsRock.IrememberwhenIwasreally little,whenIwasinnurseryschool,I

refused towear pantswith zippers. I couldn’t stand the feeling of thewaistband and the stiffness of the material. My mother bought meleggingsfromthisspecialcatalog.Theycameinalldifferentcolors,andtheyweremadeofonehundredpercentcotton.Andshenevermademewearpants.

IcouldrunandliedownandnapinherarmswhenIwastired.Then,whenIgottokindergarten,oneofthekidsaskedmeifIwasa

balletdancer.“No,”Isaid.Thenanotherboyaskedmethesamething,eventhoughhealready

knew,becausehewastherewhenIansweredthefirsttime.ThistimeIwasmoresure.“No,”Isaid.Then the last time one of the kids inmy class askedme if Iwas a

ballerina,mymotherhappenedtobetherelistening.Andshetookawayallofmyleggings.

“Isn’t it funny, Jason?”mymother is saying. “Isn’t it funny thatwhenyouwerereallylittleyouwouldn’twearabeltatall?Isn’tthatfunny?”

Ilovemymothersomuch.“Remember,Jason?”sheissaying.“Rememberthoseleggings?”Wearebothrememberingthesamething.“Thoseleggings?”Irepeatwhatshehassaid,soshewillknowthis.


“No?”mymotherissaying.“Youdon’t?It’sokay.Itwasalongtimeago.Well,let’sgo,shallwe?”

Uncle Bobby is a bigman asmen go.He owns his own constructioncompany.Soeven thoughhedidn’t go to schoolnearlyas longasmydad,hemakesthreetimesasmuchmoney.

Yeah,andhiswifehashadmoreworkdone thananyoneofUncleBobby’sbiggestclients.

“Butdon’teverrepeatthat,”mymothertellsusinthecar.Idon’tevenknowwhatshemeans.AuntCarolhasfoodoutwhenwegetthere,bigbowlsandlittlebowls.

UncleBobbyaskseveryonewhattheywanttodrink,exceptme.“WhatcanIgetJason?”UncleBobbyasksmyfather.“Youcanaskhimyourself,Bob,”mydadanswers.“HowaboutaCoke then,son?” IcanwatchUncleBobby’sbig feet

andhisbigshoesheadoffintothekitchen.Mymother said I couldbringmyPlayStationPortable,andshe lets

metakeitout.Ialsohaveabook.JeremyandLittleBobbyliketoplaywithactionfigures,sothat’swhattheyaredoing.

“Youbetter run,Batman,”mybrother is saying.He isbouncinghislittletoyupanddowninhishand.

“No,never,Mr.Freeze.Thiswillbetheendofyouonceandforall.”LittleBobby isalsobouncinghisactionfigure.Theybangthetwotoysintoeachotherandmakenoises.

Thismakes Jeremyhappy, and I don’t understandat allwhathe isdoing,becausethoselittleplasticfiguresdon’tlookanythingliketherealsuperheroes,notinthecartoonsorthemovieversions,butIamhappyforhim.

“Seth,whydon’tyoushowJasonyournewcomputer?”AuntCarolsays.Sethhasbeensittingonthecouchinthelivingroomthewholetime,

eatingfromthedifferentbowlsoffood.AuntCarolhasbeentellingusallaboutSeth,eventhoughhe issittingright there. Ihear thatSeth ison


themath team and that he volunteers to tutor kids in the elementaryschoolonTuesdaysandWednesdays. Ihear thatSeth is inadvancedlanguageartsandthathemadethetravelsoccerteam.

Mymotherlooksovertomefromtimetotimeandtriestocatchmyeye,andthenshearchesherbackandliftsherchinwayupintheair.Thisisherwayoftellingmetositupstraight.

IsitupandIforgetandthenbackdown.Mymotherlookstiredofdoingthis.Sethhasalsobeenaskedtomodelforalocaldepartmentstore.

“Oh,Seth.Anewcomputer.Jasonlovescomputers.Don’tyou,Jason?”mymothersays.“He’ssogoodatcomputers.Idon’tknowathing.”

Thewordthatcameintomyheadthismorningwhileweweregettingreadytovisitourcousinswashalogen.That’swhatItrytothinkaboutnow.

“I can’t even turn thedarn thingonbymyself.”Mymother’s laughdoesn’tsoundright.“Jasonhastohelpmewitheverything,don’tyou?”

“Sowhydon’tyoushowyourcousinyournewcomputer,Seth?”AuntCarolsays.“AndAuntLizandIcangetdinnerready.”

ThisiswhatInotice:NTswilllie.Andit’snotthatIcan’t.Icould.IfIwantedto.But evenwhen everyonewho is listening knows it’s a lie, they can

pretend it’s not, and then everybody is lying. The listeners and thetellers.

Andit’shardformetotellwhatisrealandwhatisnot.

Sethtellshismotherhiscomputerisn’tworking.


He says the hard drive needs to be rebooted and he has to calltechnicalassistancebecausethereissomespecialoverridecode.

Andhesayshe’dbehappytodoallthat,butthatoncehestartstheprocess he can’t stop, and itmight take anhour ormore.He says hedoesn’twantittointerferewithdinner.AndAuntCarolandmymotherbothsaytheydon’twantthattohappen.

ThenwegetintoSeth’sroom,becausehismothermakeshimtakemeanyway,hesitsrightdownathiscomputer,whichseemstobeworkingjustfine,andstartsplayingHalo.

“Don’ttouchanything,”hetellsme.Icanlookathisbackwhilehesitsinhischair.Icanhearthebanging

ofhisfingersonthekeyboard.IalreadyknewIwouldn’tgettocheckmywebsiteuntilIgothometonight,butIamnotupsetaboutthat.

Isitdownontheruginthemiddleoftheroom.Icansee thegreen leavesofa treeoutsideSeth’sbedroomwindow

thatmovewiththewind,andeventhoughIcan’thearit,itmakesakindofmusic.Asilentdance,swayinginarhythmIknowisthere.Alloverthe tree,branches liftanddrop,andthe light falls fromone leaf to theonebelow,andonetinyshadowonthebarkisliketheyoungestchild,walkingbehindhisfamily,lostinhisownworldandperfectlycontent.

“What’swrongwithyou,man?”Sethhas spunaround inhis chair.“Yourbrotheristalkingtoyou,”Sethistellingme.

Jeremy puts his hand onmy face, small andwarm and sweaty.Hecameintothedarkroomwhenthesunmovedbehindacloud,andnowtheonlylightistheglowfromSeth’scomputer.IcanhearthechimesofhisIMs,sendingandreceiving.Tinybells.

“Jason?” Jeremy is saying.When I look away from thewindow, hetakeshishandfrommyface.“Canyoureachsomethingforus?FormeandBobby.”

HisbreathsmellslikeStarbursts.“Whatareyouaskinghimfor?”Sethissaying.Jeremyalways asksme todo things forhim.Heasksme to ziphis

jacket.He asksme to check his spelling. To carry things that are tooheavy for him. To push him on the swings. Before he agrees to tastesomethinghe’snevereatenbefore,Jeremyasksmeifhe’lllikeit.

“Canyou,Jason?”Jeremysaystomeagain.Hemustwantmetoreachsomethingthatistoohighforhimtoreach.


OfcourseIwill.“If it’s up that high, you’re not supposed to have it. Did you ever

thinkof that?”Sethsays.Iknowhe is talkingtomeandJeremy,butIcan’t lookup. Idon’tknowwhat Iwill see.There ishisvoiceandhispresencein the room, and thedarkness of the sunbehind the clouds,thechimingofhiscomputer.Thereisthecreakingofhischair,andthescentofhisclothingashewalkstowardus.Itallsoundstooloudandtooangry.

Eventhefanwhirlingontheceilingoftheroomisyellingatmeinamechanicalvoicethathasnowords.Sethshouldjuststop.

Being.Thisiswhenyouaresupposedtoleaveasituation.Walkaway.Breathe.“Yeah,good.Whydon’tyouandyourdefectivebrothergetoutofmy

roomalready,”Sethsays.“You’resmellingtheplaceup.”Theresthappensveryfast.ThenSethisyellingandthenhefallsoverhisswivelchair.Theswivel

chair spinsout fromunderSeth’sweightandcareens intohis stackofCDs, which then tumble onto the rug. Then there is the cracking,cracklingnoiseofCDcoversbeingsteppedonandsnappingintotwo.Ormaybethree.

Ormore.Jeremy’shand,Iknowit’sJeremy’s,pullingme.AndthenoutsideSeth’sbedroomdoorthereisairagain.

“Goodshot,Jason,”mybrotherissayingtome.Heishappy,butIknowourparentswillnotbe,forsomereason.“Don’tworry,Iwon’ttellyoukickedSeth,”Jeremysaystome.IlookupquicklyatJeremy’sface.Itisburstingwithasmile,andthen

itisburstingwithlaughter.Metoo.Iseethelightcomingintheskylightabovethehall,freedfrombehind

theclouds,andthelaughter.Ifeelthemboth,inmyheadandmyhandsandmyeyes.


ChapterTwelve

This night I amwriting a new story to post onStoryboard. ThewholeideacametomeonthecarridehomefromUncleBobby’s.Itisaboutadwarf—not amidget, because dwarfs donot like to be calledmidgets,even though there was a time when “dwarf” was the bad word and“midget”wasbetter.

Butnowit’sthecompleteopposite.Titles.Names.Morewords,thesametwenty-sixlettersstrungtogether

thatsometimeshurtsomeoneandsometimesdon’t.My dwarf in my story is named Bennu. He is one of those

disproportionaldwarfs,sohisarmsandlegsareveryshortinproportiontohisbody,and itmakeshishead lookbig.Butbasicallyhe isprettycomfortable with his height and his looks, and lots of other normalpeopleofnormalheightlikehim.Butbeingadwarfisahandicap.Heisnotjustdifferent,butdefective.

He has his family, who are all normal height. That is the way ithappens.He could even have normal-sized kids, if he got a girlfriendandthengotmarried.Ifthateverhappened.

IputBennuinamade-upworld,soIgot tomakeupall thenamesand all the different kinds of people who live there. Life is definitelyharderforBennu,notonlybecausepeoplestareathimandsometimeslaugh when he goes out (which is bad enough), but for other realreasons.Likehecan’t reach thingsotherpeoplehisagecan, likedoorhandlesorthetopshelfofthefridgewherethemilkis.

Therearemanydoorshecan’topenbyhimself.And some things about his genetic condition are painful. His back

hurtsbecausehisspineiscompressed,andhislegssometimesache.SometimesjustbeingBennuisveryhardtobe.

Namesareveryimportantwhenwritingastory.I thinka long timewhen Iamgivingacharacteraname. Ihave to

knoweverythingaboutthembeforeIknowwhattheywillbecalled.You


havetotakeseveralthingsintoconsiderationwhenyougiveacharacteraname.Who theyare,where theyare from, inwhat timeperiodyourstoryisset.Andsometimesnamescanhavesymbolicmeanings,likeinthefamousbookToKillaMockingbird.Ihaven’treadityet,butyoucansearch online and learn everything about famous books. I guess youcouldevenpretendyouhavereadabookandprettymuchgetawaywithitjustbyreadingoneofthosewebsites.

Somepeople,liketeachersandlibrariansandotheradults,liketosaythatnamesarenotimportant.

Likesticksandstones.Buttheyarewrong.Every word you choose means something you think it means, and

more.Likeifapersonisdifferent,thatisagoodthing.Butiftheyhaveadefect,thatisnot.Words.Names.Letters.

Ipostthisfirstinstallmentofmystoryat9:13p.m.

Ithink,it’slate,butIamwonderingifPhoenixBirdwillreadittonight.AndIwonderifshewillnotice.Willshefigureitout?Iwonderifshewillgetit.Bennu is theEgyptianname for themythicalbirdwhorose from its

ownashes.Abirdwhosesongwassobeautifulthateveryonewhoheardit had to stop to listen and whose tears were known to heal thewounded.BennuistheEgyptianwordforphoenix.Forphoenixbird.


ChapterThirteen

Mydadcomesintomyroomtotellmetoturnoffmycomputerandgetreadyforbed.

It’seasier tobearoundmydad,becausehe talks less.Thatdoesn’tmeanIdon’tlovemymom,butalotofthetimeshemakesmefeellikeshewants something fromme. It pullsme, likeadraindrainingwaterafter a bath, that sucking noise it makes at the very end. Not manypeoplewaitaroundlongenoughtohearthatsound,butIdo.

Anyway,IknowmydadwantstotalktomeaboutwhathappenedatUncleBobby’s.He’swaitedalleveningtotalktome.

But I knew it was coming. For a long while my dad doesn’t sayanything.Hejustlooksupatourceiling.

“Are thingsokay, Jason?”heasksme.Hekeepshiseyesaway fromme.

Inod.Iknowhecanseemefromtheside.“Is there anything bothering you that you want to talk about?” he

asks.

AcoupleofyearsagoIfiguredoutthatmydad’sarmsaroundmedon’treally make the darkness, the anger, the sadness go away. They justpostpone it for awhile. This doesn’t stopme, though, fromwonderingwhatmydadcanhelpmewithandwhathecan’t.Andwhatwillhappenwhenhe’snotaroundanymore.

Whowilltakecareofme?Mydadissittingattheendofmybed.“It’sokaytobesad,Jason.It’sokaytobeafraid,”mydadissaying.

“It’sevenokaytobeangry,Jason.”Iwanttobelievehim.“It’snotokaytohurtsomeoneelse.”Nowit’shardtobreathe.“Calm down, Jason. And don’t pull your hair,” my father says. He

takesmyhandsandputs thematmy sides.Myhandsare feeling likeflying.Myhairisitching,maybeburning.Maybethisiswhatitfeelsliketobeonfire.


“Jason.”My father’svoice is louder, stronger. “You’renot in troubleandIamnotmadatyou.”

Mad.Sad.Dad.Thatisawordfamily.Likecat,hat,bat.I’msorry,Daddy.I’msorryyouaresosadaboutme.All you have to do is change one letter, and the whole word is

different. Like people. I wish I could change one letter and makeeverythingbetter.

ButIcan’t,Daddy.

AfterIkickedSeth,andhefell,andthensomebodysteppedonalotofhisCDs,AuntCarol came runningup the stairs.Mymotherwas rightbehindher.Sethwasyellingsomuch,soloud.ThecrackingoftheCDcovers.Thethumpingofthefootstepsonthestairs.Heelsclickingonthewoodenfloor,comingcloser.Harshsnappingofhardplastic.

“Jason,whatdidyoudo?Jason!”AuntCarolstartedshouting.“Whathappened?”mymothersaid,butshewasn’treallyaskingthat.AndJeremygotreallymad.Hewassayingthings,fastwords.Talking

about me, his brother, how I needed to help him, about Seth, aboutreachingsomethinginLittleBobby’scloset.Icouldhearhisfear,andhisanger.

“Wewereallowedtohaveit,”Jeremywassaying.Hesaiditagain.It was all too much. Seth was moaning and holding his leg. His

motherwasscreamingforUncleBobbytogetsomeice.“ForGod’ssake,Bobby,hurry.Ice.”WhenUncleBobby,mymother,AuntCarol, Seth still on the floor,

Jeremy,LittleBobby, and thenmydadwereall in the room, I felt theceilingexplodeovermyhead.Itwasmyhead.Myheadexploded.

Therewasnoway to stopall themolecules that startedpenetratingmyskin.

Myhandsflewoffmybody.Mybodyflewintoamillionlittlepieces.IcouldsmellthefreshcoffeethatAuntCarolandmymotherhadput


upfordessertaswehurriedoutthefrontdoor.Icouldsmellthepastriesshewouldhaveputout,andIwantedone.


ChapterFourteen

ItellAaronMillerIhaveagirlfriend.“Hey,that’sgreat,”hesaystome.Weareinthecafeteria:loudvoices,brightlights,strongfoodsmells,

and garbage. Jane used to sit withme every day.Now I have to findsomeoneonmyown.IamgratefulIseeAaronsometimes.

IsatdownwithAaronandthetwootherboysheissittingwith.“What’shername?”heasks.AndthisiswhenIrealizeIprobablyshouldn’thavesaidanything.BecauseIdon’tknowhername,notherrealname.Butoneoftheotherboysatthetablestartstalkingaboutsomething

else.He is talkingabout thegame lastnight,and that’sgood.Besides,mymotherwantsmetobuylunchthisyear,soIhaveatrayinfrontofme,andnowIhavetofigureoutwhateverythingisandwhatIcaneat.

There are only eighteen minutes left of lunch period. I have toconcentrate.

Ibarelyfinish,butIwaslucky,becausetodaywasmeatloaf,mashedpotatoes and gravy, chilled peaches, dinner rolls, and ice cream cups,andIcouldeatitall.

“Well,Jay-Man,guessyouwerehungry,”Aaronissayingtome.Heisgettingupfromthetable,scrunchinghispaperbagintoawrinklybrownball.Iknowhewillthrowitintothetrashcanfromhere.

Hedoes.“Somaybesomedaywewillgettomeetthisgirl,huh?”hesaystome.

Herubsthetopofmyhead,andheisgone.Meetthisgirl?Thatcouldneverhappen.Idon’tevenknowhername.

Therestofthedayiswithoutincident.


Althoughitbothersme.Becauseupuntilthatmomentithadn’tbotheredmeatall.Andnowitdoesalltherestoftheday.WhatisPhoenixBird’sname?ThenIstart to imaginewhatshe looks like,andthatshemusthave

hairandaface,handsandlegsandfeetwithshoes.Well,Ican’treallyimaginewhatshelookslike,butIhavethethoughtthatshemustlooklikesomethingthathasafaceandhair,maybelong.

