Kristy and the Secret of Susan

by Ann M. Martin

  Just when Jessi was congratulating herself and Mal on getting the kids together so happily, five other kids from the neighborhood — three boys and two girls — rode by on their bikes, stopping at the Hobarts’.

  “Uh-oh,” said Johnny.

  “Hey, baby!” yelled one of the boys to Mathew, “whadja eat this morning?”

  “For brecky? Weetbix and toast with Vegemite.”

  The five kids burst into laughter. “Brecky! Weetbix!”

  James pretended not to notice. He swaggered over to the kids. “Great bike,” he commented, touching one. “Hey, are you a head banger?” he asked, eyeing the boy’s punk hair.

  “No,” said the boy sarcastically. “I’m a … Croc.”

  “Funny as a funeral,” muttered James.

  He might have gone on, getting deeper and deeper into trouble, but he was rescued by Mal, Jessi, and Ben.

  “Get on out of here, rev heads,” said Ben. The kids were about to say something about “rev heads” when Ben, who is tall, stepped close to them. The kids hastily rode off.

  But one called over his shoulder, “See you later … Crocodiles!”

  Jessi and the younger Pike kids went home that afternoon feeling both triumphant and embarrassed.

  But Mal barely felt a thing. Her mind was in outer space.

  “Hello, Baby-sitters Club. How may we help you?”

  I was at another BSC meeting. It had just begun and I had just taken the first call of the day.

  “Oh, hi, Mrs. Prezzioso,” I said. I rolled my eyes at my fellow club members. Jenny, the Prezziosos’ only child, is not exactly our favorite kid to sit for. We like almost all of our sitting charges — a lot — but when Mrs. P. calls, most of us moan and groan. That’s because Jenny is a spoiled brat. “Saturday?” I repeated. “From ten until three? Okay, I’ll check it out and get back to you. ‘Bye.” I hung up.

  “Mrs. P. needs a sitter on Saturday,” I told my friends.

  “I hope I’m busy,” said Stacey, who was sitting on the bed this time, while Dawn sat in the desk chair.

  We laughed. Then Mary Anne checked the appointment pages in the record book. “You are,” she told Stacey. “So are Jessi, Claud, and Kristy.”

  Stacey, Jessi, Claudia, and I breathed sighs of relief.

  Mal, Dawn, and Mary Anne looked pained.

  Then they all started saying things like, “You take the job, Mal. You’re saving up for that set of books.” Or, “You take it, Dawn. Baby-sitting for Jenny will be … character-building.”

  “Thank you,” said Dawn, “but I have enough character already.”

  Finally Mary Anne said, “Oh, I’ll sit for Jenny. I usually end up with the Jenny-jobs. I can handle her.”

  So I called Mrs. P. back to tell her Mary Anne would be sitting. Then the seven of us waited for the phone to ring again. It didn’t, and finally Claud said, “Tell us more about Susan, Kristy.”

  I had sat for Susan twice since I’d first met her on Friday, so there was a fair amount to tell my friends.

  “Autism,” I began, “is so strange. It’s like Susan is keeping a secret from the world. I mean, she doesn’t have Down’s syndrome or anything. Her IQ is very low, but that’s because her teachers can’t test her. She won’t talk. Why? She looks right through people as if they’re not in front of her. She acts blind and deaf, even though she can see and hear. Why? And how can you test a person who doesn’t talk and is so closed off? You can’t. Susan is eight, yet she acts like a two-year-old — a slow two-year-old. But if her teachers or doctors could reach her, who knows what she could learn.”

  “Anyway, what about the piano-playing and the calendar stuff?” said Jessi.

  “Well, that’s another thing that’s so strange,” I said. “Most of the time Susan acts like she’s two — she doesn’t dress herself very well or talk or anything — but how many two-year-olds do you know who can play classical piano?”

  “None,” said Mal.

  “And this business with the calendar,” I went on. “Today I told Susan my mom’s birthday and Susan immediately said ‘Sunday’ and she was right! Mom was born on a Sunday. How does she do that? I mean, you can just stand there and say any date, like July thirteenth, nineteen-thirty-one, and she’ll say, ‘Monday’ or whatever, without missing a beat. Oh, also, today I tried to trick her. I said ‘February twenty-ninth, nineteen eighty-five,’ and Susan said very clearly, ‘March first, Friday.’ You know why? Because there are twenty-nine days in February only if it’s a leap year, and nineteen eighty-five wasn’t a leap year. Susan knew it immediately. But she still gave me the day that fell after February twenty-eighth.”

