Colin Fischer (3 page)

The second thing a visitor would notice was Sherlock Holmes’s company. Photos of
Star Trek
’s Mr. Spock, Commander Data, even Detective Grissom from
CSI
all hung in places of honor on the wall. Once, Colin’s father had taken the picture of Spock to be autographed—and had to replace it after Colin declared the photo “ruined” by Leonard Nimoy’s signature. Mr. Fischer learned from this that Colin’s room was a shrine not to actors he admired, but to cool, clear-headed logic.

The third thing a visitor would notice was Colin’s floor, littered with piles. Piles of books. Piles of
magazines. Piles of toys and half-disassembled household appliances. The piles were everywhere.

To the untrained eye this was just a mess, not so different from the mess any other boy could have created in any other room in any other house. But its true nature was in its details—not as it appeared, as Colin might point out, but as it was. Neatly organized, like-with-like. There was a principle behind every pile in the room, even if understood only by Colin himself. For example, a magnetron from an old microwave sat atop a book about marsupials and several back issues of
The New England Journal of Medicine
, an organizational feat that defied even his parents’ efforts to divine a connection.

Colin stood amid the piles in front of his desk, dripping wet, the towel draped around his shoulders. His gaze was fixed on a piece of paper filled with columns of crude, hand-drawn faces, each labeled with a word describing an emotion. The paper in turn was but one of many in a stack, a rough guide to understanding social intentions of the human animal. At the moment, Colin studied every imaginable species of the smile.

He looked up at the sound of sneakers on his hardwood floor. From the peculiar squeak and the weight of the step, he knew who had entered. “Hello, Danny,” he said. “How are you today?”

Colin was only three years old when Danny was born. Like most children, he was fascinated by the
prospect of a little brother or sister. Unlike most children, he expressed this by forcing his father to read him every page of
What to Expect When You’re Expecting
. He asked pointed questions of his mother, her eating habits and general health. He was present for the sonogram when the new baby’s sex was determined. He was unusually involved in every aspect of the pregnancy and cried when he was informed he would not be welcome in the delivery room. Colin seldom let his baby brother out of his sight. He recorded his observations in drawings and, on the eve of Danny’s first birthday, presented a complete dossier entitled “Things We Know about Danny” to his parents. In fact, the first entry in Colin’s first Notebook was about him:

Danny didn’t answer Colin’s question. He knew it was just part of Colin’s social script and made no secret of his hatred for the forced, almost robotic nature of Colin’s interactions with him. “So,” Danny began, “somebody took your head on a grand tour of the boys’ bathroom. You know, the full Tidy Bowl treatment. Am I right?”

“My behaviorist Marie says, ‘Kids are often
frightened of anyone different. They make themselves feel secure by picking on kids who are.’” This was repeated word-for-word, precisely as Marie had said it to him.

“You’re not different,” Danny said with a snort. “You’re a carnival sideshow.”

From outside came the sound of a diesel engine slowing to a halt and a soft, hydraulic hiss. Mrs. Fischer’s voice rang up from down the stairs. “Danny, your bus! I am NOT driving you to school, compadre, so saddle up!”

Colin watched carefully as his eleven-year-old brother’s expression visibly changed. “Just stop, Colin,” Danny pleaded quietly. “Can’t you just stop?” With that, he pounded back downstairs. Colin impassively turned his attention back to his guide. He flipped through the pages, trying to match a drawing to Danny’s face.

Finally, he paused and placed his finger on a frown. “
AFRAID.
”

Colin and his father
rode in silence.

Colin wore fresh jeans and a simple burgundy T-shirt. Mr. Fischer was dressed for work, a blue button-down oxford with a twenty-dollar cotton tie and a pair of khakis, all neatly pressed. A Jet Propulsion Lab security badge was clipped to his shirt pocket, identifying him as “Michael Fischer, Senior Analyst.” In the
picture, he was smiling and
HAPPY
. Colin liked to look at the badge; his father’s smile was comforting.

At the moment, Mr. Fischer was not smiling. His lips were pursed gravely, his fingers tapping out a slightly uneven rhythm on the steering wheel. Colin looked away from him. Instead, he stared out the window, considering the cars waiting at the 118 on-ramp. They had been merging in a neat left-right-left weave, an example of spontaneous self-organization. Then a woman in an SUV with a phone to her ear broke the pattern and threw it all into self-interested chaos. Colin found it very interesting how one small violation of the social order could throw an entire system out of balance.