Andgirlshoes.Agirl’sface.Agirl’svoice.“Whatareyoudoing,Jason?”And before you know it, I have torn the first page of my math

workbookintomany,manysmallpiecesthatlieonthefloorbymydesk.When I look down, I see them. It looks like snow, and I know welearnedthatnotwosnowflakesarealike.Ofthebillionsandhundredsofbillions, no two are exactly the same. The staggering number ofpossibilities within the hundreds of configurations of each watermolecule of vapor as it turns into a hexagonal form of ice. And eventhough it looks flat, it’s not. It is an amazingly complex structure, anamazinglybeautifulthing.Soeventhoughteachersmakeyoufoldpaperandcutoutlittletriangles,spreaditoutandtapeittothewindow,snowisnotreallyflat.Itisnotthatsimple.

“Jason,thisisunacceptablebehavior.”Thatismymathteachertalking,andIhaveforgottenhername.She

lookssomuchlikethenurseatmypediatrician’soffice.Theybothhaveveryshortredhair,andIcan’ttellthemapart.SoIdon’ttry.

Thekidsarestarting to laughagain,whichdoesn’tbotherme,but Iknowitwillmaketheteacherverynervous.Teachersdon’tlikeitwhenkidsarelaughing,unlessitisbecausetheyhavemadeajoketheythinkisfunny,andthentheygetupsetifthekidsdon’tlaugh.

“I’msorry,Jason,butyouaregoingtohavetostayandcleanthisupwhile therestof theclassgoesacross thehall towatchMrs.Santoro’sclass’sgeometryplay.”

ItisagoodthingformethatIdon’twanttoseethatplayatall.I don’tmind picking up all the little pieces of paper, and now it is

quietintheclassroom.Onlythemathteachersittingatherdeskwriting.Shethinkssheisholdingmeresponsibleformyactions.


Iamonthefloorundermydesk.Thepieces of paper don’t look anything like snowflakes anymore. I

canseethejagged,frayededgesofwhitewhereItoreitandtoreit.Istarttothinkofhowmanytimesinonedaydoessomethinglikethis

happentome.AndhowIamsousedtonotgettingwhatIwant.HowmanytimesIamonthefloorundermydeskpickinguppiecesofpaper,metaphoricallyspeaking,thatis.

Everyday,maybetwentytimesaday.Maybemore.

SoPhoenixBirdismygirlfriend.Insidemycomputer.Ijustneedtoremembernottotalkaboutheranymore.

Sotherestofthedayiswithoutincident.


ChapterFifteen

Jeremywantstheplatewiththedividersatdinnertonight.Butourmomhastakenthemaway.Shesayshehastogetusedtoeatingoffaregularplate,becausenot

everybody in theworldwill be able to accommodate him, but again Iknowsheisreallytalkingaboutme.Incode.

Jeremystartstocry.Rightatthetable.Boysarenot supposed to cry. I learned that about the same time I

figured out that mymom and dad couldn’t make everything all right,evenwhentheysay,Don’tworry.Everythingisgoingtobeallright.

It’snot.Boys are not supposed to cry. Because when they do, things get

worse.Thensuddenlyyouhavetwoproblems.Youhavewhateveritwasthatmadeyoucryinthefirstplace,andthenyoualsohavetheproblemthatyouareaboycrying.Andsomeoneisboundtoletyouknowthisisworse.Sonowyouhavetwoproblems.

Betternottocry,Jeremy,Iwanttotellhim.“Jeremy,what’sthematter?”mymotherissaying.Atfirstpeoplewillalwaysactlikecryingisokay.“Iwantmyplate. Iwantmyplatewith the little rooms in it.”He is

crying.“But Jeremy, you can use this plate. It’s fine.None of your food is

touching.Look,”shesays.“Andevenifitdoes...it’sfine.”Andthen,afterthat,theytrytotellyouwhyyoushouldn’tbecrying.“It’sfine,Jeremy,”mydadsays.“No,Ican’teat.Iwantmyplate.”Tearsaredroppingoffhisface.His

voiceiscloggedwithwetnesslikemucusinhisthroat.Itislikethesnowflakesthatfalltotheground,eachonedifferentfrom

everyotherone.Butnoonecanseethat.Alltheyseeiswhiteandflat.Anditalllooksthesame.Andthatisthewaytheylikeit.

ThefoodislikethatforJeremy.Hejustdoesn’tknowityet.“Sometimeyourfoodisgoingtohavetotouch,”Itellmybrother.Itgetsreallyquietatthetable.


“What?”mymotherasksme.“Whatdidyousay,Jason?”I lookdownatmyplate.The food is far enoughapart, but it never

botheredme.ItwasalwaysJeremy.Jeremyneededthoseplates.Idon’tunderstandwhyheshouldn’thaveone,butIknowhecan’t.IseenowthatevenJeremyhastolearnwhatIhaveknownallmylife.

Youdon’talwaysgetwhatyouneed.SoIsayitagain,eventhoughIamsuremymotherheardme.“Sometimeyour food isgoing tohave to touch.It’snotsobad.You

getusedtoit.”“There, see?” she says, but I have a feeling my mother has heard

somethingelse.“Don’tcry,”mydadtellshim.“C’mon,Jeremy.Eatsomedinner.It’s

good.”“Don’t cry, sweetie,” my mother says. “Look, Jason lets his food

touch.”Jeremyisstillsniffling,buthepicksuphisfork.Then,finally,youfigureoutit’sbetternottocryinthefirstplace.


ChapterSixteen

One day a very old and very wise scientist comes to the town whereBennuliveswithhisfamily.Itisnotbychancethatthisfamousdoctorhasarrived.HeislookingforBennu,becausethedoctorbelieveshehasfoundacurefordwarfism.HehastraveledmanymilesovertreacherouslandtofindBennu.HebelieveshehasinventedanoperationthatcanmakeBennulookprettymuchlikeeveryoneelse.

Also,thedoctorbelievesthatwithhiscurehecanmakesurenoonewillbebornwiththesameproblemeveragain.

ThisinstallmentendsjustasthedoctordelivershismessagetoBennuandhisfamily.

It’s a good idea to leave your reader wanting more. It’s called acliffhanger,likeyourcharacterishangingbyhisfingertipsontheedgeofaverysteepcliff.IuploadmychapterontheStoryboardwebsite,buttheonlyreaderIreallycareaboutanymoreisPhoenixBird.Maybeshelivesinadifferenttimezone.Twohourslater.Maybeshewillreaditbeforeshe goes to school. Or two hours earlier, and maybe she will havealreadyleftforschoolandshe’llhavereaditbeforeIgethome.HowcanIfindoutwhatherrealnameis?

ThenbeforeIhavetoleaveforschool,Isendheralittlenote,justtoletherknowmystoryispostedonthewebsite.

Andbytheway,Iwriteattheendofmymessage,myrealnameisJason.

Verytricky,ifImustsaysomyself.

Nexttoartclass,physicaleducationclassistheworst.MostkidscallitPEclass.ButIdon’tlikethoseletterstogetherthatway.

Mostlyit’sbecauseofthenoise,thewaythenoiseracesaroundthegym,hitsthehighceiling,whereitallgatherstogetherbetweenthemetal


lightshadesandgetslouderbeforefallingbackdownagain.“Soyouhaveagirlfriend,Jason?”It istheboyfromAaron’stable,oneoftheboyswhoeatlunchwith

himsometimes.Iatelunchwiththemlastweek.Ishouldn’thave.Theboyislaughing,butIknowthiskindoflaugh.“Andyoudon’tevenknowhername,”theboyissaying.Laughing.There are lines on the floor of the gym, blue lines and yellow and

white and red.One line is the farthest outside of all the others, neverintersecting,notbending,never touching theothers.Parallel lines thatcontinueintoinfinityandnevermeet.

Theboy is talking tomebutnot talking tome.He is talking loudly,even thoughnooneelse is listening tohim.Hisvoicebouncesoff thebluecushionedwalls.

“Iknowwhathernameis,”hesays.Hedoes?Doesheknowher?DoesthisboyknowPhoenixBird?Iwillnotbeabletobreathe.Heislaughingmore.Louder.“Youwannaknowwhathernameis?”heissaying.If he knows PhoenixBird, she will have told him the truth. He will

knowsheisnotreallymygirlfriend.Myhairhurts.Mychestistight.“IbethernameisRetardoGirl,”theboysays.No,Iamthinking.Hernamecan’tbeRetardoGirl.Canit?“AndIbetsheridesthelittlebustoschool.”AndthenIfigureitout.Heisjustbeingmean.Whenadoggetsmean

andbitesaperson,it’sthelawthattheyhavetoputthatdogtosleep.This boy is just being mean. He is lying. He doesn’t really knowPhoenixBird.Ihavenothingtoworryabout.Forsomereasonmyheadisstillshaking.

ButIcanbreathe.

Mr.DeMateocomesoutandstartsthrowingbasketballsontothefloor.They all bounce up and down at different times, like drummers whocan’t hear each other, and then roll until someone picks one up andshootsitatthehoop.


Andmisses.

“Lexicon”isthewordthatcametomethismorning.EvenbeforeIgotoutofbed.


ChapterSeventeen

Last year, I was eleven years old and Jeremywas just eight, our dog,Lester,gotverysick,andwehadtoputhimtosleep.

Which is another one of those expressions when someone doesn’twanttosaywhattheyreallymean.

WehadgottenLesterfromtheHumaneSocietyinthenexttownover.Iwas fourwhenIwentwithmymomtopickhimout,butofcoursewedidn’tknowhewouldbeahimwhenwewent.

They don’t let you put a dog “on hold.” You can go back asmanytimesasyouwantandlooktillyoufindthedogyouwant,butonceyouseeone,youhavetodeciderightthenandthere.

Iwastheonethatwantedadog.AndgettingLesterwasa reward,but I don’t rememberanymore for

what.Iwantedadogsobadly.SobadlyIletmymotherleadmeintothedark,wet,concretehallway

where theykept thedogs,eventhoughthesmellwassobad itburnedmy eyes and my tongue. Every single dog was barking, all at once,jumpingupandputtingtheirpawsonthefrontsoftheircages.Jumpingupand thenrunningback,spinningaroundand thenpouncingon thebarsagainaswepassed.

Therewereplasticbagshangingfromeachcagewithapieceofwhitepaperinside.MymotherlistenedasIreadthenamesoutloud,becauseIcouldreadeveryword.

“That’samazing,”theHumaneLadysaidaswemadeourwaydownthelong,wet,concretehall.“Howoldishe?”

“Four,”mymothersaid.“He’sonlyjustfour.”Lesterwastheonlydogthatwasn’tbarking.Hewasn’tevenjumping

up on his cage. He was sitting straight up, looking right out at us,trembling,trembling.Hewasshakingsohardyoucouldseethemotionfromthetopofhishead,backandforthtotheendofhisbody.


Hewassoscared.“Beaglemix,”Iread.“Elevenmonthsold.Lester.”I reallydidn’t talkmuch in thosedays,andIknewIwantedLester,

butwhatwouldhappentotheotherdogsifwedidn’tpickthem?Ihatedit in that place. It was cold and dark, that horrible smell and thathorribleloneliness.IstoppedwalkingandstoodinfrontofLester’scage.Mymotherstoppedtoo,andsodidtheHumaneLady.

Lestershookevenharder.“Thisone?”theladyaskedme.But I was sad, so sad. Too sad. The other dogs were barking and

standinguptobepicked,tobetakenoutofthisplace.Iwantedtosaysomething.Iwantedtoask,butIcouldn’tfindthewords.Iopenedmymouth,butnothingcameout.

“Everydoghere findsahome,” the lady said. “Wehaveahundredpercentadoptionrate.”

Lester.WetookLesterhomewithusthatday.Hepoopedandpeedand threwup inour car,whichmademecryandscream, too,butweboth got home. My mother asked me if I wanted to give him a newname,butIdidn’t.

Youcan’tchangewhatyouarecalled.Goodorbad,it’syourname.That night Iwrote downall thenames andbreeds of every dogwe

saw,andLestersleptattheendofmybed.

AndthenLestergotsick.Sosickthedoctortoldustherewasnothinghecoulddo.Lesterwasonlysevenyearsold,andevenindogyearsthatispretty

young.MydadtriedtotellmeandJeremyatdinneronenightthattheywere

goingtohavetoputLestertosleep,todie.“Thevetdideverythinghemedicallycould,”ourdadsaid.“WegaveLesteraverygoodlife,”mymothersaid.Jeremywascryingsohardhissnotwasrunningdownhisface.Iwas

justlistening.“Lester is very sick,” my mother said. “That’s how nature works

sometimes.Thereisnothingwecando.”


Iknewmyparentsweretellingthetruth.WehadtakenLestertothedoctoreveryweekformonths,andhehadtenbottlesofmedicineonthekitchencounter.

“Wehavetakenverygoodcareofhim.He’shadagood,goodlife,”our dad said. “Youknow, youhave to remember Lester is a dog.Andimagine,ifLesterlivedinthewild,hewouldn’thavelastedthislong.”

ButLesterdidn’tliveinthewild.Helivedwithus.

Rebecca.HernameisRebecca.That’sdefinitelyagirl’sname.TherewasamessagefromPhoenixBirdwhenIgothomefromschool.

Shehadreadmystory.Andmynote.Andshetoldmeherrealname.Rebecca.IreallycareaboutBennu,shewrote.Yourstoryisgreat.

IfeltlikeIcouldfeelwhathewasfeelingandthinking.LikeIcouldreallyseeandhearhim.Andthereissomuchsymbolism in your story. How do you do that? Do yououtline?Doyouknowwhatisgoingtohappenintheend?

ThereisaPSattheendofhermessage,whichstandsforpostscript,meaningsomethingyouthoughtaboutafteryou’vefinishedyourwholeletter,soyouhavetoaddittotheend.

PS.you’llneverbelieveit.TodayafterschoolBlanchefoundthelunchIdidn’teat.

Sheateaholerightthroughmybackpacktogettoit.Thenshegotsickonourlivingroomcarpet.Idon’twhichmymomismoremadabout,therugormynewknapsack.LOL.

That’sthekindofstufffriendstelleachother.AndhernameisRebecca.IamthinkingofwhattowritebacktoRebecca,myfriend.Whoisagirl.


ChapterEighteen

AtfirstBennu’sfamilyseemsoverjoyedbythenewsthefamousdoctorbrings to town.Right to theirdoorstep, in fact.Bennustandsbackandlistens.Ofcourse,everythingoccursafewfeetoverhishead,becauseheissoshort.ButinawaythisisanadvantageforBennu.Hehaslearnedtolistenbetter.

Hehearswhatthedoctorproposes.Yoursonwon’tbeshortanymore,thedoctortellseveryone.Butwedon’twanteveryonetobethesame,dowe?Bennu’sfathersays.No,butifyouagreetotheoperation,thedoctorpromises,noonewill

lookatBennueveragainandknowanythingiswrong.

No,Rebecca,Iwriteback,Idon’tknowhowmystoryisgoingto end. I don’t even know what Bennu and his family aregoingtodecideyet.That’susuallywhereIgetallmessedup.Itryandletmycharacterstellmewhattheywanttohavehappen.

WeareonanEschedulethisweek.Soit’slibrarydayagain,andIgettocheckmyStoryboardsite,butthenitturnsoutwearen’thavinglibrary.Thereareteachermeetingsinthelibraryandwecan’tgointhere.Ihaveto wait until I get home, except I have an appointment with my talktherapistandIdon’tgethomeuntildinner.MytalktherapistisdifferentfrommyOT,myoccupationaltherapist,becausemostlywithmyTTwejust sit thereanddonothing.Sometimesshe tries togetme to talkbyshowingme pictures. Lots of neurotypical people go to talk therapiststoo.LotsofNTsgotoTTs.

Evenmymomdoes.My talk therapist told my mom I am being very patient and I am

learningtodelaygratification.IgetaHershey’sKissasarewardwhenIleavetheoffice,whichIgivetoJeremybecauseIdon’tlikechocolate."******DEMO-www.ebook-converter.com*******"

Mybrainisabouttoburstfromsomuchgratificationdelaying,bythetimeIgetuptomyroomandbootupmycomputer.Myskinhurtsfromwaiting. My flying hands try to soothe my skin. My feet are tappingbecause my hands are flying, which makes my skin hurt more. AndfinallyIcanreadmymessagefromRebecca.

Youmustbereallygoodinlanguagearts,shewrites.Thenshetellsmeallaboutherday.PS, she writes again. So sorry to hear about your dog,

Lester. He sounds like he was really special and he wasluckytohaveyou.

Ihaveneverfeltluckybefore,thatIcanremember.ButIdonow.

Myparentsarehappywithme.Ihaven’thadtoleaveschoolforanyreasoninoveramonth.Allmyteachersgavemegoodprogressreports,evenmyartteacher,

Mrs.Hawthorne.Andtheprobationperiodfornothavingaone-on-oneaidehaspassed.WehaveanotherIEP,andit isdecidedIshouldstayinclusionary.Noone-on-onenecessaryatthispointintime.

They think now is a good time to tell me about a trip they haveplannedforme.Theyweregoingtowaittotellme,buttheythinkit’sagoodtimerightnow.

Kindofareward,theytellme.Theyarebigonrewards.Mymomanddadhavecomeintomyroom

atthesametime.Theyneverdothat.Thereisbarelyenoughroom.“Would you like to go to theStoryboard convention this year?”my

momisaskingme.There are Storyboard conventions every year, all over the United

Statesandhundredsofpeoplego to them.Somepeoplegodressed incostumes of their favorite characters, with fake ears, hats with horns,swords,and lightsabers,andmostof thestoriesareeither frommoviesor books that were made into movies. And then you notice thatsometimestheyevenstartusingtheactors’namesintheirstoriesinsteadofthecharacters’.

That’sjustplainconfusing.


The Storyboard convention is for all the people who post on thedifferent Storyboardwebsites.All the different ages. Lots of people go.It’ssomethingI’vebeentalkingabouteversinceIfoundthewebsite.