  “Amazing,” said Claudia, shaking her head.

  “You know what’s the worst?” I asked.

  “What?” said Dawn.

  “That Susan is so isolated. She’s practically an outcast. Her parents send her away to school, and she doesn’t have any friends, of course. I bet if her parents kept her here and put her on the school bus everyday to go to the special class at Stoneybrook Elementary, she’d fit in. She’d get to know kids in the neighborhood, maybe she’d learn how to play with them —”

  I was interrupted by the phone. Several calls came in, and we lined up three jobs. The last of them was for the younger Hobart boys across the street.

  Mal’s face turned pink. “Oh, please?” she said. “Please could I have that job? I know we’re not supposed to ask, but … please? Just this once?”

  “Relax, Mal,” said Mary Anne. “You can take it if it’s okay with Stacey. You two are the only ones free that day.”

  Stacey grinned. “Mal can have the job.”

  “Oh, thank you,” said Mallory rapturously.

  After a few moments of silence (no ringing phones), Jessi said, “I was thinking, Kristy. You described Susan as an outcast. You know what? The Hobarts are sort of outcasts, too. Just because they have accents and say things like ‘brecky’ for ‘breakfast’ or ‘jumpers’ for ‘sweaters,’ or use slang words that we don’t understand like ‘rev heads,’ the kids here are so mean to them. They torment them. It’s as if they’re prejudiced against them.”

  “Yesterday,” spoke up Mal, “Jessi and I took my sisters and brothers over to play, though, and the kids had a fine time together.”

  “Mal and Ben had an especially fine time,” added Jessi mischievously.

  Mal turned the color of a tomato.

  Stacey started to say something, but I interrupted her. I couldn’t help it. I’d just had one of my great ideas.

  “You know what?” I said slowly. “On Friday, when I baby-sit for Susan again, I’m going to take her over to the Hobarts’! Won’t that be perfect? Susan needs friends, the Hobarts need friends. Susan won’t tease the Hobarts, and I bet they won’t tease her. Not after the teasing they’ve been through. So I’ll introduce them. Maybe if Susan makes friends by the time this month is up, her parents won’t send her away. Maybe they’ll let her go to school here.”

  “And,” added Mal excitedly, “I could bring Claire and Margo to the Hobarts’ on Friday. They got along really well with the two youngest boys. Then James could play with Susan — they’re the same age — and I — I —”

  “You could what?” teased Stacey.

  I liked Mallory’s offer a lot. I really did. But I was beginning to be suspicious of it. Did she have some other reason for wanting to bring her sisters to the Hobarts’ on Friday?

  “Does Ben get teased as much as his younger brothers?” asked Claud thoughtfully. (Now that we knew Ben went to our school, we kept our eyes out for him, but the eighth-graders don’t have much to do with the sixth-graders.)

  “I don’t think so,” replied Jessi. “Do you, Mal?”

  Mallory, her face still fiery, just shook her head.

  Jessi hid a smile. “What Mal is trying to say,” she translated for the rest of us, “is that Ben is tall for his age, so he looks sort of …”

  “Menacing?” supplied Dawn.

&
nbsp; “No! Just like someone you don’t want to mess with. Plus, at Stoneybrook Middle School we’re so busy changing classes and stuff that most kids just haven’t bothered Ben. But at home it’s different. When the kids are out in their yard, they’re easy targets. And James and Mathew and especially Johnny aren’t very good at defending themselves.”

  “I bet Mal could help Ben feel right at home here in the USA,” Stacey pressed.

  Mal couldn’t speak. She stared at the floor. The rest of us grinned at each other. And Stacey couldn’t let up on Mallory.

  “Come on, Mal. Admit it,” she said. “You’ve got a crush on Ben.”

  Mal gasped. And then she was saved by the bell. My own mother called needing a sitter on an evening when I wouldn’t be home. Mary Anne lined Stacey up for the job.

