Why me?

The Injury

I looked over my timetable for the year, only really checking for one subject. All my other subjects were the same as last year, including teachers, but one would be different. My PE teacher had retired at the end of last year, and two new teachers had stepped in to take his place. Normally new teachers would be something to groan about, as they never knew how to teach, but not this time. One of our new teachers was an Avenger.

They had joined our school as a PE teacher as he was looking for a new intern to train. The Avengers were always looking for new members all the time now, trying to give ordinary people a chance to be extraordinary, but one had set out on a mission of his own. They were trying to give a normal, usually unnoticed teenager a chance to be different. They would never pick me though. I was injured, damaged and to top it all off, I was autistic.

Skimming down my teacher list, I saw the name I had been hoping for:

Physical Education – Mr S. Rogers

-------------------------------- 4 Months Later ---------------------------

Mr Rogers was one of the best teachers I had ever had. He knew how to control a class for a start, and he knew how and what to teach us. He hadn't found an intern yet, until the day he started the soccer scheme.

I was ok at most sports, long-distance running was my best, but soccer was definitely my downfall. I was dreading this unit.

"Alright everyone, grab a soccer ball and line up, one behind the other, facing the goal." He called out to the group of shivering teenagers. This was our first outdoor lesson of the new year, a chilly, almost dark afternoon in January. PE was my last lesson before registration on Monday, and I loved that because I didn't actually have to attend registration due to personal reasons, so my hour and a half of PE was my last lesson completely four days a week; I had it first thing on Tuesdays.

I ended up at the back of the line, as usual. He got us to take turns shooting goals at the net from longer distances each time. I was the only one who couldn't get it into the net from further distances, but I knew why. I had been in a car accident when I was nine and had gained some nerve damage in my legs, so just didn't have the power or strength to get it to the net. The accident itself had become infamous and was well known as The Brooklyn Wreck. For half an hour we continued doing this, practising shooting, but the nerve damage was giving me grief, sending shooting pains up through my spine, so I ended up sitting out the last ten minutes. I went back into it when Mr Rogers set up a few mini-matches, splitting four teams. We rotated all lesson, so every team got to play every other team.

In my penultimate match, towards the end, I ran straight into one of the boys and faceplanted the floor. He continued running with the ball and stood on my hand; I felt my knuckles crunch under his sneaker and fought not to cry. In the changeover between the last games, I checked over my hand; there was a lump of swelling forming over the knuckles on my right hand. I shook it out, wincing at the pain shooting through it, but carrying on all the same. I wasn't the type to give up because of a sprain.

The last match started, and I played as best I could with my legs screaming and my knuckles throbbing, and it was going quite well until I stupidly tripped on my own laces. I stuck my arms out to protect my face: Bad Idea. I nearly screamed upon landing on my hand but burst into tears, and a crowd formed around me crying on the floor. One person went running for the teacher, the rest just stood there, whispering to each other, and in some cases, laughing.

"MOVE!" Mr Rogers yelled, splitting the crowd, his tone not soft and approachable anymore. They all stopped laughing. "Go and join the other matches! Give us some space." He finished, pointing the crowd off the pitch. "Hey, Jess. Are you OK?" He asked, crouching in front of me, his voice soft again. I shook my head, unable to speak through the sobs wracking my body. My legs were burning, my hand was killing me, and my dignity was in shatters. "Come on. Let's get you inside."

"Inside, OK," I muttered to myself, hoping he didn't notice. He sent one of the girls in to get another teacher to cover the class, then helped me to my feet, but my legs gave way almost instantly. I grabbed onto his arm and managed to pull myself back to my feet. "Sorry," I muttered sheepishly, and I walked back to the school building.

STEVE POV

I was watching a game, seeing how they worked around a ball and turned around when I heard a shout from one of the other matches. A girl, Jess I think, was pushing herself up off the floor, struggling with one hand; Jess had problems with the nerves in her legs, after a car accident or something, so I never pushed her too far if she couldn't do it, but her resilience was admirable. She was obviously trying not to cry, out of pain or embarrassment I wasn't sure, but I left her to it, not wanting to interfere if I didn't have to.

I swapped the matches over for the last time, making sure everyone was taking part, and noticed Jess looking over her right hand, and was going to go over and make sure she was OK, but she shook it off, wincing slightly, but carrying on.

A couple of minutes into the final games, Chloe, one of the girls I'd put on Jess's team, came running over. "Sir, sir It's Jess. I think she's broken her hand, but her legs have gone funny again."

"Ok, thanks, Chloe. Can you go inside and tell the (office) and get a sub out here to supervise?" I asked of her. I would have got her to go and get a first aider, but I wasn't sure if anyone else was aware of her nerve issues. Chloe nodded and went running inside. I ran in the opposite direction to where everyone in that match was huddled. I could hear them laughing. Fury rose in me. "MOVE!" I yelled, and the crowd split, going quiet. "Go and join the other matches! Give us some space." I finished, pointing them away

"Hey, Jess. Are you OK?" I asked, crouching in front of her, the fury dissipating upon seeing her sat cross-legged on the ground, cradling her hand. She shook her head, unable to speak through the sobs. "Come on. Let's get you inside." I said, putting a hand out to help her up, but her legs gave out the second she was up. She muttered something to herself like I'd seen Clint do a few times.

Clint was Autistic, only very mildly, but there were a few behaviours that we'd all picked up on, and that was one of them.

The nerves must have deadened her legs out of shock. I was about to help and pull her up, but she grabbed onto my sleeve and pulled herself to her feet, walking, if a little unsteady, back to building.

"Sorry." She muttered.