by Karole Cozzo
The one-on-one dodges the blows. I can tell he’s trying to maintain a semblance of calm, but his hands are shaking as he fumbles with Phillip’s binder, which is way too thick for him to possibly have reviewed this morning, looking for some type of guidance in its pages.
Eventually, he finds some page of instructions and tries to prompt my brother to use his words in a more appropriate way. “Phillip wants . . . Phillip needs . . . ,” he encourages.
Phillip retreats and curls back into the fetal position. He is crying again. “My blocks! My blocks! Put the apples in the basket! Why . . . aren’t . . . the . . . apples . . . in . . . the . . . basket?” My brother’s tears turn hysterical. “Phillip wants blocks. Phillip needs blocks,” he sobs.
The substitute’s face tightens with frustration. He has no idea whatsoever what Phillip wants or needs.
I do. I can help.
Phillip has called his headphones his “blocks” for as long as he’s worn them. It’s a term that makes sense to him, I guess, since they do such a good job blocking out all the sounds Phillip tries to avoid. I don’t know why he doesn’t have them with him for a hallway transition, but the substitute probably didn’t have a chance to make it to that page of his binder.
I don’t know a lot of things, though.
I don’t know why it didn’t occur to the vice principal to give a heads-up to the new Autistic Support classroom that a fire drill was coming and that it probably wouldn’t be a good idea to be in the halls after third period.
I don’t know why I can’t move even though I want to.
I don’t know why I don’t push my way through the crowd and rush to help my brother, as I’m the one person there who knows what he needs. It could be the sheer size of the crowd, nearly thirty juniors and seniors by this point. Maybe it’s because I notice Leighton and Dana standing front and center among the group, or because I notice that the surprise and panic has lessened for some, and there are a few people actually starting to giggle. It could be nervous laughter, sure, but it’s still laughter.
At that moment, Mr. Daniels, our principal, appears from around the corner, walkie-talkie in hand. He takes one look at my brother on the floor and his eyes widen in shock. He blocks Phillip’s body with his, as if everyone hadn’t already seen enough.
“This is a fire drill, gang,” he reminds us, voice loud and stern. He points toward the EXIT sign. “Outside. Now!”
My classmates duck their heads and shuffle toward the door. I join them, tucking my chin as I go, like someone very purposely avoiding staring at an accident scene as I step around Phillip.
But, keeping an eye out to make sure the principal isn’t watching me, I step out of line. I duck into the darkened entrance-way to the girls’ bathroom and wait.
“I think it’s the alarm that set him off,” the substitute tells Mr. Daniels.
I roll my eyes. No shit.
“Let me run to the boiler room,” Mr. Daniels answers. “I can cut the alarm from there.” He turns on his heel and strides away.
When he rounds the corner, I spring into action. I’m at Phillip’s side in a flash, not bothering to explain my presence or purpose to the one-on-one. I drop to my knees, my own hands shaking as I unzip the front pouch of Phillip’s bag, where I know a spare pair of headphones are stashed. They are not as high quality as the Bose pair, but hopefully they’ll do.
My brother’s eyes are shut and he’s still sobbing. If I could, I would wrap my arms around him, or at least squeeze his hand to alert him to my presence. But in such an agitated state, my touch is not welcome. It would pain him further.
I keep my voice even and clear. “Here are your blocks, Phillip. Jordyn’s putting on your blocks. They’ll help.”
I carefully arrange the headphones on his ears and sit back on my heels. His body relaxes minutely, hands beginning to uncurl from fists, the set of his jaw slackening.
Thirty seconds later, the alarm stops. The wide, empty hallway is unnaturally quiet, Phillip’s residual cries echoing off the metal lockers.
I start to rise and my brother surprises me by grabbing at my hand. His uncertain, watery eyes meet mine. “Tell Jordyn ‘thank you’?”
I hold his gaze and nod quickly, conveying my understanding. Somewhere within his convoluted speech patterns, he is expressing his gratitude.
Before the substitute can ask a single question of me, I am gone, joining the crowd outside as if I’d always been a part of it.
Chapter Four
That same afternoon, I have independent study with Alex.
As I walk into the small room, I’m devoid of the troubling mix of foolish anticipation and faint sadness that I usually bring with me to the Gifted classroom.
Phillip’s disability can be a powerful thing, trapping not only Phillip behind its walls, but other people, too. After the fire-drill incident, I feel displaced and distant. Not only is my mind a million miles away, but it feels like my body is, too. My perception of the morning’s events, my understanding of them . . . they’re so different from everyone else’s. As gossip circulates about “the new crazy kid who went psycho in the hallway,” it’s clear that no one realizes I was involved.
Certainly not Erin, who innocently wondered aloud at lunch if the boy was “crazy, or maybe retarded, or what?”
So when I see Alex already seated at the table, I’m not affected the way I normally am.
He looks up, adorable as ever in a distressed plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows, and smiles at once. “Hey, Michaelson. Happy Monday!”
Alex means it to be ironic, but all things considered, I’m not amused.
I mumble a greeting in response and collapse into the chair across the table from him. I pull out my binder, trying to focus. “Did Mrs. Adamson tell you what we’re supposed to be working on today?”
