Reading the Music

Dylan

I stand in line go get my homework checked by the teacher and watch Dylan as he fidgets. First he moves his fingers around in the air like a pianist who hasn't had enough sleep. Then he notices a small, insignificant string coming undone from his blue shirt, and he pulls on it; on hand pulls, then the other, alternating. Mrs. Smithel realizes this and yanks his hand from the string and cuts it off of his shirt in one Swift motion.

Dylan looks up in surprise. His hands fly up to his hair, and he's pulling on it, screaming. I watch this all happen not in embarrassment or confusion or anger or pity or even awe.

"Margaret!"
Mrs. Smithel snaps in front of my face, like I'm a dog that need to be guided along with every step.

I jump, startled, and reply as quickly as my dry mouth can muster,
"Yes?"

"Your homework, Margaret."

I smile apologetically, hand it to her, and turn back to Dylan. He sits in his wheelchair, not going anywhere, and neither does anybody else. Some go on with their work, not even noticing, some whisper, and others occasionally glance up at him through the awkward almost silence.

Still watching him tug at the hem of his shirt, I ask our teacher,

"I can take him outside. I can wheel him out to the field until he calms down, help him out a bit."

"Thank you Margaret." She comments with out even looking up.

I walk over to Dylan and gently place my hands on the wheelchair handle bars.
"Hey buddy. Let's go outside and get some fresh air, okay?"

He twists his head toward me, listening to my words with such intent he squints, his head bopping up and down vigorously. I wheel him forward and out the classroom door and through the hallway and out the school's front doors.

At first we go down the paved sidewalk, but Dylan makes it clear he prefers the grass. His hands flail as he attempts to point at the lawn. He turns in his seat to look at me with his excited, not-so-boring, brown eyes. I smile weakly and guide the wheel chair off of the pavement and onto the grass.

The grass and dirt isn't as smooth as I would have guessed so the wheel chair bounces as I walk it, but Dylan doesn't seem to mind. Dylan laughs a laugh most would cringe at, but all I do is join in.

After a few minutes I stop it and sit down in the grass in front of him and stare up at him, waiting for him to do or say something. He looks back at me, and I can't help but forget what's wrong with him. Then he yelps like a seal and tries to grab at the grass, reminding me of his autism.

"Would you like some grass Dylan?"
I pull out a handful of grass and get on my knees. He jerks his hand out and I place the plant in his warm palm. I sit back on the ground and pick at the lawn, pulling out handfuls of grass and dropping it onto my lap.

The sky is cloudy, but you can tell that beneath it all, the sky is a beautiful blue. A crow flys overhead with a caw and lands in a big tree with leaves that are slowing turning a crisp orange or purple or red. The schools' sign that says 'Western Plymouth Elementary' has a squirrel on top, trying to stuff a nut in its cheek.

"Maggot."

His fingers brush my shoulder as he tries to get my attention, leaving a smudge of dirt that I ignore.

"Mago-et."

With a smile, "Yes, Dylan?"

"You."

I look up at him on confusion, then down at his hands. In one of them he has the grass and dirt I dug out for him, and in the other is a small, crumpled buttercup. He leans forward with the flower in his hand expectantly waiting for me to act.

"For Margaret?" I point to myself. He nods and smiles his crooked grin. I get up and take the buttercup, then pat his hand.
"Thank you Dylan."

He squeals with joy replies, "Magoret."

I think to myself as begin to push him back to the pavement, Dylan is a good friend, and I like him just the way he is.