“Yes,wemeanit,”mymomsays.Shemustbereactingtomyface,becauseIdidn’tsayanything.“Weknowhowmuchitmeanstoyouandhowlongyou’vewantedto

go,”mydadsays. “We’d likeall fourofus to go,but thatwouldbealittlebittooexpensive,sojustyouandoneofus.EitherMomorme.”

EitherMomorDad?Momhandsmeabrochure for theStoryboardSixthAnnualWriting

ConferenceinDallas,Texas.“It’snotjustthatfanfictionstuff,”shetellsme.“Therearewritingworkshops,”mydadsays.“Onalldifferenttopics.”“And readings,” my mom says. “From published authors. Real

writers.”“Likeyou’regoingtobeoneday,”mydadsays.Iputmyheadonhisshoulder,andIletmyeyesclose.Iputmyhand

onmymother’sleg,andsheputsherhandontopofmine.IamgoingtoDallas,Texas.

Truthfully,languageartsismybestclass,butnotbecauseIhaveagoodgrade in it. I like it because there are no right answers, even if theteachersaysthereare.Evenwhentheymarksomethingwrongonyourtestorbookreport,it’sreallyjusttheiropinion,andinmyopiniontheycouldbewrong.It’slikewhenyoureadthedirectionsonthebackofapackageofbrowniemix.

Twoeggsorthree?Doyouwantchewyorcakelike?Thereisnowronganswer.Booksarelikebrownies.Ialsolikelanguageartsbecauseeveryoneasksmeforhelp.“Jason, can you fill in this last page inmy vocabulary book?” Kids

whodon’tevertalktomeotherwise.“Butmakethehandwritingmessiersoitlookslikemine.”

“Jason,howdoyouspell‘definitely’?”


“‘Veterinarian’?”“‘Facetious’?”“Hey,whathappensattheendofthisbook,Jason?ItwassoboringI

couldn’tfinishit.”“Howabout‘potato’?IsthereanEattheend?”When I ask my language arts teacher for my homework for next

Friday,becauseIamgoingtomissschool,becausemeandmydadareleavingforTexas.HeasksmewhereIamgoing.

“Texas.”Mr. Shupack laughs, the nice laughing. “I know, Jason. Butwhere?

Whatareyougoingtherefor?Doyouhavefamilythere?DoyouhavefamilyinTexas?”

Mr. Shupack is pretty nice. He is very tall and has facial hair thatconnects fromhis sideburnsall thewayaround tohis chinandunderhis nose. There is no mistaking him for someone else. I always feelcomfortablearoundhim,evenwhenhethinkshe’srightallthetime,butIhatelookingatthebirthmarkonhisarm.Itrynevertoseeit.

Ilookathimoutofthecornerofmyeye.“No,” I say. “I am going to the Storyboard writing convention in

Dallas,Texas.”I thinkhewill like this, sincehe isanEnglish teacherand theyare

supposedtolikewriting.AndthenIrealizeIamnotleavingforanotherweek and a half, and maybe Mr. Shupack doesn’t know what thehomeworkwill be that far in advance. I remember that I havenot yettoldmyparentswhichoneofthemIwanttocomewithme.Andmydadsaysheneedstoknowsohecanmakethereservations.HetoldmethatthismorningwhenIwasbrushingmyteeth.

SothenIsay,“Vizcaíno.”Itisthewordthatcameintomyheadthismorning,butIdidn’tthink

ofituntiljustnow.Iwasthinkingoftoomanythingswhenitfirstcametome.Andnowitcomestomeagain.

Italwaysjusthappenslikethat.“Thepitcher?”Mr.Shupacksays.“What?”But now I know I shouldn’t have said it out loud. It was the

consonantsounds,theslippery,slidingsoundoftheword.RememberingthismorningandthedecisionIhavetomake.


“Luis Vizcaíno? The guy who used to pitch for the New YorkYankees?”Mr.Shupacksays.

Ihadnoidea.Sometimesthathappens.Imusthavehearditsomewhere.OnTVmaybe.“No,”Isay.“Myfather.”Iamsurenow.


ChapterNineteen

Themostimportantthingtodowhenyouarewritingastoryistofindadilemmaforyourcharacter tograpplewith.Youcanhavethegreatest,most interesting characters, and you can have something reallyimportantyouwanttosay,butyouneedastory.Youneedconflict.

Andyoudon’thavetolookveryfar.It’sallbeenwrittenbefore.Ineverybookinthelibrary.Every fable and myth, every play and legend, every fairy tale and

story.You can make up this whole new world and all these amazing

characters, but it’s just that in order to make a story, basically,somethingbadhastohappen.

It’s not that I don’t know that mymother is upset, or that I don’tknowwhy.Ijustdon’tknowwhatIcoulddoaboutit.

“Yourmothergetsherfeelingshurteasily,”mydadtellsme.“Butsheunderstands.”

Idon’t.BecauseIdon’ttalkmuch,mymotherthinksIamnotfeeling.Formy

mother, talking about feelings and feeling feelings are the same thing.Butformethey’renot.

Sosheissittingveryquietly,watchingTV,andshelooksokay,butIknowshe’snot.

My dad is on the phone making airline reservations. I know mymotherwantedmetopickher,eventhoughshedidn’treallywanttogo.Mymother doesn’t like to travel. She doesn’t like to leave the house,really.Shegetsnervouswhenshehastodrivetonewplaces.Shealwaysturns rightwhen thedirections say left, and then she looks like she isabouttocry.Shegetslostprettymucheverytimeshegoessomewhereshehasneverbeenbefore.Soshetriesnottodothat.

Whichmakesperfectsensetome.Whydosomethingthatyou’renotverygoodat?Why?


“Womenliketoknowtheyarewanted,”mydadtoldme.“Theywanttoknowtheyareneeded.”

Iwantto—Sitrightnexttomymother.Onthecouchandtouchher.Touchherhair.Iusedtolovethefeelof

the smoothness betweenmy fingers, andwhen Iwas little, Iwouldn’teven realize Iwas touchingherhair, inandout,betweenmy first twofingers. Icouldsee thecolorwith the touchofmyhands. IcouldheartherhythmwhenIclosedmyeyes,likewateroverslipperyrocks.

Touchingmymother’shairwassoothing,andthat’swhyIdidit.SonowIamtoooldforthesoothing,butIneverseemtoooldtohavethestress.

Ihavealotofstresses.If I had asked my mother to take me to Dallas, Texas, would my

fatherbeupsetinstead?Maybe,buthewouldn’tbesittinginhisquiet,likemymother is. Andwhat about Jeremy—maybe he’smad becausenobodyevertakeshimanywhere?

ExceptJeremydidgotoSixFlagsGreatAdventure.Twice.I reallywant togo to theconvention. Iwant tobearoundall those

people who write stories and talk about stories. Around real writerswhosecharacterscometolifeintheirmindssorealtheycanhardlytellwhattheyaretryingtosayfromwhattheircharacterisactuallysaying.

Iwanttoe-mailRebeccaandtellhermygoodnews.MaybeIamlucky.IamthinkingRebeccawillbeveryexcitedformethatIamgoingto

theconvention,likeMr.Shupackwas.AndmaybesomedayIwillbeafamouswriter.

MaybesomedayIwillwriteabookaboutmylife.

I can seeBennu, inmymind, consideringallhisoptions. I amseeinghim lookingat theotherpeoplearoundhim,but IknowIhave toput


himsomewheretodothis.Likeatapartyorinschool.Sohecanseelotsof different people and think aboutwhether hewants to bemore liketheyare.

Ihavetothinkreallyhardwhatitwouldfeelliketobesoshort.Whattheworldwouldlookliketohim.Whathewouldlookliketotheworld.AndwhatcanIhavehappenthatwillmakethingsanyworsethantheyalreadyareforBennu?

AndthenIhavetolisten.IhavetolistenandletBennutellmewhathewantstosay.

Ican’twaittotellRebeccaaboutmytriptotheconvention.IamsittingatmycomputerforalongwhilebeforeIwanttoturniton.IamthinkingabouthowIwillwritetoRebecca.

Sothatshewillbemostimpressed.

It is theupperright-handcornerbutton,andyouhavetohold itdownforatleasttwoseconds.Youcan’tjustpushitliketheotherkeysonthekeyboard.

Ilikethenoisemyharddrivemakeswhenitbeginstowindup.Thewhirlingandgrindingnoises, like there are little gears inside cranking,little tiny lights blinking on. The fan starts spinning. The screen goesfromblacktodarkblue.Andbesides,Iliketogivemycomputerarestatnight.Nottoalwaysbeonalert,asifanymomentithastolightupandstartworking.Iliketogiveitalittlewarning.

Alltheiconsappearonthescreen,onebyone.Andthenitpromptsmeformypassword.IamstillthinkingofBennu.InawayIcanactuallyseehim,butnot

thewayyou’dseearealpersonstanding in frontofyouor inamovieeven,butthewayyouseeamemory.Thewayyouseeadream.Thewaythewords,andimages,andrealnessandnotrealallgetmixedup.Thewayyoucanrememberadreamandknowexactlywhathappened,andwhatthatpersonwhosoldyouthegianticecreamconelookedlike,butitdoesn’ttranslateintobeingawake.


Thelettersarethesame,butthelanguageisdifferent.

IamreadytowriteamessagetoRebecca,butIseethatshehasalreadywrittentome,eventhoughitwasmyturnnext.

Jason,you’llneverbelievethis. Shewrites,TheStoryboardconventionisgoingtoberightinmyhometownthisyear.Andguesswhat...Iamgoingtogo!Therearetonsofworkshopsandsomerealauthorswillbethere.IwillmakesuretotakereallygoodnotesandIwillshareeverythingwithyouwhenIgethome.Yourstruly,shewrites.Rebecca.

Ithinksomethingbadhasjusthappened.


ChapterTwenty

Myparentswanttoknowwhat’swrong.ThatisthequestionIhatesecondmostintheworld.Issomethingwrong?Mymotherisaskingme,“Honey,issomethingwrong?”“What’sgoingon,Jason?”myfatherisaskingme.Ican’tanswerthisquestion.Itwouldbeliketryingtocatchdropsof

wateratthebottomofawaterfall.That’sjustwhatitfeelslike,atonofwaterfallingonmyhead.Constantlybombardingmybrain.It’shardtobreatheunderallthisfallingweightofwater.

Ican’tletRebeccareallyseeme.Pounding.She’llknowexactlywhoIam.Falling.WhoamI?Iwanttogetahaircutnow.Myhairiskillingme.I can’tgo to theconventionnow.No, I can’t tell youwhy. I can’t tell

anyone.“Jason,stoppullingatyourhair. Jason,stop.Stop flapping.Lookat

me.What’swrong?”Mymotherissaying.Jeremyisquiet.HeisalwaysquietwhenIamloud.Andtheotherwayaround.Everybody was somewhere else, but now they are all here. In the

hallway.Ihavetothrowsomething,frommyhand,intospace.Intothespacethatisattackingmybrain.IhavetothrowthethingthatIfeelisinmyhand.

Butnoneofthisprobablywouldhavehappenedifmymotherhadn’tcomeintomyroominthefirstplace.Sheopenedthedoortomyroomwithout knocking. Evenmy talk therapist has said she is supposed toknock.

“Areyouallright?”ThatisthequestionIhatefirstandthemost.“Jason,areyouallright?”


AmIeverallright?“Jason,Iamtalkingtoyou,”shewenton.Rebeccalikesme.ShethinksI’magoodwriter.“Iheardnoisesuphere,”mymothersaid.Shewasstillstandinginmy

doorway.She’smygirlfriend.Butshewon’tbeforlong.“Jason,stopit.You’regoingtohurtyourself.”Butnothingcouldhurtmorethanthis.

Iamawakebutdreaming.IcanseeRebeccaseeingme,eventhoughIhaveneverseenRebeccaandIdon’tknowwhatshelookslike.Nowsheis wearing a T-shirt with a picture of a great scarlet bird, two-dimensional,itsheadtotheside,itswingsspreadlikearms,surroundedbyflames.ThatishowIknowitisher.

It is crowded in the convention hall. And hot, because it is Texas.Therearetablessetupwhenyoufirstwalkin,twotableswithbigsignsthatsayIFYOURLASTNAMESTARTSWITHA–Landanotheronethatsays,IFYOUR LASTNAME STARTSWITHM–Z. There are threepeople sitting at eachtable,andpeoplearealreadypushingtogettothefrontandsignin.Thecheck-inpeopleareveryfriendly;Icantellbytheirvoices.IamsureifIcouldlookuptheywouldbesmiling.Mydaddoesallthetalking.WhenIstarttorockalittle,mydaddoesn’tevenactlikehenotices.Ifhecaresthat the ladynext tousonmyleft, is lookingatmeandthatsheeventakestwoverytinystepsaway,hedoesn’tleton.

Whenyousignin,yougetanametag,whichisnotthestickypeel-offkindbutarealone inaplasticsleeve thathangsonanelasticcord toputaroundyourneck.

Andmydadgetsonetoo.Ilookdownatthetaghangingaroundmyneck:JASONBLAKEWESTON,CONNECTICUTSTORYBOARDMEMBERTHREEYEARS

Thereisnoescapenow.


The thing that I threw atmymom tomakeher stop talking tomehitJeremyinstead.

Luckily,itwasjustmycomputermouse.Buthisheadbledalot.

It’seasytofeelbadaboutyourself.Andthenevenworse.


ChapterTwenty-one

It’sabouttheplanetrip.It’sanxiety,theydecided.AndIletthem—So my dad brings home two movies from the video store: The

WeddingSingerandAirForceOne.TheWeddingSingerissofunny,andattheendeveryoneontheplanecheersforAdamSandlerwhenhegetsthegirl.MyparentsknowIlikeAdamSandlermovies.

Thenmymomsetsupachairinthelivingroom,withanotherchairinfrontandoneoneachside.

“Justsithere,Jason.”ShecallsJeremy.“Jeremy,comehelp.”Iamsittinghere.“Tenmoreminutes,”mymomissaying.Shewantsmetositherefor

tenmoreminutes,becausetheythinkIamnervousabouthavingtositstillinaplaneseatforfourhours.

This is theway they gotme to rideon elevatorswhen Iwas youngandwouldn’tgetinside.Firstwejustwalkednearone.AndthenextdayIpressedthebuttonandwatchedthedoorsopen.Afterafewweeksofthat,onceaweek,Ijuststoodinside,butmydadheldthedoorsopen.WedidthateveryweekforafewmonthsuntilfinallyIconsentedtorideuptheelevatortomytherapist’soffice,soafterayearwedidn’thavetowalk the twelve flights of stairs. I don’t even go to that therapistanymore.

We turnoffAirForceOne as soonas the terroristshijack theplaneandstartkillingpeople.Mymomisyellingatmydadforhispoorchoiceofmovies.

ButIknowtheywillkeepworkingonthis.Mymomalwayssaysyouhavetofaceyourfears.Thishasnothingtodowithbeingscaredtogetonanairplane,butit’sbetterthantellingthemthetruth.

IamafraidthatRebeccawillseeme.Iamgoingtoneedsometimetofigureouthowtogetoutofgoingto

Dallas,Texas,fortheStoryboardconvention.Butmydadhasalreadyboughtthetickets.


Ialwayslistentothemorningannouncementsatschool.I like the way the words come out of the loudspeakers. I like the

voices thathavenobodies, that say things from faraway soclearly. Iknowit is really just the lady in themainoffice, theonewiththehardhair,butwithoutamouthandafaceandeyesthatlookatmeIcanhearherbetter.

EverymorningIhavetostandat the frontof the roomby thedoor,because it isnoisy inhomeroom.Myhomeroomteacher leavesanotewithinstructions,soevenifwehaveasubstitute,Iamallowedtostandhere.Ihavetostandandfacethewall.ButI listen.Iwanttohearthelunchservicefortoday,eventhoughI’vereadthemenu.Iwanttohearwhichteachersareabsentandwhichbusesarelate.Idon’tliketheretobesurprises.

ThismorningIamsurprised.“Our biggest congratulations,”Dr. T.’s voice is coming from the PA

system. “To sixth grader Jason Blake for winning a creative-writingcontestandatrip to theLoneStarState . . .andfor thoseofyouwhodon’t know, that’s Texas. Have a great time, Jason. And don’t forget,Jason,to...represent.”

Nowheistalkingabouttoday’sassemblyondentalhygiene.Nowheis talking about parent-teacher conferences and the eighth-grade fieldtriptoWashington,DC,nextmonth.ButDr.T.gotonepartwrong.Thepartaboutme.

Ididn’twinanything.Myparents justsignedmeupandthismakesme wonder about everything else. My parents had to get permissionfromtheschool, fromDr.T., forme tomissnextFriday.So theymusthaveexplainedittohimthen.IguessNTsdon’tlistentoeachotherverywelleither.

Butnow,worsethanhimgettingitwrong—everyoneknows,andIwillhavetogo.

EveryoneinthewholeschoolknowsIamgoingtoTexas.Iwillneverbeabletogetoutofthis.The problem insidemy room, insidemy house, insidemy head, is

growingbiggerandbigger.TheproblemthatRebeccawillseemeattheStoryboardconventioninTexasisgrowingbiggerandwider.


Allmyworldsarecolliding.Ineverwantedittohappenthisway.

Whenwegotothelibrary,MissLenoseemsveryexcited,eventhoughacoupleofmonthsagoshesaidIwasrude.

“Jason,whatwonderfulnews,”sheissayingtome.“Don’tyouwanttogoonyourcomputer?It’sempty.It’swaitingforyou.”

Computersdon’twaitforpeople.ButIdon’twanttogoonthecomputer.Ican’tcheckmye-mail fromschool.Theywon’t letyou,but if they

did,Isurewouldn’twantto.Ididn’trespondtoRebecca’smessageyet,themessagethatsayssheisgoingtotheStoryboardconvention.