He glances across the room, where our Gifted and Talented teacher is running lines with another junior, one who has decided on a first-trimester project of having a successful audition with a professional acting troupe in Philadelphia for the holiday production of A Christmas Carol. Pretty ambitious, independent study projects considered.
“She said she really wants our project proposals by the end of the week.” Alex holds up his half-completed, stapled packet and grimaces. “I’m trying to take care of the paperwork today so I can get back to actually doing something with the time. Things are getting kind of tight for me.”
He’s alluding to his Eagle Scout project, which he has been working on as part of independent study since the spring.
I nod, and he asks me, “Do you need a packet? You know what you’re going to do first trimester?”
“No.” My answer is blunt and crisp. Distracted by Phillip, I’ve given the topic little thought.
Alex shakes his head and makes a tsk-tsk noise. He leans back in his chair and crosses his arms behind his head, which causes his shirt to rise, providing me a glimpse of his boxers above his jeans. I try really hard not to look.
“Not like you, Michaelson,” he scolds teasingly. “I figured, if anything, you’d be struggling to pick which of your five projects you actually wanted to focus on.”
Last year, I did accomplish a lot. I came in knowing the reputation of my school. I felt the need to prove myself, to show that I deserved to be in their prestigious Gifted and Talented program and that I wasn’t just “grandfathered” in based on my participation in a challenge program in my old, less rigorous school. I’d written four chapters of a dystopian teen novel and restructured the school’s recycling program. All before Thanksgiving.
This year to date . . . I have nothing.
Alex is looking at me, eyes bright, waiting for me to join our familiar banter, our shtick.
When I don’t, he leans over and draws a quick cartoon portrait on one of the blank packets. He perfectly captures the obvious tension surrounding me in my features, and even my hair looks on edge. Normally, if it was run-of-the-mill stress I was feeling, his picture wou
ld crack me up at once, and I’d feel a whole lot better.
I barely manage to force a smile.
The amusement drains from Alex’s eyes. He leans forward across the table, his face serious and concerned. “Jordyn?”
The sound of my first name throws me—it’s lobbed above the wall I feel surrounding me and actually reaches my heart.
But I’m not sure I want to feel anything right now.
I stare down at my binder. “Mind’s just somewhere else,” I mumble.
I make the mistake of glancing up, just for a second, and his eyes are as deep and thoughtful as ever. He looks at me, and he is worried. “Everything okay?”
Teenage guys are not supposed to be concerned like this. They are supposed to tell fart jokes, and comment on girls’ boobs, and not really pay attention when something is bothering a friend. It’s really, really difficult when they convince you they can be something else entirely—a human being, one who truly cares, especially when they’re less yours and more someone else’s.
Pain nudges at the numbness in my chest.
“Nothing you can fix,” I snap.
Alex’s spine straightens against his chair as he literally backs away from me. “Alright, that’s cool.” His voice is tight and flat, matching mine. He bends over his paperwork and busies himself with completing the form.
I take a blank copy and pretend to get to work, too.
Except I have a couple of problems. The first being that I truly don’t have a first-trimester project lined up. The second being, I can’t stop myself from glancing up at him, every few seconds.
The annoyance has faded from his face. I can tell he’s trying to concentrate, but it’s obvious his mind isn’t really on his work, either. Alex’s eyes are drawn and his mouth is cast downward. He looks genuinely wounded, and I am surprised my stupid behavior has this kind of power over his mood.
Alex glances up once, and his eyes hold mine for an extended minute, assessing me, begging to understand the reason behind my snarkiness. It’s the look from him that will forever break me.
So I hear myself apologizing. I am in a bad enough mood for the both of us, and he really doesn’t deserve the misery.
“Sorry for snapping.” I wait for him to look up again. “Really . . . I’m sorry.”
His sweetest smile reemerges, and his eyes clear. “It’s okay, Michaelson. I told myself I knew better than to take it personally. You girls are moody. I’m learning that quickly.” Then the concern flickers in his eyes anew. “You just seemed really upset, but . . . I didn’t mean to pry.”
I do feel bad, but I still don’t want to talk about the thing that is weighing me down. So I force a smile, shake my head to dismiss his concerns, and scoot my chair toward the corner of the table, closer to his. “So what exactly do you still have left to do?”
Alex mirrors my actions, scooting his chair closer to mine in return. The butterflies in my stomach flit their wings as I detect the familiar scents of Kenneth Cole Black cologne and cinnamon Trident.
“A lot,” he answers. He slides the small crucifix, the one he’s never without, back and forth on the thin chain, a habit that emerges whenever he’s anxious about something. “It’s a damn good thing that Mrs. Adamson gave me permission to work on this as part of independent study, even though it’s kind of double-dipping. I know it’s been two semesters in a row, but I really need the time.”
I shrug. “I hardly think you should feel bad at all about spending your study time to do something so productive.” I roll my eyes in jest. “Really puts my recycling efforts to shame, ya know?” He’s so close, and I feel brave enough to reach out and touch his sleeve, just for a second. The material is warm and soft against my hand and it’s harder than I expect to pull away. “You deserve a lot of credit on all fronts. It’s really challenging, but more importantly, it comes from a really kind place.”
