Inside Out

On the way to school, I listened to the music and nodded to the inaudible missing beats. I could see my mother’s eyes in the revision mirror, flicking from the windshield to my face. I could see the tired wrinkles in her eyes. I could feel the distance between my sister and I – a wide and cold gulf of emptiness.

My mother walked me up the front steps, her head high and proud, the rest of her struggling between embarrassment and love. My heel scraped the inner door jamb and I heard the receptionist greet us in an annoyingly cheerful voice. I didn’t reply – I was still nodding to the missing beats in my head.

I slid my right heel against the door jamb as I was deposited in the classroom. I scanned the room for the noisy ones, and took a seat by the window overlooking the back of the school. The grass was still dew-wet, and if I squinted a little, the small crystal beads grew larger and softer and sparkly-er. I stopped nodding – the beats had faded in the hum of activity around me. I counted the crystal caves in view, and then calculated the remainder in the field. 717 in the flower bed below me.

The day passed slowly as usual. Routines and rotes. Formulas and patterns. Ethereal bars of a cage. After recess, which I spent outdoors collecting and then crushing small stones of different colours, Miss Formosa decided she would give the special child, with special needs, some special attention.

(let’s draw, Mark)

She placed paper in front of me. It was white – but not completely. The grain in the paper caught the light from the window and cast minute shadows. Fascinating, really. Beautiful, actually.

(draw your mother a pretty picture, Mark. Draw a house for her)

Sighing inwardly, I decided to draw a picture for Miss Formosa. I hated the scratchy sound of felt tips. If I were going to draw, it would be with pastels. No one used them – there they were, sitting all alone on the white shelf, as they had been for as long as I had been in this classroom. They were unused, except by me, and then, only in my imagination.

(here’s a pencil, Marky. Draw with the pencil. Draw a house for mummy)

Pencils were ok, but they didn’t smudge like pastels. And I didn’t like their sharpness.

“No, pastels”, I said. “Pastels”.

The pencils were sticking points up in a can on the desk. Right now, the tips were dangerously close to breaking out of the window frame I had lined them up with. True, it would be difficult to draw a picture with my head tilted this way, but I’d rather get a sore neck than have those pointy things piercing through the window frame.

(ok, you go and get your favourite pastel then, Marky. You like purple, don’t you? Draw a purple house for mummy)

“I like purple”, I said

Yes, purple would be nice. Half red, and half blue. Just like me. But there was one problem. Though my neck was twisted to keep the pencils safely enclosed, I could see with my peripheral vision that a piece of orange peel had lodged itself between the purple and blue pastels. It looked wonderful. It looked like it was always meant to be there. It looked so much more important than a purple house. By chance it had flew off someone’s snack and found a magical home amongst the pastels. I wonder if it had scraped the side of the box as it jumped inside.

(go and get the purple pastel, Marky)

I wished she would stop calling me ‘Marky’.

“No, orange”, I said.

(You want the orange pastel? Then go and get it, Marky!)

“No – orange!!!”, I shouted. I coughed halfway through, which made it sound like ‘homage’, but I think she understood. She held my shoulders tightly and put her face very close to mine.

(Don’t shout, Mark, you’ll upset the children)

Haha. That was funny. What was I, then, an elephant? Hahahahaha!!!!

“No – orange!” I didn’t shout. “Peel”, I said. “Peel!”

Come to think of it, her skin looked a little like orange peel. Her face was shiny – and her pores oozed perspiration.

“Orange peel”, I whispered.

(ok, you want orange? I’ll get it for you, if you are going to be that lazy. Here’s the orange, ok? Now draw a house for mummy!)

I looked up and saw that the orange peel had fallen away and now lay on the floor, where it would be swept up and thrown into the dark, smelly garbage can. That was sad, so very sad. Tears suddenly welled in my eyes. Poor orange peel.

(Marky – stop crying, what’s the matter? You are being very difficult today, aren’t you? Do you want mummy to be unhappy?)

She held my chin in one hand, and straightening my head, wiped at my snotty nose and tearful eyes. As I pulled away, I saw the pencils pierce through the window frame and started yelling.

“Pencils pencils, no no no no!!!!!!”

I turned my back on the window and tried to remember what position I had held to keep them in place, terrified, now.

“PENCILS!!!!” I screamed.

(ok, I think it’s quiet time for you. You just won’t behave today. I don’t know what mummy is going to do with you, I really don’t.)

She pulled me roughly by the arm to the quiet room. Without giving me time to scrape my heel on the door frame, she pushed me in, and closed the door.

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Tags:

autism, children, mark german and special