Catch Me (Synacky)

Chapter Eight: Brian

Of course, we got in trouble for making snow angels. But it was worth it. It was worth seeing the smile on Zacky’s face, hearing his laugh ring out into the still afternoon. He had never made a snow angel before, but I said that no one would have been able to tell. His snow angels were those of pros.

We were cold, in our thin jackets and jeans, the snow melted on us, made us wet and chilled us to the bone. Zacky shivered and I gave him a hug to warm him up, and he giggled. He helped his pet make a little snow angel next to ours, and I smiled. “I wish we had a camera.” I said. He didn’t respond, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t listening.

He started spinning. He spread his arms out wide, turning round and round and round, head tipped towards the sky, mouth spread in a huge grin.

“What are you doing?” I asked, and he didn’t stop, but he replied.

“Spinning.”

“Why?”

“I do it when I feel nice. I have good feelings now.” He paused in his speech, but continued to spin. “You should spin with me.”

So, I spun with Zacky, until we were dizzy, then we tried to walk straight, staggering around, laughing as we crashed into the snow.

“I want this to last forever.” He towards me, all emerald eyes and rosy cheeks, and I felt my heart beat faster in my chest.

“Me too.” I replied, hoping desperately he couldn’t see my blush, read my expression, hear my pounding heart.

One of the teachers came out and scolded us, corralled us inside for the last four minutes of class. He said he was going to have to talk to Mr. Todd about this. I told him to go ahead. I didn’t give a fuck.

“Just because we’re different doesn’t make us any less of people.” I said, “We’re kids, we need to have fun sometimes.”

After class, we had some free time before group therapy. They were showing a film in the rec room, but it was optional, so Zacky and I went back to our room. He had a meeting with Dr. Brooks instead of therapy, and I thought that would be good. Dr. Brooks was a really nice guy.

He showed me the notebook Dr. Brooks had given him. “I’m waiting to put something in it.” He said. “I haven’t thought of anything, yet.”

He decided to draw a picture of the snow angels. As he worked, I looked over his shoulder. “Zee?” I asked. He didn’t reply, but I knew he was listening.

“Sometimes I change the schedule. Like today, instead of school, we played in the snow.” I paused, and his crayon stopped moving. I had his attention. “Why is it okay for me to change your schedule, but not okay when other people do it?”

He lifted his head, frowning at his liquid hourglass, thinking.

“I like you.” He decided. “I don’t mind if my schedule is changed, if I’m doing something different that’s better.”

“Why do you care so much about schedules anyway?” I asked.

He just shrugged, “Security, I guess.” Then continued to draw his picture. I suppose I understood what he meant. Here was a kid that could hardly understand himself, much less understand others. He couldn’t read expressions or tone of voice, and he could never tell people’s intentions. He had every right to be scared out of his mind all the time. He had every right to find security in a set schedule.

I had made Jimmy ask Steph what it must be like to be autistic while I was co-conscious at my last individual therapy session, and she had laughed. “You’ve become quite infatuated with Zacky, haven’t you?”