Alterity

Chapter Three

The Ducharme School doesn't have bells or anything, so when the period ends, Mr. Biggs dismisses us and casually waves us out. I end up being the last one sitting in the classroom, my mind still swimming with thoughts of that guy. I jump when Mr. Biggs knocks on the wood of my desk.

            "Hey there." He says, breath reeking of coffee and spearmint gum. "You know where you're headed next?"

            "Oh. Uh. No, actually." I say.

            He glances at my schedule slipped into the clear front sleeve of my binder . "Oh, well actually you're with me for geometry! So, you're in the right place, my friend."

            "Oh, sweet." I say.

            Mr. Biggs turns to leave but I tug on his sleeve.

            "Oh, wait a second! Um—What's the kid's name that was sitting there?" I ask, pointing to the boy's now empty chair.

            "Here?" Mr. Biggs walks over and points.

            I nod.

            "Oh, that would be Leo! He's what you could call a TDS veteran," Mr. Biggs chuckles. "Why? He look familiar?"

            I shake my head. "No. I was just curious."

            Believe me, I would know if the two of us had stumbled across each other in the past. I don't think it's possible to forget a face like that. Who would want to? 

            My mental focus quickly shifts upon the start of geometry. I attempted it last year and completely bombed it. Like, the classroom I took it in will be uninhabitable for the next hundred years because the radiation levels are so high freaking bombed it. I don't think I got so much as a 10% for my final grade—and that'd have been for writing my name. Mr. Biggs is definitely not your standard special education teacher. Despite the classic, cringe-worthy teacher ice-breakers, he's actually a pretty funny guy that is obviously very, very smart. While this is technically the second geometry class of the school year, he is still primarily explaining what we will be going over throughout the semester. I'm petrified.

            When I say that I can't process visual-spatial information to save my life, I'm not at all exaggerating. I can't tie shoes, I don't have a driver's permit and I don't know if I'll ever even be able to get one—or drive at all—and those two things are both life skills that I have managed to slip by without. Geometry is a class that consists entirely of visual-spatial information: shapes, lines and freaking numbers. To someone with my form of ASD, that's basically like trying to explain to a color-blind person—in the most descriptive of details—what shades that they are 'missing out on.' TDS is supposed to be a better place for people like myself, but if they've plopped me in another geometry class my first year, I'm doubtful.

            By the time the class gets out, I'm elated that it's time for lunch, as my stomach sounds like it's attempting to do a Chewbacca impression. In most schools I've attended, typically the younger grades eat first and so on. It's the same way here as well, the trouble is that TDS is a middle school through high school program—they have an elementary school as well but that's in a separate building at a different location—so by the time it's the 10th graders' turn, I'm starving. The lunch line takes ages and serves food typical of a non-profit program contracted through the public-school system. Definitely not gourmet, but not bad and absolutely edible.

            I'm shoving a chicken leg down my throat when he catches my eye again. I look up from my tray, grease around my mouth and a smudge of mashed potato on my chin and see Leo looking at me—those eyebrows still raised. I quickly swallow the bite of food and wipe my face off, noticing him laugh into his hand, almost showing off his dimpled cheeks. Lots of us with autism are pretty blunt individuals, so I decide to say fuck it, toss the remains of my food in the garbage and go and say hi to this beautiful human being.

            Leo sits alone at a circular table, hands folded in front of him, the tray containing his finished lunch off to the side. He raises his eyebrows again.

            "Hey." I say, shyly rubbing my neck with one hand. "Your name's Leo, right?"

            I find that people are more comfortable with introductions when they feel they might have met someone previously.

            He shakes his head and, using his index finger, touches his cheek once on the corner of his mouth and then again close to his ear.

            "Huh?" I say. "You're Leo, right?"

            He shakes his head again and dramatically covers his ears with his hands, sort of whispering something that after a few seconds, I realize is "I'm deaf."

            "Oh." I say. "So, you're . . . I mean." I point to my ear and shake my own head. "You can't hear?"

            He nods, smiling politely but most likely more than done with my company. Not knowing what to do or say, I take a couple steps back, saying "sorry" twice like an idiot and then hustle out of the cafeteria.