I don’t know what to write to her, so I think it’s best not to writeanything.

I don’t know what to tell my dad or my mom. Thing are set intomotion,andIcan’tstopthem.Badthings.

WhenRebeccaseesme,shewillnotlikemeanymore.

“Jason?” IhearMissLeno’svoice,but it isbehindmenow,because Ihaveturnedaway.

Icanwalktothewindow,whereIcanseetheparkinglotandthelineoftrees.Icanalmostputmyselfacrosstheasphaltandintothecoolnessof thewoods. I canhear the leaves, everyonenearly the sameas theonebesideit,brushingagainsteachother,andifIlisten—

“Youneedtobedoingsomethingthisperiod,Jason—”Listen—“Jason,haveyoufinishedyour libraryproject?Whydon’tyoucome

overhereandworkonyourproject?”Listen,verycarefully,Icanheartheirmeaning:Thereisnowheretohide.Notintheletters.Notinthewords.


ChapterTwenty-two

MyparentssitwithmeonthefourchairslinedupinfrontoftheTVfora full twenty-fiveminutes this nightwith nomovie. Jeremy gets reallyimpatient. He won’t wear themake-believe seat belt, andmy parentsstartfighting.

“Jeremydoesn’thavetodothis,”mydadissaying.“Weareafamily,”mymomsaysback.IamwatchingtheTVscreen.Jeremytakesoff.

“Wannareadmeastory?”Jeremyisasking.Thebookhewantsmetoreadtohimisopen,andJeremyissittingin

theexactspot,nottooclose,nottoofar,nexttomypillow.But I am not in themood. The feeling I have wraps upmy whole

body.Ican’tgetitoff.Ican’tgetout.“No,”Isay.Jeremydoesn’tmove.Iknewhewouldn’t.“Read,”Jeremysays.Sometimesitfeelsliketherearebugsinmybrain,bugsliketheones

that bang themselves against our front screen door at night in thesummer,when the light isonoutside. I canhear theirwingsspinning,caughtinsidetheglasshoodofthelamp,vibratingindesperation.

WhatwillhappenwhenRebeccaseesme?Ihaveamathtesttomorrow.Ican’tdothemath.Whatwillshethink

ofme?Myshirt,thisshirt,isstainedfromlunch.WhydoIdothat?Anditisveryhotinhere.Ican’tstandit.Myskinhurts.Allofit.

And Jeremysmells likebubblegum.Whydoeshesmell likebubblegumandketchup?

Rebeccawillnotlikemetheminutesheseesme.Likeallgirlsdon’t.Thebugsthrowtheirbuzzingbodiesagainst thescreen, innoorder,

overandover,withnohope.Thereisnowaytheycangetin,andwhywouldtheywantto,anyway?What’sinhereforthem?


“Is it because of the bird girl?” Jeremy is askingme. “The one youwritetoonline?”

Thetightwrapperaroundmybodyloosenswhenhesaysthat,givingmyheartroomtobreathe.

Inod.“Whatabouther,Jason?”Iamreadingthebook,andJeremyis listening.ButIamalso telling

him.Inbetweenpagesandpicturesthewordsgettangledup,butJeremyunderstands.

“SheisgoingtoDallas,Texas,too?”“Yes.”“So that’s good, isn’t it, Jason? Isn’t she your girlfriend?Don’t you

wanttoseeyourgirlfriend?”Ishakemyhead.No.NowJeremyisquiet.Heisrestinghisheadonmypillow,rightwhere

myheadsleepsatnight.Ismelltheketchupandthebubblegum.Jeremydoesn’tmovewhenIslipapieceofhishairbetweenmyfingers.

Inandout,untilonebyoneallthebugsflyaway.Fornow.Fortonight.

Thenextday is thebeginningof aC schedule, and just like thehard-haired office lady announced, there are Italian dunkers today—myfavorite. And garden salad, dinner rolls even though it is lunch, andcherryJell-O.Usually this foodmakesmehappy,but todayIcarrymytrayacrosstheblack-and-white-checkeredfloorandsitbymyself.

Thereareamillionlittlespecksinsidethetopofthistable,specksofcolor that run so deep into the plastic they seem suspended in space.Colorfulsnowflakesthatnevermoveandneverfall.

Bennu can hardly imagine what life would be like as a normal-sizedperson.Hisparents, surprisingly,arenotpressuring their son.Bennu’sfather tells him the decision is his tomake. It’s your life, Bennu. Yourbody.Weloveyou,Bennu,nomatterwhatyoursize,nomatterwhatyour


limitations.Hismothercriesandcries,butshealsoagreestostickwithwhatever

decisionBennuwillmake.Wewantyou tobehappy,Bennu, she says.The doctor tells themhewillwait three days for an answer, and onlythreedays.

ThatnightBennuhasadream—

“Jay-Man,comesitwithus.”Idon’thavetolookup.IknowitisAaronMiller.“Hey,man,nobodywantstoeatalone,”heissaying.SometimesIcanblockoutthenoisesinthecafeterialikemytherapist

taughtme, grab the sound and throw it away like all the food in thegarbagecan.

Theclankingofplatesbeingdroppedontothemetalcounter.Grabitandthrowitaway.The cafeteria lady, the one with the red bandanna and the yellow

teeth,arguingwithoneofthekidsabouthislunchcard.Shesaysit’snothis.Hesaysitis.

Grabitandthrowitaway.The sound of the dishwasher, way in the back, humming and

steaming,clickingonandoffincycles.Chairsscrapingacrossthefloor.Paperbagscrumpled.Angryvoices.Happyvoices.Laughing.Whispering.Nobodywantstoeatalone.“C’mon,Jason,”Aaronsaysagain.“Look,nobodyelseissittingthere.

Theyleftalready.C’mon.It’sjustme.”IpickupmytrayandfollowAaron’sfeet.IslideasquietlyasIcanup

to the table. And Iwatch the lights on the ceiling,which are not onecolorbutmadeupofallcolorsandwhichmoveandflickeranddanceifyoupayattention.

IfIhadthewordsoutloud,inmymouth,thewordsthattoldastory,thatmadeaconnection, thatcoulddrawapicture forAarontohear, I


couldaskhimforhelp.IwouldaskAaronwhathewoulddo.Aaronisaboypeople like.Evenwhenthey lookathim.Andseehim.Andknowwhoheis.

Bennu—Whoisrealbutnotreal,onlyAarondoesnotknowthis.I—canseeBennubutnotseehim.Bennuisadwarf.Wholikesagirl,agirlwhoisaverageheight.Butoh,seenow!Thereisacure.Thereisadoctor.Anoperationhecouldhave.Hehasthreedays.Whatshouldhedo?Aaronisveryquiet.AmItalking?Reallytalking?Mosteveryoneisgonefromthecafeteria.

Fewernoises. The lights shutter. Thedishwasher far off in the kitchenshutsoff.

“Wow,greatstory,”Aaronissaying.“Bennu,huh?So,hedecidesheisgoingtohavetheoperation.Scarystuff,man.”

Aaronisputtingthecrumpledpaperfromhiscupcake,thetinfoilfromhis sandwich,and the stems fromhis grapes intohispaperbag.He isdoneeating.Hepusheshischairoutbehindhim.

Hesays,“Well,goodforBennu,Iguess.”Aaron stands up. He bends his arm all the way back, behind his

head,thepaperbaginhishand.Hesays,“Buthey,wouldn’titbeweird—ifBennuwakesupfromthe

operation, and he’s all tall and stuff, and then he doesn’t recognizehimselfinthemirror?”

IhearAaron’spaperbaghittheplasticrim,andIhearitfallinside.


ChapterTwenty-three

Ironyisatrickinliterature.It is very hard to explain what irony really is. It is one of those

abstract things like those similarity questions on IQ tests. It can besomethingsomeonesaysorsomethingsomeonedoesorsomethingthathappens.Ironyiswhentheexactoppositeofwhatisexpectedhappens.

Ironycanbeusedtobefunny.Ortomakeapointwithoutbeingobvious.Iwrotea story last year for languageartsaboutamanwhowas so

afraidofdying,gettinghurt,orgettingillthathedideverythinghecouldtoavoidit fromhappening.Hehadairmachinespumpfilteredair intohis house. He had a special car built for himself that was virtuallyindestructible.Heateonlyfoodthatwasgrowninhisspecialclean-soil-and-watergreenhouse.Hehadeverysurfaceinhishousepaddedsohewouldnevergetabruiseoracut.Ifheeverhadtogooutside,heworeaspeciallydesignedsuitthatprotectedhimfromtheotherpeople,objects,thesun,andanypollutedair.Itevenhadalightweightmetalhelmetincasesomethingfellfromoneoftheotherbuildingsorfromthesky.Andthenonedaywhilehewastakingawalk,oneoftheairhosesinhissuithad a malfunction and the man died right there on the street. Hesuffocatedinhisowninventionthatwasdesignedtoprotecthim.

Thatisirony.Myteacherreallylikedit,butshesaiditwasaweeklate,andIgota

Bminus.Thatisnotironic,thatisjustveryunfair.

Ihavesatinachairpretendingtobeflyingonaplaneforatotalofonehundred and thirty-sevenminutes over the course of this whole weekandahalf.Iwasn’tnervousatallaboutflyingbefore,butnowthatmydadhas toldmenot toworry about the announcement about the exitrow and how the seats can be used as flotation devices, I am a littleworried.

“There’snothingtobeafraidof,”hetellsme.


Rebecca.AndIfeelmyeyessting.“I’llbewithyouthewholetime,Jason,”mydadtellsme.Hisvoiceis

sosoft.Iknowhelovesme,butIcan’ttellhim.Iwouldcry.Boysarenotsupposedtocry.Iamscared.Andboysarenotsupposedtobescared.Thisissomethinghecan’tfix,likeheusedtowhenIwaslittle.When

Iwaslittleandmydadandmomcouldmakeeverythingallrightjustbybeingthere.Orsayingsomething.Or tellingmewhat todo.Ormakingcookies.

Mydadcan’tfixmenow.Nomatterhowmuchhelovesme.SoIdon’ttellhimwhat’swrong,becauseIdon’twanthimtofeelbad

aboutthat.

Itwas ironic, however, that formy fourth birthday, the yearmymomsigned me up for nursery school, the year Jeremy was born, my dadboughtmeatoytruckasmypresent,andIhatedit.

Itwasmetalwithrubbertiresandalightontopthatreallyturnedon.The lightwas red and spun around inside its plastic cover. Themetalwascoldandsharp,andthelighthurtmyeyes.Itwastoobigandtoosmallatthesametime.Itwashardtopushalongtheground.Ithurtmyhand,andIcouldn’tseethefuninthatatall.Ithurtmyknees,too,tobedownonthefloorpushingthistruck.

WhatIreallywantedwasanewcomputergameformybirthdaythatyear.

“Doyouloveit,Jason?”mydadaskedme.“Isn’titcool?”So then Iknewmydad loved the truck.And in that samemoment,

eventhoughIwasonlyfouryearsold,IknewmydadwouldbehurtifIdidn’t—

Likethetrucktoo,asmuchashedid.Maybemore.SoIsaid,“Yeah.”Iwasjusttryingtoprotectmyfatherfromhavinghisfeelingshurt.


Ironyisalsowhenthetruemeaningofacharacter’sactionsorwordsarecleartothereaderbut,ironically,nottothecharacterhimself.

I don’t remember verymuch fromnursery school, but I remember thefirstday,seeingmynamespelledoutinmycubby.Irememberitwasallcapital letters, and that bothered me. Only the first letter should becapitalized. I wasn’t feeling very good about this experience. I didn’twanttogoinsidetheroom.

Ididn’tlikethoseletters,butnooneelsesawit.Imovedforward.Irememberwarmapplejuicethatjustsmellssobad.Themanwhoplayedtheguitarthathurtmyears.And thenoneday I remembermymother fightingwithMissBaum.

Mymother’svoicewassharp.MissBaum’svoicewasscratchy.“He’s fine,MissBaum,”mymothersaid.“Idon’tseeyou talking to

someof theseotherparents.”I feltherarmsweepovermyhead.I feltthebreeze.Iheardthemusiccomingfromtheotherroom.Irememberthemusic.Theyweresinging“TheWheelsontheBus.”

B-A-U-MB-O-M-BMissBaumbutnotmissbomb.Not like a bomb, Miss Baum. Different spelling but similar

personality.“Someof these other parents,”mymother said, “whose kids are so

mean.Thekidswhomakefunofotherkids.Orhow’boutthatSamuelDiamondwhowon’t letmyJasonontheclimber?Andpushedhim?Ispushingmorenormaltoyou,MissBaum?Isthatmoreacceptable?”

“Mrs.Blake,Iamjustsuggestingsomekindoftestingmightbeagoodidea.”

“Ridiculous.Unlessmaybeyoureyesneedtobetested,MissBaum.Soyoucanseewhat’sgoingoninyourownclassroom.”

“Here,Mrs. Blake, if you change yourmind. Yale–NewHaven. It’snotfar.”


“Ridiculous,”mymother said. I felt her hand pullme and pullmeaway.

IthinkmyonlychoiceistoneverwritetoRebeccaagain.IfonlyIwasn’tgoingtotheconvention.It has already been two days. Then Rebecca wrote me again and

askedifIgotherlastmessage.Rebecca isagirl.Andshe isa friend.So I shouldbeansweringher

notes.Rebeccaismygirlfriend,likeItoldAaron,andifIwanttokeepitthat

way,Icannevertalktoheragain.Somaybeshe’llthinkIdroppedmycomputerandit’sintheshop,or

wewentawaysomewherewithout Internet. I couldbe in thehospital.TherearemanyreasonsIcouldthinkofthatapersonwouldnevergoontheircomputereveragain.

IfonlyIwasn’tgoingtotheconvention.She’llneverknow,butatleastshewon’treallyknow.AnotherreasonisIcouldbedead.

Nowaseriesofunrelatedeventsoccurs.

ItrainsheavilyontheEastCoastforfivedaysinarow,andtheplay-offgamesscheduledforBostonandNewYorkCityarepostponednearlyafullweek.

The assistant producer at the SportsNow Network, where my dadworks,getsastomachache,throwsupthreetimesinoneday,stopsbytheemergencyroomatSt.Vincent’sonhiswayhomefromwork,andisrushedintosurgeryforanappendectomy.

OurflighttoDallas/FortWorthiscancelledthreedaysbeforewearesupposedtoleave,andtheonlynonstopflighttheycangetusonis intwodays.

Mydadsayshecan’tpossiblymakeit."******DEMO-www.ebook-converter.com*******"

Besides,thingsatworkarenowverybackedup.Myparentsaredownstairs fightingabout it rightnow.Familyshould

come before work, mymother is saying. It’s not my choice, my dad issaying.

ThewordthatcameintomymindthismorningwhileIwasbrushingmy teethwas “serendipity.” I have never hadmyword have somuchmeaningtowhatisgoingon,whichinitselfisserendipitous.ThiswordIknewalready.“Serendipity”means“theoccurrenceanddevelopmentofeventsbychanceinahappyorbeneficialway.”

Iamhappyandbeneficial.Idon’thavetogototheconvention.Iwatchmycomputerbootup.Thebluescreenand thenmyscreen

saver.Theclicksclickandthewhirlswhirl.Evenmycomputersoundshappier.

IwillwritetoRebeccanow.Wecanstayfriends.Rebecca,sorryittookmesolongtowriteyouback.IwasthinkingofmakingupareasonIdidn’twriterightaway,butI

decideagainstit.Theendingtoyourstoryisreallygood.Ilikehowthe

peoplefiguredouttheyreallyneededeachotherafterall.Icouldseeitmadeintoamovie.That’sgreatnewsaboutthe convention. You won’t believe it, but I was almostgoingtogotoo.Butmydadjustfoundouthehastoworkthatweekend.

Thisisthebestthingthatcouldhavehappened.Itisserendipitous.Toobad,becausethatwouldhavebeengreat.Thisisjustanoutrightlie.We could have taken a workshop or something together.

Well,haveagreattimewithoutme.Iamhopingthisdoesn’tsoundtoofriendly,butmaybealittlecute.I

knowgirlslikecuteboys.Ihopeshecannotreadthereliefinmywords.Idon’twanttohurtherfeelings.Iwonderifmyfeelingswouldbehurt

ifitweretheotherwayaround.Ithink,butIamnotsure.


IwanthertoknowIreallylikeher.IwanthertothinkIreallywishIcouldgo.

I really like Rebecca. She is my girlfriend. Because Rebecca is mygirlfriend,that’swhyIamworriedabouthurtingherfeelings.

SoIsignmynameattheendofthee-mail,butinsteadof“sincerely”or“yourstruly,”Iwrite“love.”

Love,JasonBlake.Soshewillknow.

Boygetsgirl.


ChapterTwenty-four

Wewentanyway—TohavemetestedatYale–NewHavenlikeMissBaumsuggested.Threeyearslater,butwewent.Andonthewaytheremymomgotlost.

Mydadknocksonmydoor,so that forasecond itseemsthatwhenIpresssendonmycomputeritmakesaknockingsoundonmydoor.Thatisacoincidence,butIwouldn’texactlycallitserendipitous.

Mydad comes intomy roomand tellsme, “Goodnews.We foundanotherflightandtheairlineisgoingtotransfermytickettoMom.Wedidn’twanttotellyouuntilweweresureitcouldbedone.Youarestillgoingtotheconvention!”

Ilookatmycomputerscreen,whereitstillflashesYOURMESSAGEHASBEENPOSTED.

Idon’tknowwhatitis.Idon’twhyitis,butforsomereasonthenewsdoesn’tricochetaroundmybrain.Myheadstaysconnectedtomybody.Theairgoesinsideandcomesbackout.Nothinghappens.

