Do You Think This Is Strange? (14 page)

“How about them Cowboys?” I said, which caused him to open his mouth, but then pause and say nothing in response. He may not have been a sports fan.

At that moment, Saskia slipped under his arm and stepped away from him. She stood a little straighter and turned to me, looking down, as if she was waiting for direction.

My hands were sweating, and my heart was beating fast. I found myself wanting to look closer at her, but couldn't bring myself to do such an unexpected thing. Instead, I remained true to character. I searched for something to say and, finding nothing relevant, took the first thing from the top of the stack: I was getting hungry.

“Did you want to come to lunch with me?” I asked her.

She nodded, then took a short step closer to me. Her arms were tight against her sides.

Danny Hardwick started to move toward me but stopped, as if he was considering something other than his next statement. He said, “Enjoy your lunch, retard.” Then he turned and walked away.

“I'm not retarded,” I said.

Behind me, the girls whispered. I was unconcerned with what they were saying, although I could tell that we were the central topic of their conversation.

I reached out to Saskia and lightly touched her arm above the elbow.

“Let's go to the cafeteria,” I said and turned. She followed. As we approached the cluster of girls, the whispering stopped. I lifted my head and looked directly at them as we walked, until they began to fidget and adjust their hair.

I asked Saskia to come to lunch, but it wasn't lunchtime yet. It wasn't even noon. It was too early, and I couldn't buy a hamburger.

I stopped at the hall junction and looked both ways. The cafeteria lay at the end of the left corridor. To the right, an exit to the school grounds. It wasn't raining outside. I turned and walked outside. She followed me without a word.

We passed the smoking pit where students stood around a five-gallon bucket filled with wet sand and cigarette butts, and walked to the crest of the hill overlooking the parking lot. The sky was overcast, but the clouds were breaking up. Sunlight shot through the gaps in the clouds, like pillars.

We stood and looked out over the town for several minutes. I was going to suggest that we go inside when I felt her arm brush mine. I suddenly became aware of how close Saskia was to me. There was a small breeze from my left and she stood on my right, edging closer to me for shelter. Her hands tucked deep into her coat pockets. She stared down the hill and leaned against me.

I didn't move. I barely breathed. Normally, if someone touched me for so long, I would hasten to move away. I would push their arm off of mine. I would suggest that they give me space. I didn't do this with Saskia. Instead, I leaned a little into her. I pushed back a little on her arm. To my surprise, she didn't pull away. She moved closer.

This is
, said a thread.
I don't even
—

I grew uncomfortable and turned, just as she turned, and suddenly we were facing each other, my face inches from hers. She was shorter than me, and my lips were level with her eyes. She looked down but tilted her head forward.

I could smell her hair; the shampoo she used had a scent of lavender. It washed over me, wrapping me like a quilt. I half closed my eyes and felt myself lowering my head toward her, until my lips were nearly resting on her eyebrows. We were so close that the random movements of our bodies brought us into brief contact, the feel of her eyelashes touching my lips, the feel of her rapid breath on my neck. The feel of her fingers against mine for a fleeting instant. They lightly brushed the back of my hand, the tips tracing down to my knuckles.

We stood that way.

Why don't you say something?
the threads asked.

What should I say? I asked back.

We got nothing
, the threads admitted.

The lunch bell rang. So I knew what to say.

“Let's go get lunch.”

She nodded and we walked to the cafeteria in silence. On the way there, the threads kept asking the same question.

Why is your heart beating so fast?

We sat at the lunch table. I sat directly across from her. It made it harder to look at the wall, but I did it anyway.

For the first few minutes, we said nothing. I chewed my cheeseburger, and she ate her sandwich. When she finished it, she pulled out her journal and began to draw spiralling circles, triangles nested inside each other, zigzag lines.

“Danny Hardwick called me a retard,” I said. “But I'm not a retard.”

She paused, then began sketching again.

A moment later, my phone vibrated.