  Then Stacey immediately said, “Mal? Come on. Out with it. You know you’ve got a crush on Ben.”

  “Well … well, maybe I — I do,” Mal spluttered.

  “He is cute,” said Stacey.

  Mallory twisted her head back and looked up at Stacey. “He’s adorable,” she corrected her. “He’s even got cute glasses.”

  Everyone laughed.

  Mallory got to her feet then and stood at Claudia’s window. The Hobarts were outside, as usual. This time, James was on a skateboard, Mathew was riding his bike, and Ben was helping Johnny balance on another skateboard.

  “Ben is an awfully good brother,” said Mal. “And he’s polite and funny.”

  “Is he thrifty, honest, clean, hard-working, and considerate of old ladies?” asked Claudia with a smile.

  Mal turned away from the window, looking as if she were in the middle of a wonderful dream. “Yes,” she replied.

  “Then I think you should, you know, go after him,” said Dawn.

  “Me? Go after a boy?” asked Mal.

  “Sure. Why not?”

  “Well, okay,” said Mal quickly. “I think I will.”

  On Friday, Charlie dropped me off at Susan’s as usual. I ran up her driveway and along the Felders’ front walk, and rang their doorbell. I could hear piano music and knew Susan was playing away. She didn’t stop, though, when the bell rang, and she was still playing when her mother opened the door. Mrs. Felder looked tired.

  “Hi,” I said brightly.

  “Hi, Kristy,” replied Mrs. Felder. “Boy, am I glad to see you. I really need a break. This has not been one of Susan’s better days. She won’t leave the piano without a struggle, and trying to get her to eat lunch was like — well, you’d have thought I was asking her to eat hot peppers. She never did eat anything.”

  “Gosh, I’m sorry,” I said.

  “Anyway, pry her away from the piano if you can,” Mrs. Felder went on, as I stepped inside. “I’d love for Susan to get some fresh air today, but if you can’t do that, don’t worry about it.”

  “Okay,” I replied uncertainly, thinking of the plans Mal and I had made involving the Hobart boys.

  I must have sounded worried, because Mrs. Felder quickly assured me, “Really. There’s nothing to be concerned about. Susan is just being stubborn today. I promise. She doesn’t get violent. But she’s strong, and she’s great at passive resistance. If she doesn’t want to eat, she simply clamps her mouth shut.”

  “Why didn’t she want her lunch today?” I asked.

  Mrs. Felder shrugged. “Lots of autistic children have eating and sleeping problems,” she told me. “Susan is one of them.”

  I nodded. “All right. Well, I’ll try to get Susan outdoors. And if she’ll eat something, is that okay? Or would you rather she waited until dinner?”

  “No, a snack would be fine. Try a cookie, anything. I want some food in her.”

  Mrs. Felder left then, as if she couldn’t escape fast enough.

  I watched Susan at the piano for awhile. She played intently, her head cocked to the side, staring into space. She never looked at the keys. And of course, no music was in front of her, since she memorized everything.

  “Susan,” I said after awhile.

  No response. Not even a flicker of her eyes.

  “Susan! Susan … SUSAN!”

  The music continued. I didn’t know what she was playing, because it was something classical, and what I know about classical music could fit on a mosquito’s nose.

  “Susan!” I called again. I walked to the piano and stood next to her. I actually waved my hand in front of her face, as if she were a sleepwalker.

  Nothing.

  Then ever so carefully and gently I laid my hands on Susan’s. She tried to keep playing. I tightened my grip. Susan couldn’t move her fingers anymore. She had to stop playing. And you know what? For a second, or maybe even just a fraction of a second, she looked at me. I mean, she looked right into my eyes with those big brown eyes of hers. Then she lost herself in her world again. Where does her mind go? I wondered.

  With my hands still on Susan’s, I tried to pull her away from the piano. She wouldn’t budge. I pulled harder. I could see what Mrs. Felder meant about passive resistance. But I wasn’t about to give up. I’ve learned plenty from my younger brothers and sisters.

  Since Susan was sort of small for her age, I just moved behind her, picked her up, and carried her into the kitchen. She struggled a little, but not much.

  “Okay, Susan. Time for a snack. Anything you want,” I said.