Ijustpressedsend.“Wedidn’twant todisappointyou, Jason.Weknowhowmuchthis

Storyboardthingmeanstoyou,”mydadsays.Iwrote“Love,Jason.”Whenapersonisreallyhappy,youcanhearitintheirvoice.Youcan

feel it in the way they take up space in a room. I know my dad isstandingbymydoorandheissmiling.Ihaveverygoodvisionoutofthecornersofmyeyes.

“Anddon’tworry,Jason,”mydadsays.“I’llmakesuretorentMomacarwithaGPS.”Heislaughing.

Ifmydadwereacolor,itwouldbeorange.Happy.Helikestomakemehappy.

Iwouldbedarkgreen, like thebottomof theoceanthatdoesn’tgetany light from the sun, where the weird-looking organisms live that


nobodyeversees.OrmaybeIwouldbeoneofthosecreatures,colorless,withskinsotranslucentyoucanseerightthroughthem.Youcanseealltheirorgansworkinginside,bubblingandsqueezing,butifyoubroughtthem up to the surface they’d die instantly, because they’d be sosensitivetothelight.That’swhytheylivedownthereattheverybottomoftheocean.

Butforsomereasonitisveryquietdownhere,andIamstill,andsoIjustnodmyhead.

TherewassomeconfusionwiththeoverheadroadsignsonthewaytoYale–NewHaven.Irememberthat,eventhoughitwasfouryearsago.

Andtherewerebig,bigtrucksoneithersideofus.Thedirectionswereprintedonapieceofpaperthatcrumpledloudlyinherhandthatheldtighttothesteeringwheel.

Iwas still young enough to have to sit in the back strapped into aseat.Jeremywashomewithababysitter.

Iwaseight.Themorenervousmymothergot,themoreIrockedintoarhythmso

Icouldn’thearherwords.ButIheardthemanyway.WhydoesYalehavetobeinNewHaven?Wasthatjusttheexit?Jason,stopthat.Justsitstill.Wearefine.Oh,jeez,wheredidthattruckcomefrom?Whyisn’tyourfatherwithmewhenIneedhim?Itwasalmostasconfusingtofindthebuildingandthentheelevator

andthentheofficewiththerightnameonthedoor.DR.MARAKESH.

AndIspelleditoverandoverinmyheadaswesatinthesoftseatswiththeroughfabricthathurtmyskin.

“What’swrongwithhim?”“Pardonme?”Iheardmymother’svoice.“Hismouthismoving,buthe’snotsayinganything.”“Where is your mother, little girl?”Mymother told the little voice,

“Don’tyouthinkyoushouldgositwithyourmother?”“I’mautistic,”thelittle-girlvoicesaid.“AndIbetheistoo.”


SoIamgoingtotheStoryboardconventionagain.Afterallthat.Itisveryironic.Butnottheleastbitfunny.

Placate.That’s the word that came to me this morning, as we were getting

readytoleavefortheairport.Iwasbrushingmyteethreallyhard,eventhough the dentist told me I brush my teeth too hard. Sometimes Iforget.

We are getting ready to go to JFK Airport and then fly to DFW,Dallas/FortWorth. InTexas,where the convention is.WhereRebeccalives.

Placate.Iknowwhatthatwordmeans.Ithasnothingtodowithwhat’sgoingon.

InsidetheJohnF.KennedyAirport,JFK,thesoundisbad.Likethegymatschool,onlyworse.Theceilingissofar,toohigh,and

thenoisetravelsupthereandstickslikeaninvisiblethickcloud.Excepthereintheairporttherearerowsandrowsandlinesandlinesandhallafterhallandthere isa lotofnoisethatgetsstuckupthere.Thereareconversationseverywhere.Constantloudspeakersspeaking.

Ipullmymotheroutof thewayofahugespeedinggolfcart that isscreamingwith a high-pitchedwarning, onlywith all the noise in thisplacetherewasnowarningatall.

“Ithinkyoujustsavedmylife,”mymotherissaying.Thegiantgolfcartwiththe flashing lightontop,carryinga littlegirl

withcrutchesandtwooldpeople,passesusby.Icanfeelmymother’sskin,herfingers.Herarmisbentandstiff.She

isnervoustoo,andwearen’tevendrivingyet.Wedidn’tevenhaveto


drivetogethere.Mydadhadsomeonefromhisofficedriveus.Butsheisalreadynervous.

Maybe we should have practiced walking through the airport. It isapparentlymuchmorestressfulthansittingonaplanewillbe.

Allthesoundsgatherattheceiling,wheretherearelargewhitepipes.The voices of all these people, steps large and light, rolling wheels,constantmechanicalclicking,beeping,anddinging.Thismustbewhatitislikeinsidemycomputer.

“Hedoesn’thaveanID.He’sonly twelve,”mymother is telling theticketmanbehindthetallcounter.“Yeah,well,helooksbigforhisage.”

SoonmyIDwillsay:JASONBLAKEWESTON,CONNECTICUTSTORYBOARDMEMBERTHREEYEARS

Rebecca, in my awake dream, will know who I am, because myidentificationwillbehangingrighttherearoundmyneck.

ButIseeRebeccafirst.Sheiswearinganametagtoo,ofcourse.Iknowitisher,beforeshe

sees it is me. She is leaning over the sign-in table gathering herinformation: the schedule ofworkshops, the times for the lectures, theroom assignments, and coupons for the local outlet shops.When shestandsup,Iseeherface.

Iseeherface.There is a large purplish stain across her left cheek and down her

neck; that’s all I see. It looks like she is two different colors. It is abirthmarklikeMr.Shupackhasonhisarm,butthisisalloverherface.

It’sallIcanseewhenIlookather.AndthenIwondermaybeifRebeccawasjustasafraidofmeseeing

herasIamofherseeingme.


ChapterTwenty-five

TheGPSintherentalcarisn’tworking.Ormymomdoesn’tknowhowtoworkit.Ifshetriestoreversethecarbackintotheparkinglottoaskforhelp,

shewillrunoverthosemetalspikesandpopallthetires,andwewouldbestuckhereforhours.

Ikindofhopethathappens.Iamnotlookingforwardtogettingtothehotel.BecausethenIwillbethatmuchclosertotheconvention.ThatmuchclosertoRebeccaseeingme.

My mother has never really been the same since we left Yale–NewHaventhatafternoon.

AndI,apparently,neverhadbeen.The doctor asked me questions and gave me puzzles to do. They

mademelookatpatternsandthenaskedmetodrawthem.Theygavemeblocks.Andpictures.Theytriedtogetmetothinkwewereplayingfungames,boardgamesandwordgamesandstackinggames.

Butnothingwasfun.Theygavemenumbersandtoldmetorepeatthem.“One.Seven.Eight.Five.”Theytoldmeriddlesandaskedmetoexplainthem.Theyshowedme

photographsoffacesandaskedmewhatthepersonwasfeeling.“Isthispersonhappyorsad?”Theyshowedmepicturesofclothingandaskedmewhowouldwear

this?“Whowouldwearthisdress?”Icriedandtriedtorunaway.Theygavemecandy,andIplayedmore

games.Idrewmorepictures.Irecitedmorenumbers.Thentheytalkedtomymom,andIgottoplayvideogamesorwatch

TV in a specialwaiting room,not the onewewaited inwhenwe firstcame in. There were lots of other kids in this room andmaybe some


grown-up watching. But the grown-up didn’t seem connected to anyparticularkids.Therewere fiveor sixvideomachines, some like inanarcadeandanotherhookeduptoalittletelevisionsetthatwasn’tevenin color. Therewere books on the table and some on the floor. Therewereheadsetsonallthevideogames,butyoucouldstillhearthemusicand the beeping and the chiming if one of the kids didn’t have theearpieceonhisheadright.

Andtherewerealotmorekidsthantherewerevideogames.I stood ready for this kid to get down from the stepping stool so I

couldhaveaturnnext.Everytimehelookedlikehewasgoingtogetoff,he’dlookatmeandplayagain.

Myheadstartedtoflyoffmybody.Iwantedaturn.Iwantedtoplay.Oneofthegrown-upscameoverandstoodnearme.Tall legsanda

man’svoice.“It’sokay, Jason. Iwillmakesureyouhavea turn. Ihaveawatch.

See?”A little clock camedown in front ofmy face. It’s not awatch; it’s a

clock.HowcanItrustthisvoice?Iwillneverhaveaturn.But just then awoman’s voice came through the opened door, and

thelittlekidatthevideogameranaway.IsteppedupontothestoolasfastasIcould.Idon’trememberwhatthegamewas.Itwasoldanditwasn’tthatinteresting,butIgrabbedontoitsoIwouldn’tflyaway.

When my mother came into the room through the opened door, Ilookedather face. Inever lookather face. I amafraid to lookatherface.Butallthestrangeshoesandtheunknownvoices,thegamesandthenoises.Thecandywassickinmystomach.

Ilookedatherface.Shehadbeencrying.Herfacewassougly,red,andpuffy.Sheissouglybecausesheissomadatme,Ithought.BecauseIwouldnotendmyvideogameandgetdownfromthestool,

andbecauseIwetmypants,alldownmylegsandintomyshoes—Mymotheriscrying.


“Itwillbeokay,Jason,”mymotherissaying.Icanhearthecryingjustwaiting insidehervoice.Shehaspulled the rentalcarover inorder toreprogramtheGPS.

Sheisclickingandspinning.Then she is making noises from her mouth. Now her hands are

around her head, in her hair, like she tells me not to do. She is notputtingintherightletters.Thecomputercan’thelpyouifyoudon’taskittherightquestion.

Ican.Icanreachover.I can spell the exact name of the hotel. The arrow points to each

letter.Youhavetospinthedial.Itturnssmoothinmyhands,clicksintoeachspot,dropslikepenniesinajar.Thelettersspillintomyhands,outmyfingers.Returntoenter.H.Enter.E.Backtostart.Allthelettersclickintoplace.Smooth.Thehotel isspelledout,andthemechanicalvoicestartstalking.

“Proceedtotherouteshown,”itsays.Itsoundslikeagirl’svoice.Icanfeelmymother’sshoulderdrop.Iknowshewantstoreachover

andhugmeandreallyletherselfcry.Iamgladsheisdrivingandcan’tdothis.“Jason,” she says. I can tell by the sound of her voice that she is

keeping her head facing forward. “Thank you, thank you, mysweetheart.”Sheislookingattheroadaheadinsteadofatme.

AcoupleofdaysafterwegotbackfromYale–NewHaventheytoldmeIwasautistic,buttheydidn’treallyusethatword.

Autistic.Ididn’tlearnthatworduntilalongtimelater.Firstmymomanddad

toldme Iwas special. Ihadadifferentwayof seeing theworldandadifferentwayofbeingintheworld.

“And nowwe know how to get real help,”my dad said. “The rightkind.Everythingisgoingtobebetternow,Jason.”

“Nowwe knowwhat’s going on, Jason,”mymother said. “Nowweknowwhat’swrong.Andsowecanfixit.”

Theytoldmethewordforwhatwaswrong,threeletters,anditgave


meaname.Mymomanddadweresayingsomething.Theyweretellingmethings.ButateightyearsoldIhadalreadylearnedthatpeoplewillsayonethingandmeansomethingelsecompletely.

Special.Different.ButinawayIwasrelieved.It explained some things, like why none of the other kids minded

sittinginthegrasswhenMrs.Babcocktookusoutsideonsunnydays.Thegrassfeltlikeneedles.Ihatetositontheground.Iliketostand.

It explained things likewhyHenryGaberman toldmemy facewaslikeablinkingtrafficsignal.

LikewhyIdidn’treallyhaveanyfriendswhoinvitemetotheirhouseafterschool.

ButIdidn’tthinkanythingwasgoingtogetanybetter.Ididn’tneedanylettersoranynewnamestotellmewhatIalready

knew.

ItissohotinDallas.Hotlikestickywoolonmyskin.Whenwe get out of the car andwalk to the hotel, I feel like I am

swimminginahorriblyheatedpool.Ihavetowalkfast,mypants legsswishing against eachother.Mymother is a lot slower, andwhen theautomatic doors of the hotel shut behindme, she is still on the otherside.

AndallofasuddenIaminsidebymyself.Isthiswhatitfeelsliketobealoneinastrangeplace?I don’t know what to do. There are people in line at the counter,

people walking around. People who work in the hotel all wear darkpurple jackets.Awomanhasa suitcaseonwheels.Anotherwoman ispushingastroller.Amaninachair,likethisishislivingroom,readinganewspaper.Downonehallalittlekidiscrying.Ismellthechlorineofapool,butIdon’tseeone.Ismellthechemicalodorofcarpetglue.Theelevatormakesanoisejustbeforeitlandsandopenswide.

Thereisadrinkingfountainbytherestrooms.Aurinalisstillflushingwhenthemen’s-roomdoorflingsopenandswingsclosed.Aphonerings.


Twophonesring,andneitheroneispickedup.“Jason,Jason.Stopthat.Stopthat.”Idon’tknowwhatIamdoing,butmymotherismadatmefordoing

it.“C’mon,”shesays.Ifollowherpinkandwhitesneakersandthetallrollingsuitcasethat

staysrightbesideher.Shegives themanbehind thecounterourname.Shegiveshimher

creditcard.Hegivesherakey,whichlookslikeanothercreditcard.“C’mon,Jason,”shesays.AndIdo.

IthinkIcouldliveverywellinahotelroom.Therearesofewchoices.Andsolittlefurniture.It’sprettyquietforthemostpartunlessyouturnthevolumeontheTVtooloud.

Andturnitupandthendown.Youcanreadthetemperatureonthethermostat,andnobodygetstoo

madifyouturnthatupordown,unlessyoukeepdoingit.Andthewindowsdon’topeninahotelroom.Ilikethat,too.But I’ve never been in a hotel roomwith justmymom. She seems

different,likewithoutmydadsheisn’tthesame.Iunderstandthat.Thereare some thingsmydadalwaysdoes. Like give themanwho

broughtoursuitcasesupsomemoney.Mymotherfumbledaround.Shedidn’tknowwhatthemanintheuniformwaswaitingfor.

Thenshedidn’tknowhowmuchtogivehim.“Two,”Itoldher.Ialwayswatchmydad.Iknewhowmuchtogive.And there are things my dad could never do.My dad could never

cookdinnerandhelpmewithmymathhomeworkandplayUnowithJeremyallatthesametime.Mymomdoesthat.

Placate.Serendipity.Confluence.Vizcaíno.JabaChamberlain.


“It’sstrangebeinginahotelwithoutDaddyandJeremy,isn’tit?”shesaystome.

Mostthingsarestrangetome,Iamthinking.


ChapterTwenty-six

BeforeIwalkintoaroomwheretherearegoingtobealotofpeople,likethe roomwhere the registration for theconvention is, therearecertainthingsIamsupposedtodo.Myoccupationaltherapisttaughtmewhattodo.

I am supposed to touch thewall of the doorwaywith the backs ofbothmyhands,andpress.AshardasIcan.Fortenseconds,countingquietlyinmymind.

Notoutloud.IamsupposedtohaveadestinationwhenIwalkin,soIamnotjust

wanderingaround,whichcanmakemeanxious.Iamsupposedtoanticipatebeingoverwhelmed.I am supposed to listen tomy own breathing and know it’s inmy

control.AndIamsupposed tokeepmyeyes justa few feet in frontofme,likecarheadlights.

Breathe.Don’tdriveoveryourownheadlights.

Thoughevenmytherapistcouldnothaveanticipatedthis.Rightaswewalkin,thereisahistoricalfightdemonstrationgoingon.

Thetwoactorsaredressedaswarriorsfromtheoldendays,thedaysofkingsandqueens.Theyarefightingwithlongswords.Thenoiseisreallyloud,metalagainstmetal.Themenaregrunting.Theirbeardsarefallingoff.Theyaresweatingintotheircostumes.Icansmellthemfromhere.

AyoungwomanwalksbydressedlikeHermione,andthereareaboutfifteenHarry Potters all over the room.A lot of the characters I don’trecognizefromanybookortelevisionshow.

ButIcan’tlookverycarefully.Ihavetoconcentrate,breathe,andthinkonlyofthespacedirectlyin

frontofme.Thendirectlyinfrontofmeisablurofbeadsandblackhair.IthinkitisCaptainJackSparrow.


Butmytherapistdidn’tanticipateRebeccaeither.

Everythinghappensjustthesameasinmylastawakedream.Theladyinthesign-inlineeventakesthesamefewstepsjusttogetfartherawayfromme.AndwhenIsignin,Igetmynametag,whichisnotthestickypeel-offkindbutarealoneinaplasticsleevethathangsonanelasticcordtoputaroundyourneck.

Andmydadgetsonetoo.Onlynowitismymom.Ilookdownatthetaghangingaroundmyneck.JASONBLAKEWESTON,CONNECTICUTSTORYBOARDMEMBERTHREEYEARS

“Excuseme.ButcanyoutellmeifIamintherightline?”Agirlhassteppedupbesideme.Ismellherfirst,intheairlikebaby

powder. Her shampoo is strawberry. She reaches out with one handtowardthetable.Inherotherhandshehasacane.

“My name is Rebecca,” she says. “Am I in the right line to getmynametag?”

Shedoesn’tknow,becauseshecan’tsee.Nothinghere is inBraille,andRebeccaisblind.

Myfatheriswrong.Thereissuchathingasluck.

ThemandressedlikeJackSparrowfromPiratesoftheCaribbeanrushesbyme,shouting,“Ahoy!”

I press the backs of bothmy hands against the door frame for tenseconds.

“Toyourself,”mymotherremindsme.Icounttomyself.My mother is right next to me when we walk into the Perdinalez

Roomwhere theStoryboard registration isbeingheld.There isablack


bulletin board on an easel withwhite letters, plastic letters, that spellout:

WELCOMESTORYBOARDWRITERSANDTHEIRFAMILIES

Thisisanotherthingthatalwaysworriesme.IworrythatIamnotintherightplace.Weareintherightplace.