“So,” his father finally said, tired of the silence and convinced he couldn’t wait Colin out on this one, “are you gonna tell me what happened? Or do I have to guess?”

Silence. Then: “You have an important meeting,” Colin said. It was not an answer.

“It’s the first day of school.” His father pressed. He would not allow his son any opportunity to change the subject, as he was the master of it. “You couldn’t have even made it to homeroom. Well, unless homeroom is in the swimming pool.”

“Your shirt is pressed,” Colin observed. “You never press your shirt unless you have a meeting, and only if it’s important.”

This was true. It was also irrelevant. “I know it’s
scary. It was scary for me, and I was a jock. I could take care of myself.”

“You’re drumming your fingers. That means you have to meet with someone you don’t usually have to talk to. And you have to answer their questions.”

Mr. Fischer stopped drumming and glanced at his hands. When Colin was right, he was right…which was nearly all of the time, actually. “I’m sorry you’re on your own in there now. I am. But that’s how the system works.”

Colin looked at his father finally. He understood everything. “The director,” he said. “You have a program review. Is it the budget again?”

“It’s too bad changing the subject isn’t a business. You’d make a killing.” He turned the car into the West Valley High School parking lot. “I’m not gonna make you talk to me,” he said. “I just want you to know you can.”

“I am talking to you.”

His father sighed, defeated. He held up a hand and splayed the fingers apart.

“Coming in for a landing.” This was a warning, letting Colin know he was about to be touched. Colin didn’t like to be touched by anyone, even his parents, although he was tolerant if given proper notice. On some level, he understood their need for contact. He had read about it in a book.

Colin braced himself as his father reached out and
touched his shoulder. A gentle squeeze. “Have a good day at school.”

Colin nodded silently and got out of the car. Mr. Fischer watched him trudge up the walk, head down and body hunched. He felt a pang of worry, then helplessness,
²
a recognition on his part that no matter what, eight hours a day for the next four years, Colin would be alone.

The hallways were packed
with students, teachers, and staff, all pushing past each other in transit as the first bell rang.

Colin winced a little at the sound—too high, too shrill, and too staccato. The first time Colin heard a school bell had been three years earlier. He had shrieked with terror at the unexpected cacophony and continued to shriek until the bell finally stopped ringing. In time, and with a great deal of effort, he learned to control his response to the noise. It was now anticipated, its effects dispelled through slow, silent counting.

On the mental count of “three,” the bell stopped. Colin took a deep breath…then held it as he heard a familiar sound from around the corner, one that was almost as worrisome as the school bell: the voice of Wayne Connelly.

“Eddie’s head, meet wall.” Something heavy collided with concrete, a soft
crack
like the sound a melon makes when dropped on the sidewalk, only more violent. Colin crept around the corner, his curiosity getting the better of him. He flipped opened his Notebook and produced a green ballpoint pen to record what he saw:

Eddie was up against the wall. He tried to shove Wayne back, but nothing happened. Then he swallowed hard, more than a little afraid. Eddie’s friends, Stan (prominent gap in front teeth) and Cooper (exhibiting
pronounced ectomorphism), looked at each other, nodded, and stepped forward to help.

Wayne turned on them with a snarl. “Back off,” he growled. “I’ve got one foot for each ass.”

Colin raised an eyebrow and counted. Three boys. Two feet. Curious.

Stan and Cooper didn’t seem to care if Wayne could count. They understood his meaning well enough, frozen in place as Wayne stared them down. Finally, Wayne gave Eddie another quick shove into the wall and let him go. He stormed away.

Eddie glanced around the hallway, the focus of stares from everyone in the hallway. He collected himself. “Yeah—keep walking, wimp!” he called as he stripped off a blue-and-gold Notre Dame basketball jacket and hurled it into his locker. Wayne did not look back.

A girl, Sandy Ryan, emerged from the crowd and wrapped her arms around Eddie in a hug, pushing past Stan and Cooper. Eddie’s friends made way for her. Cooper sighed with thinly veiled
EXASPERATION
, but Stan’s eyes drifted down the back of her body with a half smile that Colin couldn’t quite place. Eddie apparently had no such difficulty—he narrowed his eyes at
Stan with a
TERRITORIAL
frown, an expression so primal that Colin would have understood it as a toddler even if he had no name for it.