  Still holding one of her hands, I opened the refrigerator door. “Is there anything here you’d like?”

  Susan was gazing out the window, flapping her free hand. Well, at this rate, I’d never get her to the Hobarts’. I closed the refrigerator, spotted a baggie full of homemade oatmeal cookies on the counter, grabbed a couple of them, and took Susan and the cookies outdoors.

  On the way to the Hobarts’, I handed her a cookie.

  Susan must have been starving after her day of playing and not eating, because she took the cookie and ate it hungrily. She ate the other one, too, before we were even in the Hobarts’ yard.

  Since getting Susan away from the piano had taken so long, Mal, Claire, and Margo were already at the Hobarts’. Everyone was in the backyard. Mal and Ben were sitting on the stoop, lost in conversation, and the younger kids were playing tag.

  “Hi!” I called, as Susan and I entered the yard.

  “Hi,” said some of the kids tentatively. None of them had met Susan before, and she did look a little odd, staring above the heads of the children, clicking her tongue, and flapping her hands.

  Silence followed.

  Mal looked up and saw what was going on. She and Ben joined us. “Everybody,” said Mal, “this is Susan. She’s eight, just like you, James. She can’t talk, but I think she’d like to play with us. Oh, and Ben, James, Mathew, and Johnny, this is my friend Kristy. She’s the president of the Baby-sitters Club.”

  “Hi,” I said.

  “Hullo,” replied the boys cheerfully.

  Claire stepped over to Susan. “I’m Claire,” she said. “I’m five.”

  Flap, flap, flap. Click, click, click.

  “I said,” said Claire, “I’m Claire and I’m five.”

  (Susan didn’t answer, of course.)

  “She doesn’t talk,” Mal reminded Claire.

  “Not at all?”

  “Well, a few words when she wants to,” I finally answered. “But she can’t have a conversation with you.”

  “Why not?” asked Mathew.

  The kids were standing in a circle around Susan, staring at her. She was oblivious to them.

  I tried to explain about autism.

  Then Margo said, “Maybe she can play tag with us. You don’t have to talk to play tag.”

  “Yeah!” exclaimed James. “Maybe we could teach her to play.”

  So we tried. First, we decided that James would be It. He would chase the kids slowly around the yard, just to show Susan how the game was played.

  “Run, Susan, run!” I cried.

  Susan wandered under a tree. She looked up to where the sun was
filtering through the branches and began waving one hand in front of her eyes. Under her breath, she hummed the music she’d been playing on the piano earlier.

  Then we tried to get Susan to chase the other kids. That didn’t work, either, of course.

  We were still shouting, “Run, Susan!” when two of the boys who’d regularly been teasing the Hobarts sauntered into the yard. One was a good six inches taller than the other.

  “Hey, Crocs,” said the short one.

  No one answered him.

  “What? Are you all deaf?” he asked.

  “Funny as a funeral,” muttered James.

  “What was that?” asked the taller boy. He stood imperiously over James.

  At that point, Ben walked up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder. The boy turned around. He didn’t look so tall anymore. He probably didn’t feel so tall anymore, either. He backed away. And then he caught sight of Susan.

  “Who’s that?” he asked. “And what’s she doing?” (Susan was flapping and clicking and humming under the tree again.)

  “Her name is Susan Felder,” I spoke up. “Who are you guys?”

  The boys looked at each other. “We’re Bob and Craig,” said the tall one. “Yeah, he’s Bob and I’m Craig,” agreed the short one, just as the other one said the same thing.

  “Afraid to use your real names?” I asked.

  “Funny as a funeral,” said Bob-or-Craig, obviously mimicking James.

  Why, I wondered, did the teasers continue to come back? They must have been fascinated by the Hobarts. Otherwise they wouldn’t keep egging them on. Maybe they liked hearing new words and phrases and names for things. But the teasers were so mean. If they wanted to hear Johnny ask for “fairy floss,” or Ben call someone a “rev head,” or Mathew talk about “brecky,” they could just ask the boys to tell them about Australia. Most teasers, I had found out, tease because they feel inferior and need to feel superior — like a bully who beats up the runt of the school because the runt is easy to beat. However, I knew this — but it didn’t help the Hobarts much.