ButsofarIdon’tseeanyonewithaSeeingEyedog—orabirthmark.—nobodysmellslikestrawberriesandbabypowder.NotthatIreallyexpectto.

Therewasonlyonetableforsigningin.There was no line of people. There were no hanging plastic

identificationcards.Therewasasheetofstickylabels,andyouhadtowrite your own name. Therewere three permanentmarkers; twoweremissingtheircaps,theredandtheblack.

“Yourname, Jason.You’re supposed towriteyourname there.”Mymomhandsmethebluemarker.

OfcourseIknowthis.Myname.HowcanIgetoutofdoingthis?“Jason,yourname.Writeyourname.”MymotherstillspeakslouderwhenshethinksIdon’tunderstandor

thatI’mnotlistening.WhatamIlookingfor?“Jason,whatareyousmelling?Yourname.Justwriteyourname.Do

youwantmetodoit?”Mymothertakestheredmarker,butitisalmostdriedout.Shewrites

inalightshadewithblankstreaksthatshouldbered.JASONBLAKE.

Love,JasonBlake.“Hereyougo,”mymothersays.Sheverygentlypressesthenametag

tomyshirt.“Andcanyouloosenyourbelt...justanotch,maybe?”


ChapterTwenty-seven

“AreyouJason?Blake?FromConnecticut?Therearen’tmanyotherkidshere.Notlike...ourage,anyway.”

Idon’thavetoseeher.Idon’thavetolookatherface.Idon’thavetoanswer.Iknowthatit

isher.Andshesmellslikestrawberries.“Whoareyou?”mymotherisasking.“Oh,IamRebeccaStone.Jasontoldmehewasn’tgoingtobehere..

. but look. You’re here.” Her voice is so real. I am awake. I am notdreaming.Icanhearher.

“Hetoldyou?”mymotherissaying.Icanfeelhershakinghandswithsomeone.“Youtwoknoweachother?”Besidememymother’sbodyisshiftingslightlyasherhand ismovingupanddown.Theyareshakinghands.

“Fromthecomputer,”shesays.Likesinging.Itellmybodywhattodo.ItwistmyheadfaraheadandIletmyarm

dowhatitissupposedto.Iputmyhandouttoshake.ThisisRebecca,andshesmellslikestrawberries.“Areyou . . . Jason?” she is asking.Herhand is dry, and I feel her

skin, her bones.Herhand. I feel her skin and I smell her shampoo. Ifocusonthewallbythetables.

Iamnodding.Yes,IamJason.“I’mJason’smother,”mymothersays.“ElizabethBlake.”“I’mRebecca,”Rebeccasays.Shesaidthatalready,butIcan’t look

atherface.Iamsupposedtolook.Totry.Iwant.Iwant.Iwanttobeasnowflakethatblendsinwithalltherestofthesnow.

Sonobodyreallyknowswhatitlookslike.Sobadly.Butnowmymotheristalking,butIcan’tlistentowhatsheissaying,

somethingaboutwherewearefrom.Theplane.Thecomputer.Oh,thecomputer. Of course. Storyboard. Of course. Yes, Jason has a little


brother.Then my mother says, “So you’re a writer, too? Jason is a great

writer.”“I know,” Rebecca says. “I love Jason’s stories,” she says, but her

voicehasalreadychanged.Shesoundsmorelikeagrown-up.Itisnicebutnotnice.It isnotforme.Itisforher.It isformymother.Rebeccachangedthe letterswhenIwasn’twatching.Shechangedthe languagewhenIwastryingtolookbackfromthewall.

I can look next to Rebecca. I can see her brown hair and the tallfolding screen where there are posters and sign-up sheets and morepeople.Thereisamanandwomanarguingbythedoor.Iseetheroundof Rebecca’s cheek and her eyelashes, but I can’t even smell hershampooanymore.

Iwantsobadlytobreathe.Iwant.ButIamthesame.Lookinthemirror—Iamstillthesame.

Boylosesgirl.


ChapterTwenty-eight

I started hearing the word “autistic” a lot after my diagnosis in thirdgrade.ButIdidn’tknowifitwasoneofthosethingslikewhenyoulearna new word and all of sudden you see it everywhere. And you don’tknow if that’s because you didn’t know theword before so you nevernoticedit,orbecauseallofsuddenit’severywhere.

Somenumbersyououtgrow.Theysticktoyouforawhile,andthenyoumoveon.Likeyourageandyourgrade.Butsomestaywithyou,likeyour birthday. Maybe your favorite baseball player if he never gottraded.

Lettersarelikethattoo.The lettersofyournameneverchange,unlessyougrowupandget

famousandyouwantadifferentkindofname.Butyourrealnameneverchanges.Andpeoplewillalwayslookyouupandfindoutyourrealname.I knew I had these new letters—ADOS, LD,HFA, PDD–NOS—that

wouldalwaysbe linked tomyname, that Iwasnot going tooutgrow.Andevenifmymomdidn’tknowit,Ionlyhadonechoice.Icouldkeepmynamewithall its lettersandsoundsandall itsmeaningandall itsnonmeaning.OrIcoulddisappear.

Andthat’swhenIstartedwritingstories.

Mymother is talking loudlyonher cellphone.She says thehotelwillcharge us money to use their phone. But there is not very goodreception,soshehastostandinthelittlehallbythecloset.OtherwiseIthinkshewouldbe in thebathroomwith thedoorclosedsoIcouldn’thearher.

Becausesheisnottellingthetruth.“No,no,everythingisfine.How’sJeremy?DidheeatthemeatloafI

left you guys? No, no, we found the place just fine and we are allchecked in.We registered about an hour ago. Yeah, there are lots ofworkshopsJasonisinterestedin.It’sgreat.Justgreat.”


Mymom isa lot likeme.Shedoesn’twant thepeople she loves toworry.Shedoesn’twantthemtobesad.

Theairconditionerinthisroomvibrates,likeapieceofmetalinsideisloose.Ilikeit.Iamstandingrightnexttoit,listening.Thepitchrisesandfallslikeavoice,onlythisvoiceiscalmanditistellingmetorelax.I amcomfortable slipping into thishummingvoiceand talking to it inreturn.

Ihavealotoffeelingsbutnothingtosay.Allthelettersandallthewordstheyformescapeme.

I never finishedmyBennu story. Iwas going towrite the ending andthenpostitsoRebeccawouldreaditbeforeshewenttotheStoryboardconvention.

AfterIfoundoutIwasn’tgoing.BeforeIfoundoutIwasgoingagain.ButnowIneverwanttowrite.I never want to put words together, and sounds, and letters. That

havemeaningandthatdon’t.Soundslikepoetryandlikeweapons.Thathurt,andwoundandlie,andthosethatfly.Andsoar.InwhichI

findfreedom.Therewillbenomore.Iwanttogohome.Idon’twanttobehere.Theseare theawakedreams thatare real.Like thebaddreams that

aremorereal.Likehavingnodreamsatall.Iwillneverwriteagain.Butmymomordersusroomserviceandwegettoeatdinnerinour

twinbedsandwatchLawandOrder.Thenwebrushourteethandgotosleep.

Bennuismylast fictionalcharacter.Therewillnotbemore.Itwasmylaststoryever.Bennuwillhavethelastword.

Noonewilleverhearhim.NotevenIwill.


ChapterTwenty-nine

Weorderthebreakfastbuffetinthemorning.Onothertripswithmyfamilywedon’t.Because,mymothersays,itistooexpensiveandwecouldnevereat

enough food to justify that kind of money. But I think my mother istryingtomakemefeelbetterthismorning.

Andthat’snice.What’salsonice is thatshestillhasn’t tried to talk tome.Ormake

metalktoher.Shehasn’taskedmeaboutRebecca.Whoshewas.HowIknewher.

There are seven different kinds of cold cereals in those miniatureboxes. Someone lined them up like play blocks. Under those metalcoversarescrambledeggs, twokindsofbacon,Frenchtoast,andhashbrowns.Thecoversarehotwhenyouliftthemup.Steamhitsyouintheface.

Thepersonbehindmewithherplateinherhandiswaiting.ShewaitsuntilIamalldonelookingateverything.Shehasn’tcomeastepcloser,eventhoughthereisroom.

Therearethreerowsofjuiceglasses,red,orange,andyellow.Idon’tknowwhattheyellowoneis.

“Cranberry,orange,andIdon’tknow,”mymotherissaying.We sit down at a table, with cloth napkins and coffee cups and

silverware.“Yes,please,”mymothersayswhenthecoffeepotcomestoourtable.

Iwatchmymotherturnhercuprightsideup.Thecoffeesoundslikeawaterfall.

“Doyouthinkyou’rereadyforsessionone,Jason?Itstartsinaboutanhour,”sheisaskingme.Hercupclinksbackintothesaucer.

Sessionone.I signed up for Turning Fact into Fiction before we even got here,

whenwehadtofillouttheregistrationonline,butIdon’tfeellikegoingto it now. I haven’t toldmymother that I’m never going towrite anymorestories.

ButI’mnot.


Thereisnoreasontogotothewritingworkshop.Thereisn’tanythingleft.Whytellastoryifthereisnoonetheretoreadit?Whymakeasound

ifnoonewillhearit?Now I am thinking of black paint all over my ceiling at home,

covering up all those letters, all those letters twisting themselves intowordsthatnobodyunderstandsanyway.

ThiswasthefirstmorningnowordcametomewhileIwasbrushingmyteeth.

Nothing.Iamablank.Mymother is looking away. There is something about the way the

skin on her face is loose now. Her hands are on the table; even herfingersareloose.Ifshewereacolor,shewouldnotbebrightrightnow.Shewouldnothavemuchcolor.

Ithinksheissad.“What,Mom?”Iaskher.Whenshelooksup,Iamstilllookingather.“I just love you somuch, Jason,” she tells me. “When you hurt, I

hurt.”L-O-V-E.I can feelher lovearoundme. Like colors and letters taking shape,

some I can see and some that are stillmoving. Some I know, some Idon’t.Theystandstilllongenoughtogiveaname.IwanttonamewhatIamfeeling.Loveislikeyellow.Warmandsafe.

“Grapefruit,”Isay.Iwanttosaysomething.Ilovemymomsomuch.Shesays,“Yes,Ithinkitis.Grapefruitjuice.”Imakeaface.Ipinchmyface.“Yeah.Toosourforme,too.”

Then,justasweareabouttoleavetherestaurant,IseeRebeccaStonewalkingin.Idon’trecognizeherfaceexactly,butIknowwhosheis.

Maybeit’sthewaymymotherstiffens.But probably more I put it together when Rebecca suddenly stops

walking, thenbendsdown to the carpeted floor like shehas to tiehershoe, which doesn’t need to be tied at all, then she suddenly stands,"******DEMO-www.ebook-converter.com*******"

turns, and walks in the exact opposite direction. And then when thewomanwhowaswalkingwithhernoticesthatRebeccaisnolongerwithher,shecallsout,“Rebecca,whereareyougoing?Breakfastisthisway.”

I wonder if Rebecca has seen me or maybe she forgot somethingoutsideorinhercar.Andwhoisthatwomanwithher?Ithinkmaybeitishermother.

AtthesameinstantIamthinkingallthis,Ihearafunnylittlesound.ItremindsmeofLester,whenhewasalive.Butwhenhewassickandyou’dgotopethim.He’dmakethisfunnylittlesoundthatonlycomesfrompain,Ithink.Nowitcomesfrommymother’smouth.

Itisnotthekindofsoundyoucanmistakeforanythingelse.

Bennudrivesalldaytogettothehospitalthedayofhisbigoperation.Thedirectionsarecomplicated,andthedrivergetslostacoupleoftimesinthehighmountainsthatriseabovethevillagewhereBennuhaslivedallhislifewithhisfamily.ButbecauseBennuissosmall,hehasnoticedthedifferenttypesofsoilanddirt,andheisabletodirectthedrivertojusttherightravine,andrighttothehospital.

There is a nurse at the station who takes his name and all hisinformation.Justincase.

“Nextofkin?”sheasksBennu.Hegivesthenursethenamesofhismotherandfather.“Okaythen,well,wejustneedtorunsometestsbeforewebegin,”the

nursetellsBennu.“Whatkindoftests?”“Oh,don’tworry.Wedothistoeveryone.”Bennudoesn’tbelievethatforoneminute.In the first testing room Bennu can’t get up onto the examination

table.InthesecondroomBennucan’treachthepaperandpencilheissupposedtowriteon.InthethirdroomBennucan’tpressthepedalsofthetestingmachine.

“Okay,nowit’stimeforyouroperation,”thenursesays.“You’regoingtobejustfine.”

Bennuisn’ttoosureaboutthateither.Buthehaspaidhismoneyandhefigureshe’dbetterjustgothrough


withit.“Take a deep breath,” the doctor says, “and count to ten.” At least

Bennuthinks itwas thedoctor;hedidn’t recognizehimwith themaskoverhismouthandnose.Hisvoiceismuffledtoo.SoBennuhopesforthebestashecounts.One.Two.Three.Four.

ThenextthingBennuknows,heisintherecoveryroom.Hefeelsfine.He feels the same as he always did, the same as he is used to. Hedecidestogetoutofbedandwalkovertothemirrorthatishangingbythebathroomdoor.

Butwhenheswingshisfeetovertheside...What?Whatisthis?His feet touch thegroundwhilehe is still sittingon thebed.Bennu

reacheshishandsoutasfarastheywouldgo,andhenearlyknockstheclockrightoffthebedsidetable.

Asquickashecan,herunsovertothemirror.Butofcourseallhecanseeishisface.Andhisfacelooksexactlythesame.Oh,no,Bennucries.Itdidn’twork.Itdidn’twork.Iamthesame.Iamthesame.


ChapterThirty

Iusedtoplaybaseball.Iusedtogetinvitedtobirthdayparties.I threwawaymybaseballglove. I shoved itdeepdown in the trash

cansomymomanddadwouldn’tseeit.Iusedtowritestories,butnowIknowIwon’tdothatanymoreeither.

Lastyearmydadwas thecoachofmyFallBallbaseball team. I likedthewaythatsounded.

Itrhymes.FallBall.SoIagreedtoplayonemoreseason.Wewere the SeaHawks, andwe got grayT-shirtswith thenameof

MARIO’SPIZZERIAontheback.Andacartoondrawingofahandholdingupapieceofpizzawiththreepiecesofpepperonionit.Andanumber.

Thirty-nine.Ofcoursegameswerebad,buteveninpracticeIknowmydadheard

thingstoo.Jason,whydoyourunfunnylikethat?Catchtheball.You’resupposedtocatchtheball.What’sthematterwithhim?What’sthematterwithyou?Iheardsomeone,Ithinkitwasaman,tellmydaditwasdangerous

tohavemeoutthere.Wayoutthere.Iwasinleftfield.Iwasalwaysinleftfield.

“Hecouldgethurtoutthere,”theotherdadwassaying.“Hedoesn’tpayattention.Aflyballcouldhityoursonrightintheheadifyou’renotcareful.”

Ithoughtaboutthat.AndIstoodinthegrass.Ididn’treallylikegrass,butmydadasked

me to stand there. The balls rolled past the kids in gray T-shirts whostoodinthedirt.Aballcouldn’tfly,couldit?

Noballcameouthereinthegrasswithme.Ididn’thittheball.Ididn’tliketostepontheharddirtybase.Ididn’t


runright.Ididn’tstandright.Ididn’tlikethesocks.Butthepantsweresoftandhadanelasticwaist;theywereokay.

Sometimeswesatinthedugout.Isattherealot.Onabench.Kidsstucktheiremptypaperwatercupsinthefenceand

theystayedtherelikepimples.Oneboykickedthedirtaroundonhomeplate,making a cloud aroundhis feet.Mydad andhis assistantweregettingtheequipmentoutoftheshed.

Mydadleftthekeyinhiscar.“Waithere,Jason,”hetoldme.Thedugoutwas shady. It smelled likebubblegumand fake leather

andmud.“Wannadeadleg?”Thevoicewasaboy’s.Hewasnexttome,buthis

facewasturnedintheoppositeway.Towardtheboyonhisotherside,theonewiththelongblondhair.Ithoughtthatboywasagirl.Hehadlonghair,andgirlshavelonghair.

Butitturnedouthewasaboy.Theboy/girlanswered,“No,whydon’tyougivehimoneinstead?”He

movedhisbodyfartherdownthebench.Adeadleg?“Yeah,whynot?”Iheard the thud first.Onmybody.Myeyes flewup to the ceiling.

Inside-outshingles.Dark, itwasdark,but Icouldsee therewerenailsstickingintotheair.Theywerebenttowardthewoodbutstickingout,soif you jumped really high you could touch the pointy ends. Then thepaininmyleg,sothatmusclewenthardlikeafisthittingmefromtheinside.Pain.

Ihadtogetaway.Ihadalreadylearnedthatifyoudon’tgetaway,ithappensagain.Istood.ButIcouldn’t.Ihadonlyonelegleft.Ihadadeadleg.Thentherewasdirtonmyface.Andfeet.Blackshoes.Iwaslooking

atthesideofthedugout,ablankwall.“Hey,look,IgaveJasonadeadleg.He’sdead.”I’mdead?Ifeltanotherthudonmyback.Ikeptstaringatthewall.


Andanother,likehammeronnails.Thereweremorevoicesandmorehammers.UntilIwascrying.AnduntilIheardmydad.

Iheardmydad.AndIheardtheotherman.Andtheywereshouting,butIwasinsidethatwall.Whereitwassafe.

Loud.Shouting.Crying.Fear.Sadness.Loudness.Fear.Shouting.Shoutingfear.Mylegdidn’thurtatallanymore.“Liz,boys...theyarejustlittleboys.”“Boys?Thosearemonsters.Ifthoseareboys—”“I’mnotsayingit’sright.Butboysdothatkindofstufftoeachother.