Alex’s heart is truly a really kind place.
A hint of color appears on his still-golden cheeks. “It’s not like I’m doing it all alone.”
“Yeah, but the project never would have even gotten started without you. It wouldn’t exist in the first place.”
He chews on his lower lip. “It just better turn out, right?” He laughs, the dimple in his right cheek appearing. “I’m going to be pissed off if this crazy vision I have in my head doesn’t pan out.” Alex’s brow furrows and he sighs as he leans forward. “I spent so much time with research and fund-raising, I’m not sure if there’s enough time left for the product to actually come together. There’s only about four weeks left until the dedication ceremony.”
“How can I help?”
“That depends on how handy you are with a circular saw or power drill,” he answers, lips quirking back into a smile.
My eyes widen in terror. “Ugh . . .”
The expression on my face cracks Alex up. “I’m just kidding. There’s painting, planting, cleanup . . . lots of things I need help with, actually. I was thinking about sending some sign-up sheets around school, maybe trying to get together a Saturday work session.”
“Well, count me in. Provided I can have an exemption from the power tools.”
I’m really happy to hear I can help Alex out and show support for what he is trying to accomplish in our township. After realizing there was a dearth of wheelchair-friendly playgrounds anywhere within a twenty-five-mile radius, Alex set out to change that. He tirelessly researched playgrounds for kids with disabilities around the country, spending hours reading product reviews of ramps, elevated sand tables, and wheelchair-friendly swings and seesaws. Then he partnered with a local charity to raise the necessary funds, pounding the pavement with candy sales, car washes, and hoagie sales. Campaigns with local businesses. Donation jars in every store in town.
Alex has finally arrived at phase III—playground construction—and he still refuses to take a backseat to the construction company doing most of the work. To Alex, the project is still hands-on.
He’s shared the blueprints, sketches, and equipment images with me, and I have no doubt that the playground will be functional, beautiful, and impressive.
“It’s going to be so worth it,” I remind him.
“I hope so.” He fiddles with his paper, flipping it over, back and forth. When he speaks again, his voice is low and shy. “I get so annoyed when my mom has to feel apologetic about not being able to maneuver around somewhere. How she sometimes has to feel like she’s an inconvenience to us, for something that isn’t her fault at all.” He shakes his head. “And she’s an adult. Little kids who just want to go to a playground, to have fun like every other little kid, sure as hell shouldn’t have to feel that way.”
Does Leighton even appreciate you? Does she really? Does she deserve you?
I push the intrusive thoughts from my mind and try to refocus on our conversation. “Your mom . . . wow . . . how proud is she going to be when everything’s finished?”
The color flares again in his cheeks. “Yeah . . . well . . . hope so.”
Alex’s mom is a lifelong diabetic. Six years ago, complications with her condition resulted in a severe stroke at a shockingly young age. As a result, Mrs. Colby’s facial features are distorted by partial paralysis, her speech is garbled, and she is wheelchair-bound.
I think the second or third time I acknowledged I was probably in love with Alex was when I saw him pushing her around the tennis club last summer for Family Day. He took such good care of her and seemed so damn proud to be pushing her wheelchair.
Knowing that Alex has a family member with a disability has made me consider confiding in him a thousand times. I’m sure in his home, it’s sort of like mine—every aspect of family life revolves around the limitations of someone else in the house. He could sort of relate, right?
But I always decide . . . not really.
Despite her speech problems, Mrs. Colby is with it. She is sweet and friendly, a social butterfly that simply lacks wings. She’ll talk your ear off when she
sees you—even if it takes a while for her to spit it out—and she remembers everything you ever said to her. She enters wheelchair relays and decorates her spokes for the seasons. Blinking pumpkins illuminate her wheels through October and November, then they’re replaced with green and red tinsel as soon as Thanksgiving passes. Everyone loves Mrs. Colby, you can just tell. She’s hardly a source of embarrassment or pity.
So Alex really can’t relate at all.
He’s finished filling out his form for Mrs. Adamson and reaches toward the far end of the table for a stack of brightly colored flyers. “If you really need a project idea”—he slides a neon green paper across the table toward me—“here you go.”
I stare at the flyer, announcing the regional Oracle Society’s annual high-school speech competition, slated to take place at Villanova University at the end of October.
Alex raises an eyebrow. “Bet you could write an amazing speech.”
I start folding the paper in half. “Yeah. Too bad there’s just that small little issue of delivering it to, oh, what? A few hundred people in a college auditorium? With a panel of judges sitting front and center? Suuure.”
Alex’s eyes take on that serious cast again. “You shouldn’t have let me read the first couple chapters of your book then.”
“I didn’t!” I laugh. “You took my notebook without asking.”
“Either way. Now I know how good your writing is.” He taps the speech-contest flyer with his pencil. “Just a shame not to share your words and ideas.”
I flip my hair over my shoulder, aiming for glib. “Once I’m a published, New York Times–bestselling author, they’ll be shared with plenty of people.”
I have to laugh at his idea. Public speaking really isn’t my forte. That whole “eyes on me” scenario I hate so much. By choice.