Itcouldhavebeenanyone.”“Nottoanyone!Nottoanyone!MyGod,hehasbruises.”Butmybackdidn’thurtanymoreeither.“Liz, Jason is fine.He’ll be fine.Unfortunately, this is theworldwe

livein.”

I was only eleven, but I already knewmy dad was wrong. There aremany, many different worlds to live in. And sometimes there is noconnectionfromonetoanother.

It’slikeplaceswherebridgesusedtobebuttheygotwashedaway.Wherekidsonceplayedbaseballbutnowtheydon’t.Because they are sorry they blew out the candles when it was

someoneelse’sbirthdaycake.Andnowtheydon’tgetinvitedtobirthdaypartiesanymore.

Andsorrytheypushedoverthepotter’swheel.Sotheytriedtowritestoriessosomeonewouldhearthem.Butnowtheydon’t.Theydon’twriteanymoreeither.


Sowhenwe get back from the buffet,mymother says it’s time to getready to go to theTurningFact intoFictionWriter’sWorkshop. I stopmovingmyfeet.Ilookatthewallinthehallwayofourhotel,whereIamnothome.Igrowintothefloorandthefloorintome.

Rebeccahasfinallyseenmeandsuddenlynotseenmeatall.What’sthepointofgoingtotheworkshopwhenIamnevergoingtowriteagain?

Orplaybaseball.Iamgrowinga list, inmy feet in the floor,of things Iwillneverdo

again.Be invitedtomycousinSeth’sbedroom.Orabirthdayparty forsomeonewhoisn’tforcedtoinviteme,likemycousinSeth.

Ineverlikedbaseball.OrmycousinSeth.Imayneveruseapotter’swheelagaininmywholelife.Butsowhat?

Clay smells really bad. And I will never write another story, so whyshouldIgotothewriter’sworkshop?

AndthenmymothertellsmeIdon’thavetogoifIdon’twantto.AndIstarttowalkagain.

“Idon’twanttogo.”Irepeatwhatshehasjustsaid.“No, Jason. I understand. We can just watch TV the rest of this

morning,ifyouwant.Iunderstand.”“Understand.”“Yes,”shesays.“MaybeIneverreallydidbefore.”Weareheadingbacktoourroomsomymomcanusethebathroom.“I’mnotgoing tomakeyougo to theworkshop, Jason,”mymomis

saying.“Ifyoureallydon’twantto.”Sheisfeedingtheroomcardintothemetalslotinourdoor.Thelight

blinksred.She flips thecardover,but the light isstill red.Shedoes itagain.Red.She jiggles thedooranyway,but itwillnotopen. It is stilllocked.

“Here,”Isay.Itissoeasy.When I slip the card in the rightway, the light turns greenandmy

mother can open the door. Imademymother happy because I knewhowtoopenthedoor.

SoIsay,“I’llgo.”Sheisheadingrightforthebathroom,butshelooksatmeandsmiles.

“Areyousure,Jason?Imean...”“Sure,”Itellher.It’ssoeasy.Tomakehersmile.


Andbesides,Idon’thavetowriteanything.Icanjustsitthere.I’mgoodatthat.

ItisintheCorralRoomonthesecond-floormezzanine.Icounttotenandpressmyhandsagainstthesidesofthedoorway,

butthereareonlyfivepeopleintheroom,andtheyseemtobesittingasfar apart from each other as they can. The room is set upwith roundtablesandchairs.Notwopeopleareatthesametable.

“ThisisTurningFactintoFiction,isn’tit?”someoneisasking.“That’swhattheflyerssayupatthedesk.”“Flyers?Thereareflyers?”My mother says, “Here, Jason. Take a seat and I’ll get one of the

flyers.”Idon’t like this room.It is tight, likea roomthat’sbeencut inhalf.

Theairconditionerblowsfromtheceilinginonedirection,rightintothemiddleoftheroom.Nobodyissittingatthattable.

Idon’twanttositthereeither.“What’swrong,Jason?”Iamnotgoing towriteanymore. Idon’twant to turnany facts into

fictionanymorethanIwanttogoandvisitUncleBobbyagainanytimesoon.Storiesanddreams.

Butrealisworse.Realisme.IthinkwhenIgethomeIwilldeleteStoryboardcompletelyfrommy

harddrive.Iwillthrowawayallmystoryfiles.“Jason, just sit here. I’ll be right back,”mymother is saying. “Is it

yourfather?Woulditbebetterifyourfatherwerehere?He’dknowwhattodo.”

Sheistalkinglikeshealwaysdoes,sortoftonoone,becauseIknowsheisnotexpectingmetoanswer.“Iwonderwhattimeitis.Whattimeisthissupposedtostart?”

“Theinstructorisanauthor,”someoneatthenexttableissaying.“Ineverheardofhim,”someoneanswers.“He’snotsofamous,butIheardhe’sagoodteacher.Maybethey’re

justsigningautographs.”


Mymomcomesbackwiththeflyer.ButIdon’tlookatit.ButIdositdown, ineachchairat the table,one, two, three, four,andmymotherfollows me until we stop at after the fifth move. On this side the airdoesn’ttouchme.

Iamfacingthewall.“Allgoodnow,Jason?”mymotherasksme.“Good.”Nobodyinthewholeroomis talking,andyoucanhear thebuzzing

from the overhead lights. And the air conditioner sucking up all mystories, every word and every letter. I wonder if there is a buffet forlunch,too.

“Sorry,sosorry.”Thevoicecomesfrombehindme.IfIturnIwillsee,butIfacethewall,lettingallstoriesleavemyhead,thewaymytherapisttoldmetocontrolthenoise.Grabeachoneandletitgo.

Grabeachoneandletitgo.Themanintheprotectivesuit.Thegirlinaworldwherenooneneedsanyone.Bennu.Rebecca.PhoenixBird.Letthemgo.The voice of the instructormakes its way to the front of the room.

“Well, it’s a small group. So what do you say we all move forward?Maybewecanevenfitatonetable.”

Iwillnotmove.The stories come apart like in a movie that is run backward. The

characterscrumble,firsttheirheads,theirhandsandarmsandfeet,andthe bodies. The paragraphs melt. The sentences fall apart. And theneachword floatsalonewithoutanyconnection.And finally the letters,eachletterthatwithoutanotherbesideitiscompletelymeaningless.

AndIamfacingablankwall.

Coincidences in stories aren’t a good idea unless the coincidence setstheplotinmotioninthefirstplaceormakesthingsworseforthemaincharacter. But at some point in your story things are supposed to getbetter or be over in someway. Themain character is supposed to get


whathewantsorneedsornot.Andthenthat’stheresolution.Butyour readerswill feel tricked if you justdrop something inyour

storytotiethingsup,likeifallofasuddentheherofindsapairofmagicglasses,ormagiccandy,orifthelong-lostbrothertheyneverknewtheyhadshowsupandsavestheday.

Believabilityisthekeytoagoodstory.

“Comeon,people,” the instructor iscalling. Iseehandswavingoutofthe corner of my eye, but something is not right. The hands are notwheretheyshouldbe.

AndsoIlook.I turn my head, I shift my body, and I raise my eyes, and the

instructor is there, standingat the frontof the room.He is talkingandtellingeveryonetomovetheirseats.

Heisfriendlyandheletsmebreathe.AndthenIsee.Likealittletinybridge.IseethattheinstructorisaLittlePerson.Heisadwarf.


ChapterThirty-one

OurdwarfinstructorfromTurningFactsintoFictionisnamedHamilton.“What is the most important part of a writer’s body?” he asks the

class,whichIthinkiskindofinterestingcomingfromadwarf.Hewrotehisnameonthedry-eraseboardthatstandsbesidehim.

Hamilton.Idon’tknowifthatishisfirstorlastname.Butthat’sallhewrote.Maybeit’sboth.HamiltonHamilton.Bythistimefourmorepeoplehavecomeintotheroom.Noneofthem

isRebecca,butnowanotherwomanissittingatthetablewithmeandmymom.

Sheisthefirstonetoanswer.Sheraisesherhand,butshejuststartstalkingatthesametimeanyway.

“Theirheart,”shesays.“Goodanswer,”Hamiltonsays.“ButnottheoneIamlookingfor.Not

themostessential.Therearelotsofwriterswithnoheartatall.”Somepeoplelaugh,butIdon’t,becausethatistrue.Iamlistening.Whatisthemostimportantpartofawriter’sbody?Someoneelsesays,“Hands.”Someoneelsesays,“Yourbrain.”Thenfingers,eyes,ears.Ithinkaboutallthesethings.Iknowmybrainisdifferentfrommost

people,fromNTs.Iknowmyhandssometimesflyaroundtheroomliketheyhavesomethingtosayallontheirown.Ihearthingsdifferently.Myeyesaredifferent.IseethingsandIdon’tseethings.

ButIcanwrite.IknowIcan.SoI jumpoutofmyseat. Istandup.Andall thosethingsare loose

insideme, like lettersof thealphabet thathavenomeaninguntil theyareallputtogether.

Inoneparticularwaythatnooneelsecando.Inonemoment.Inonevoice.Thatismine.“Mybottom!”Isayoutloud.Anditgetsveryquietintheroom.Everyonestopscallingoutanswers,


andtheyarealllookingatmethewaytheydoinschoolsometimes,justbeforeeveryonestartstolaugh.Likeinartclass,andingymclass.Notthenicekindoflaugh.

Mymotherislookingatmetoo.Shelookslikeshewillpunchanyonewholaughs.

ButHamilton,thedwarfteacher,says,“Exactly!”Hepoints right atme. “You’ve got to sit downon your bottomand

write.Writingisallwehave,”hesays.Idon’tlookaway.Ilookrightathim.“Allweare,allwecanbe,arethestorieswetell,”hesays,andheis

talkingasifheistalkingonlytome.“Longafterwearegone,ourwordswillbeall that is left,andwho is tosaywhat reallyhappenedorevenwhat reality is? Our stories, our fiction, our words will be as close totruthascanbe.Andnoonecantakethatawayfromyou.”

Nobody.

WeseeRebeccaStoneonemoretimebeforeweleaveDallas,Texas.Itisattheparty,thatsamenight,foralltheStoryboardconventioneers.

Mymomhadpackedmeabluejacket,whiteshirt,andkhakipants.IlikehowIlookbutIamnotverycomfortable.

Mymomdoesn’teventellmetoloosenmybelt.IhavealreadythoughtthatRebeccaisprobablygoingtobetheretoo.“Almostready?”mymomcallsintothebathroom.Istandinfrontof

themirrorlookingatmyself.Itrytomakemyfaceasstillaspossible.ItrytolookatwhoIam.But amirror is not a true representationof a person. It is not. It is

reflection.It isthereverse,apureopposite.Theysayifapersonreallysaw their own face, they wouldn’t recognize themselves. Even aphotograph is not a true representation. It is only two-dimensional,whilehumanbeingsarethree-dimensional.

Weneverreallyeverseeourselvesthewayotherpeopleseeus.


IwilljustdothebestIcan.

Rebeccawalksrightuptousattheparty.Shedoesn’tputoutherhand,butshesays,“Hi,Jason.”Shehasanicevoice.Isayhiback.“Didyougotoanyoftheworkshops?Idid.Itwasgreat.Ijust...I

wantedtotellyousomething.”Andmymothersays,“Icangogetsome...thing.Fromoverthere.

I’llbeback.I’llbeoverthere.”Andmymotherleaves.Iwant to tellRebeccaaboutHamiltonandabout theworkshopand

theflyers,andaboutmybottom.Iwanttoaskhertobemygirlfriend.Iwanttotellherthatshesmellslikestrawberriesandbabypowder,andIcan’tsayanything.

IthinkIknowwhatshewillsayanyway.Shewillsayno.“Ilikeyourstories,Jason.Whenyougetbackhome,Ihopeyoustill

writemesometimes. Ihope I canstill sendyoumystories.You reallyhelpme.DidItellyouIgotanAonthatstoryyouhelpedmewith?Oh,gottago.There’smymom.”

AndRebeccawalksawayfromme.Andthat’smystory.


ChapterThirty-two

OntheplaneridehomemymomsaysIamwrong.Shesaystheinstructorwasnotadwarfatall.“He’sjustshort,Jason.”Mymothertellsme.“Notallmenaretalllike

yourdaddy.”“Mr.Shupack.”“Hewasn’tadwarf,Jason.I’mtellingyou.Hewasjustshort.”“Dr.T.is.”“Hewasjustshort,believeme.”“UncleBobbyis,”Itellher.“Oh,fartonUncleBobby,”mymothersays.“Hamiltonisnotadwarf,

Ipromiseyou.He’sjustalittleshort.”Theflightattendantsaystheydon’thaveDrPepper.Mymom knows what to ask for next. I am already having trouble

enough in this little seat because theman next tome is so close.HesmellslikeBOorcheese.IhavetoturnoffmysmellbuttonjustsoIcanbreathe.

“Sprite?”“Whyyes,ma’am.Wedo.”Thesnapofthecan.Thescoopofice.“Oh,noice,please,”mymothersays.“Sorry.”“Noproblem,ma’am.Hereyougo,youngman.”IlikethisladyandIlikethatmymomtakescareofmeandthatIcan

takecareofher.IthinkIcanbreatheverywellnow.

JustbeforetheplaneisgoingtolandIcanfeelittuggingattheinsideofmybody.Icanfeelitpullingmedown.Icanfeelthepressureinsidemyheadandmystomach.Thepilottellsusweareataloweraltitudeandthatwewillbeonthegroundintwentyminutes.MymothertoldmemydadandJeremywillbewaitingattheairport.

Iamexcited.I would like another Sprite, but the flight attendant is not here


anymore.“Jason?”mymother says tome. “Iwant you to know, this trip has

beenoneofthebestthingsI’veeverdone.”Ihearher.It’seasytolistenwiththewilddroneoftheairplane.Itislikeagiant

vacuumthatsucksupalltheothernoise.Nobodyevenhearswhenyoupassgasoutloudonaplane.

“All this time I thought I was supposed to be teaching you,” mymotherissayingtome.“Iwaswrong.”

Shetakesatissueoutofherpocketbook.“Ithoughtyouweresupposedtolearnhowtogetalongwithoutme.”

Iknowmymother is cryingagain.Thatkindof crywhenshewatchesTV.It’snotreallysad.Itwon’tlasttoolong.

“Butitwasme,allalong,”shesays.“Itismewhoneedsyou,Jason.You’ve taught me so much this trip. You’ve taught me about beingbrave.”

I don’t knowwhat she is talking about. Ifmy father were here, hewouldn’tbedoingthis.Hewouldn’tbetalkingsomuch,ornotatall,hesurewouldn’tbecrying,andthatwouldbebetter.But it’sokay.That’swhatmymomislike.

Shecan’thelpit.Weallhavethingswecan’thelpdoing.

Bennu’sstoryhasakindofhappyendingtoo.Maybe not happy, so to speak, like happily ever after, but okay.

Because I didn’t want a sad ending. And I didn’t want an unrealisticending.Andbecauselifeiskindoflikethat.Youdon’treallyknowhowit’sgoingtoend.

Hamiltontoldusthatwritingisaprocess.Itdoesn’talwayscomeoutrightthefirsttime.

Right.Write.Right.Like life,he said,but inwriting you get to fix it.You get to rewrite.

Andrewriteandrewriteuntilyouhavetheexactwordsyouwant.


So first thingwhenwegethome, I turnonmycomputerand revisemystory.

Bennuwakes up on themorning of his scheduled surgery, before thedrivershowsuptotakehimtothehospital.Heletshislittlefeethangofftheedgeofhisbed,andhewiggleshistoes.Hetakesagreatbigstretchandreacheshishandsuptothesky.ThenBennuhopsdownandfixeshimself a little breakfast, no pun intended.When he can’t reach thetoastertogetouthisbread,hisfriendandroommate,Joshua,getsitforhim.

Hehasalittletroublereachingtheknobsintheshower,buthehasaplasticstoolhekeepsinthere,sohestepsupontoitwhenheneedstoturnthewateronoroff,ortoadjustthetemperature.

AllthewhileBennuiscertainaboutwhatheisgoingtodoaboutthissurgery.Hehasmadeuphismind.AfterhisshowerBennudriesoffandthengoesintohisbedroomtotakeoutthespeciallymadeclothesthatfithisbody.Hepullshisbeltanextranotch,andhetakesonefinallookathimselfinthemirror.

ThenBennugoestothedoctor’sofficeandthisiswhathesays:Sorry,Doc.Ichangedmymind.ThisiswhoIam.Thisisme.


READINGGROUPGUIDE

SYNOPSIS

JasonBlakeisanythingbuttypical.Hetellshisstoryinhisownlanguage, thatof anautistic twelve-year-oldboy.He is intelligentandsensitive,withmanyspecialgifts,andheisdifferent.Welearnofhissensitivityand“differentness”ashewritesabouthislifeanddescribes his world. Through his writing, which he posts on awriting website, he meets another young writer, Rebecca, whorespondstothepostofhisstory.Jasonisintriguedwiththisgirlinhislifeandfantasizesaboutherbeinghisgirlfriend.Jason’schallengesinschool,socially,andathomeallportrayhis

difficultyinnavigatingnormallifesituations.Complicatinghislifeishisdesire tohave a girlfriend, andhis fearofmeetingRebeccaandofherrejectionbecomesalmosttoomuchforJason.Byfacinghis fear and meeting Rebecca, he is able to grow and ultimatelyaccepthimself.

DISCUSSIONTOPICS

1)Howdoweknow,rightfromthebeginningofthebook, thatJason is not a typical twelve-year-old? Name some of thecharacteristics he exhibits. Are these behaviors things you haveseenbefore?2)ThelettersNLD,nonverballearningdisorder,andASD,autistic


spectrumdisorder,arelabelsusedtoidentifythesymptomsJasondisplays.DescribewhatitwouldbeliketohaveaconversationwithJason.3)Does it seemthat Jasonhasahard timeunderstandingwhat

other people are doing or asking of him? Give an example of aconversation from Jason’s point of view. What things does henotice? What things are hard for him to tolerate? What thingsdoesn’thenoticeorrespondto?4)Whataresomeofthetechniqueshistherapistsuggestsheuse

in order to communicate with NT (neurotypical) people? Do youthinktheseareeasyorhardforJasontodo?

5) What does Jason do well? What is he particularlyknowledgeableabout?6) Describe Jason’s relationship with his mother, father, and

younger brother Jeremy. How has Jason learned to communicatewith each of them?What do they do thatmakes communicationwith Jason possible?What about his relationships with his aunt,uncle, cousins, therapists, teachers, and librarian? Who is mostsuccessfulincommunicatingwithJason?7)Jason’swriting,andhisuseofthewritingwebsite,isanoutlet

that allows him to be anonymous and to be known to otherswithout their awareness of his autism. What do we learn aboutJasonfromhiswritings?8)WhenJasonandRebeccabegin tocorrespondonthewriting

website,howdoesitaffectJason’slife?Ishesuccessfulinsharingthis relationship with others? How does it change how he feels


abouthimself?9) Through the dialogue in the book, we get insight into how

Jason’s mind works. Describe the difference between how Jasonperceivesthingsandhowhis“morenormal”brother,Jeremy,does.10)InChapter10,Jasonissenthomefromschoolaftercausinga

hugedisruptioninartclass.EverythingabouttheepisodeshowsuswhoJasonisandhowheperceiveshissurroundings.DescribehowJason experienced the events of art class, and then present thepointof viewof the teacher andother students.Once Jason is athome,howdohisparentsseeit?HowdoesthisincidentshedlightonJason’sfeelingstowardhisparents?Whatdoeshetellusabouthisdad?Hismom?11) In his story about Bennu the dwarf, Jason explores the

possibility of a personbeing cured of the thing thatmakes themdifferent.WhatparallelscanyoudrawbetweenBennuandJason?12) When Jason’s parents reward him with a trip to the

Storyboard convention and he finds out Rebecca is attending aswell, describe the dilemma that Jason faces. What is his biggestfear?Howwouldyouhandlefacingthesamefearofexposingwhoyoureallyaretosomeoneyouliked?13)HowdidJasonendupgoingtotheconvention?Whatdoeshe

tellusabouthisrelationshipswithhisdadandmom?14)What happens to Jason after hemeets Rebecca? Is Jason’s

reactiontoRebeccaunderstandable?IfyouwereRebeccaandhadjustmetJason,howdoyouthinkyouwouldreact?Whatquestionswouldyouaskyourself?


15) During the convention Jason says that he will never writeagain. He feels himself shutting down. Do you think that he willcontinuetowrite?16) What happens in the writing workshop that turns Jason

around?HowisheabletocommunicatewithRebeccathelasttimetheyseeeachother?17)HowdoesJasonuseBennutoshowhisownhappyending?Do

youthinkJasonhasalsoacceptedhimself?18)Whatmakesapersonwhotheyare?Isithowtheylook,what

theywear,howtheyact?DoesJasonknowthatheisdifferentfromotherchildren?19) Is Jason’s family able to accepthimashe is?DoesRebecca

accepthim?Does thathelp Jasonaccepthimself?Explainwhyorwhynot.20)Through Jason’s voice,wecanexperience the thoughts and

perceptionsofanautisticchild.Doyouthinkreadersofthisstorywillhaveabetterunderstandingofautism?Supportthisposition,usingexamplesfromthebookthathelpexplainautism.

ACTIVITIES

1)Manyyoungpeopleusewritingasawayofsharingwhotheyare:ithelpsthemfindavoicethattheydon’thaveintalkingwithpeople. Try writing something that reveals something aboutyourself thatyoumayfinddifficult to talkabout.Theexpressionthat Jason experiences from writing frees him from some of hislimitations. What do you feel as you express yourself in your


writing?2)Autism,orautisticspectrumdisorder(ASD),isacomplexand

uniquewayof decoding theworld.On the followingwebsite, youcan find out more about the disorder and how it affects people:www.nichd.nih.gov/health/topics/asd.cfmResearchthesignsorsymptomsofautism,including:

•Problemswithcommunication—bothverbalandnonverbal• Difficulties with sharing emotions, understanding how others

thinkandfeel,andholdingaconversation• Routines or repetitive behaviors—such as repeating words or

actions,obsessivelyfollowingroutinesorschedules,andplayinginrepetitiveways.


http://www.nichd.nih.gov/health/topics/asd.cfm

ReadonforaglimpseofTheSummerBeforeBoys,

thenexttimely,touchingnovelfromNoraRaleighBaskin.


one

MyAuntLouisa,whoisreallymysister,snoredlikeamachinewithabroken

part, a broken part that kept cycling around in a shuddering, sputteringrhythm.

“Whistlewithme,”Elizasaidintothedark.“What?”Welaytogether inbed, inEliza’sroomthatwasreallynotaroom,buta

part of the den that had been sectionedoffwith a thin portablewall. Eachnight either Aunt Louisa, or Uncle Bruce,who is reallymy brother-in-law,pulledout“thewall,”likestretchinganaccordionasfarasitwouldgo.ThenEliza would yank her bed right out of the couch and we would both slipunderthecoolsheetsandthethincottonblanket.

Itwassummer.ThesummerIspentlivingwithEliza,whoisreallymyniece,butsincewe

arebothtwelveyearsoldthatfeelskindofstupid.Sowejusttelleveryonewearecousins.

Anditwasthesummerbeforeboys.

“Ifyouwhistle,shestopssnoring,”Elizatoldme.“Really?”“Really.Watch.”Mostly Eliza was my best friend. We both went to New Hope Middle

School,butIlivedintown,onMainStreet.AndElizalivedwayuphere,rightat the base of theCayugaMountain, right at the gatehouse entrance to theMohawkMountainLodge.ShelivedatthefootofamagicalplaceandnowIgottolivetheretoo.Forthewholesummer.

Becausemydad,whoistechnicallyEliza’sgrandfather,hadtowork.Andsotherewasnoonehometowatchme.AndbecausemymomgotdeployedtoIraqnineandahalfmonthsago.

Eliza whistled one long, clear, unwavering note. It floated out of the


perfectcircleshemadewithherlipsandintotheair.Herwhistleslippedrightunder“thewall”thatdidn’tquitetouchthefloor,ortheceiling,sothatEliza’sroomwaslitwithflickeringgraylightfromthetelevisionsetleft on all night. Her whistle carried through the den and into AuntLouisaandUncleBruce’sbedroom.

Andthesnoringstopped,justlikethat.“Itworked!”Isaid.“Everytime.”“Doesitlast?”“Foralittlewhile.”I poked my feet out of the bottom of our sheet and thin white cotton

blanket,carefulnottopullthecoversfromEliza.“I’mhot,”Isaid.Elizawasalreadystandingbesidethebed,herbarefeetonthewoodfloor.

“Thenlet’sgooutside,”shewhisperedtome.Herwhitenightgownwrinkledandclung toher thighs—itwas so sticky

out—her scabby summer knees were showing. Her hair was sleepy, pulledfromitsponytailsoitpoufeduparoundthebackofherheadandglowedlikeahalointheunnaturallightfromtheTV.

“Whattimeisit?”“Don’tyouknow?It’stimetogooutside,”Elizasaid.“Run!”Andwe ran. I ran.Past theTV,past thebedroomdoor, into thekitchen

andrightontothebigcrackinlinoleumthatpinchedmybigtoe.“Ouch,”Isaid.“You’vegottojumpoverthat,”Elizaremindedme.“C’mon—”Weranuntilwewereflying.Light elves, higher with each leap—onto the wet grass, into the hot

summernight.Wewerethefairiesthatlivedinthewoodsbeyondtheyard,hiddenunderthefallentrees,makinghomesoftheleavesandtwigs.Growingwings of glistening, glowing gossamer, as we felt ourselves lifted from theground.

“Lookatme,”Elizasaid.Sheliftedherarmsandtwirledaround.Shethrewbackherhead.Thebottomofhernightgownunstuckfromherlegsandspunoutaroundher.

“Look atme,” I said. Andwhen I looked up I saw the sky, dottedwithsparklingstarsandasliverofthemoonthatlookedlikesomeonehadtriedtoeraseitbutcouldn’tquitegetitall.Iarchedmyneckandturnedaroundand


aroundinplace.Wespununtilwecouldn’t standupandweboth fell together,downthe

hillwhereUncleBruceparkedhistruck,andwelaythereattheedgeofthelawntocatchourbreath.IwaswearingawhitenightgownidenticaltoEliza’s—worn and pilled. I picked off pieces of grass, one by one—looking soclosely—and I could barelymake out the faded kittens and puppies in thefabric.Littlepinkkittensandlittlebluepuppies,whenthisnightgownmusthavebeenbrand-new.

IwonderedifAuntLouisahadboughtit,ifshehadboughttwo,thinkingofme,oneday,spendingnightsatherhouse.Hadsheeverthoughtherfatherwould have another little girl, twenty-two years after she was born, withanother wife who became another mother? Or maybe it was just anotherhand-me-down from a whole other mother to another little girl altogetherthatAuntLouisapickedup fromGoodwillwhen she foundout Iwouldbestayinghereforthesummer.

“Tomorrow we can go up to the hotel,” Eliza said. “It’s check-in day.There’llbealotofpeopledrivingup.ButRogerwillpickusupforsure,ifheseesuswalking.”

“Who?”“Thevandriver.”“Oh,right.”IlikedtopretendIbelongedtheretoo.Themosquitoesbegan to smellour sweat, foundour skin, and feasted. I

scratchedatmyanklesandmyleftelbowandmyforehead,butIdidn’twanttogoin.Iwantedtokeeplookingatthemoon,tomemorizeitandfillintheemptyspace.

Whattimeisit?Ofcourse,Iknewwhattimeitwas.Ialwaysknewwhattimeitwas.InBaghdad.OrRamadi.OrTikrit.OrFallujah.Butmymothercan’ttellmewhereshe

is.Shecallsandsendsmee-mails,butsheisn’tallowedtotellmewheresheis.

It’smorningtimeinIraqrightnow.Iknowwhattimeitis.Mymother was probably getting up and making her bunk. And maybe

eatingbreakfastalready.Shetellsmeshehates thepowderedeggs,but theyareokaywithlotsofketchup.


Shecan’tseethemoonatallanymore.ThesunisshiningnowwheresheisandIthinkthatrightatthisverysecondshemightbethinkingofme.AndIwonder if she is as worried about her forgetting my face as I am aboutforgettinghers.


two

ThewalktotheMountainLodgewasjustoveramilefromEliza’shouse,and

ifwehadbeenreadytogoatfivethirtyinthemorningwecouldalwaysgetaridewithUncleBruce.Butwenevergotupthatearly.Summerisforsleepinglateandnothavingtogetup,andnothavinganywhereyouhavetobe.

Andnowitwasalreadyhotlikeyesterday,andthedaybeforethat.Threecarshadalreadypassedusby—notonewasthehotelvan—butwe

didn’tmind.“Imagineintheolddays,”Elizabegan,“whenladiesandmenrodeupthis

roadinbuggies.Horseandcarriages.”Ilovedtoimaginethat.IfIwereoneofthoseladies,oradaughterofoneof

thoseladies,I’dbewearingalongdress,andhighbuttonboots.I’dhaveahatforsure.Andaparasol.Therewereoldphotographsalloverthehotel,ofthehotelandof theSmithfamilywhohadbuiltandownedthehotel—andstilldid—and of people, women and children and men, swimming or ridinghorses, or just standing very, very still while somebody with a big hugecamerahidunderablackpieceoffabricandsaid,“Nowdon’tmove.”

AndI’d stillbe twelveyearsoldbut in thosedays I’dalreadybeayoungwoman.I’dhaveputawaymypaperdollsandjacks.I’dalreadybelearningtosewandserveteaanddoonlyladylikethings.

“Canwesneakintoteatoday?”IaskedEliza.“Definitely.”Eliza’sdad,UncleBruce,workedatMohawk.Hewasthemanwhomade

sure the three hundred and thirteen wooden gazebos (they called themsummerhouses)thatappearedalloverthegrounds,allalongthetrailuptothe tower, all around thegardens, andevenhere and there along this road,weremaintained. Every intricate lattice of gnarledwood had to be perfect.Everyfloorboardsafe,everyshingleofeverythatchedroofnailedintoplace.AndEliza’sdaddidthat,fivedaysaweek.Ittookhimthewholeweektogettoallofthem.Thefollowingweekhedidthesamethingalloveragain.Andthereisalwayssomethingtorepair,hesaid.MosteverythingatMohawkwas


old.TheMountainLodgewasbuiltin1862anditprettymuchlookedexactlyasithadthen.Therewerenocandymachines,nobigscreenTVs,nochrome,noplastic.IfLouisaMayAlcottorLauraIngallsWildersteppedintothishoteltherewouldbenothingtosurprisethem.Theywouldfeelrightathome.Theywouldn’tevenknowanytimehadgonebyatall.

Eliza had grownup atMohawkMountain Lodge, so she knew everyonewhoworkedthereandnobodystoppedherfromgoinganywhere.WalkinguptheroadtothehotelIthought,Thisisgoingtobeasafeday.

Agoodday.Sweat dripped down the back of my shirt but it didn’t bother me that

much. Iwore thesamecut-off jeanshorts thathadbeen toobigonme lastyearandnewbutalreadydirty sneakers. I couldn’t even rememberwhatT-shirt Ihadthrownonthismorning.WhatIreally lookedlikedidn’tmatter,becausewalkingonthatroaditcouldbeanyyear,anycenturywewantedtoimagine.

ElizaandI.Andwehadthewholesummeraheadofus.Thedirt roadwasdusty and theheat seemed to shimmy from the rocks

and distort the air. The lazy overhanging bushes and tree branches didn’tbothertoshadeus.Theylookedtoohot,tootiredtoeventry.

Thispartoftheroadwasfortwo-waytraffic,butwhenwegottothebend,wheretheabandonedcementquarrywasstillvisible,theroadwouldsplit.Itwould be one-way the rest of theway up and by thenwewould knowwewerealmostthere,quartermiletogo.

“Almostthere,”Elizaannounced.Buttheskywasgettingverydark.“It’s gonna rain.” And just as I said that a huge, single drop of water

thumped onto the dry dirt road. Another right on my nose, and almostimmediatelyaloudclapofthundersoundedfromabove.

Bythetimewereachedthehairpinturnwewerebothsoaked,myT-shirtlike another layer of skin. Even my socks squished inside my sneakers.Withoutawordtoeachotherwebrokeintoagallop.

“Myunderweariswetnow!”Elizashouted.Shewasaheadofme.“Minetoo.”Ilaughed.“Eliza,doesyourmotherknowyou’reouthereinthis?”Iheardthevoice

first.A forestgreenvanhadpulledupbesideusand thedriverwas leaningoutthewindow.


Wewerestillrunning,thevanmovingslowlyalongbesideus.ItwasfilledwithguestsontheirwaytotheMountainLodgefortheweek.Withthesoundof the rain, Ihadn’theard theenginecomingup frombehind,butnow thewindshieldwipers swept back and forth, squeaking rubber. I saw the facespeeringoutthewindowatus,anoldcouple,ayoungmotherwithherlittleboyonher lap.Twoboys, close tomyage,maybea littleolder, lookingasboredastheycouldmanage.Iquicklylookedaway.

“Yeah,”Elizashoutedback.“Butitwasn’trainingwhenweleft.”IguessedthiswasRoger,thedriver.“Well,youtwogetin.”Hepulledthevanaheadofusandovertotheside

oftheroad.Heletussquatdownbythevandoorsinceweweretoowettotakearealseat.Besides,theywerealltakenbyguests.

Rogersaid,“Staystill,youtwo.Staysitting.”The vanwas air-conditioned and the goose bumps rose onmy legs and

armssofastIcouldfeelthempinchmyskin.Thetwoboyswerelookingatus.Onehadblondhairandtheotherwasdark-haired.Ishiftedandtriedtofacethedoor.IsuddenlyrememberedwhatT-shirtIhadputonthismorningandIregrettedit.IthadapictureoftheLittleMermaidonthefrontanditfeltsuddenlytoosmall.Itwaswetagainstmychest.IwasgladIwaswearinganundershirtunderneath,theoneIhadsleptin.

Whereweretheladiesinhorse-drawncarriagesandtheirmenholdingtheparasolsabovetheirheads?Myskinsuddenlystuckoutallovermybody,mylegs, my arms, my back, my neck. I pressed my legs closer together andhugged my arms around them. Where are my white petticoats, my ivory-coloreddress,andlaceshawlthatwouldhavecoveredmywholebody?Onlymyanklesmighthaveshown,andmyankleslookedokay,didn’tthey?

Don’tallankleslookthesame?Wasn’tthereatimewhenjustanexposedanklewouldhavebeenscandalous?

Wherewasmy broad-rimmedhatwith thewide blue ribbon thatwouldhavehiddenmyfacewhenItippedmychindown?

“Hey,Roger, canyougoa little faster?”Eliza said. “I’mgettingpins andneedlesinmyfeetandmybottomiskillingme.”

“Sittightthere,girl.We’rehere.”Thevanbrakedwithalurch,attheentrancetoMohawkMountainLodge,

justastherainstoppedandthesunbrokethroughthemistandcloudsandthe last droplets of rain. Somebody once wrote, the secret to life is goodtiming.


Ithinktheyareright.Becausebadtimingstinks.


DEMO - ******* · 2019-12-01 · me on this all along the way. To Estée Klar-Wolfond, founder of...

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Transcript of DEMO - ******* · 2019-12-01 · me on this all along the way. To Estée Klar-Wolfond, founder of...