I'll be late tonight
, my father texted.
Thaw out some chili.

Okay
, I replied.

Then two things, two unexpected behaviours, happened in rapid succession.

The first unexpected behaviour was that Saskia lunged across the table and snatched my phone out of my hands. It happened so quickly that I flinched only a split second after she had pulled it from me.

That was the second unexpected behaviour: I flinched. I am rarely surprised. I am rarely alarmed. My dad stopped shouting Boo! at me when I was five years old because it never startled me.

But Saskia startled me.

She sat back and I leaned forward, mouth open, staring at the phone in her hands. She tapped away, swiped left, then right. Her thumbs flying, she typed something. Then she stopped. For a second she regarded the phone,
my
phone, tapped and swiped the screen two more times, then put it on the table. She pushed the phone toward me even as her free hand began to draw in her journal.

I reached over and took back my phone.

She had entered herself as a contact.

I lay my phone on the lunch table in front of me. I didn't touch it. I stared at it as if it were nearly dead but could leap up at any moment. I was at a loss for what to do, and the threads were of little help.

Could you just delete her from your contact list?
they suggested.

I could.

She stole your phone. Should you report her?

I could do that, too.

You could text her.

I hadn't considered that.

—

I've had a phone in my pocket for the last four years. It's rung nineteen times. Each time, except once, it was Bill, and each time our conversation was short. But I haven't had a phone call from him for nine months. He learned to text message me.
Where the hell are you?
he usually texts.

Few others have messaged me. I made the mistake of giving my number to Oscar Tolstoy and he had bombarded me with text messages on the hour.

The newest edition of the Beckett price guide is in bookstores today
, he texted.

I didn't reply.

A rookie card is the first licensed issue from a major manufacturer
, he texted,
and not the first card on which an athlete appears
.

I didn't reply.

Ken Griffey Jr.'s rookie card was not included in the Topps base set of baseball cards
, he texted.

I changed my phone number.

Now my phone lies dormant, save for the messages from Bill that seep through. I like the sudden slight surprise when my phone vibrates, informing me that a rare new text has arrived. I like the special moment in between picking up the phone and looking at the message. I like the momentary stuttering of the threads, as they shoulder each other to the side.

Who's calling?
the threads demand.

Well, let's find out.

And then I see it's Bill. So I put the phone back in my pocket.

Oh well
, the threads shrug.
False alarm.

But now there was a new name that could potentially appear on my phone. My list of contact was now my list of contacts.

I stared at the phone. I considered sending a text to Saskia. It merited consideration: I had never texted someone except in response.

Why would you text her?
the threads asked.

We could communicate about chemistry class.

What is there to communicate about?

Nothing.

Try again.

I could have texted her to come to lunch instead of having to find her.

But she may not have answered. She was with Danny Hardwick.

But she didn't want to be with him.

She needed your help.

She can text me when she needs help.

That works.

I typed,
This is a test text message
and sent it to her.

Very nice
, said the threads.
Smooth.

Three minutes later, my phone vibrated. I looked at the message.

this guns for higher

Two minutes after that, she sent me another message.

even if your just dancing in the dark

A minute later, she texted me again.

hey baby

She did this three more times over the next fifteen minutes. I looked at each message but did nothing more. She was simply typing words, sending them to me. She was listening to Bruce Springsteen's “Dancing in the Dark.” I could hear it playing on her headphones.

—

Later that day, near the end of chemistry class, she texted me as I read from my textbook.

what are you doing

“I'm studying chemistry,” I said to her.

A minute later, she texted me again.

what are you doing

“I'm studying chemistry,” I said, annoyed.

The third time she texted me to ask what I was doing, I opened my mouth to reply but stopped. Instead, I texted back:

I'm studying chemistry. Do your work.

all right

goodbye

Five minutes later:

why

Why what?

why did you send me a test text

You may need to text me, and I wanted you to have my number.

why

Because you may need my help.

If you need help, type h.

h

Do you need help?

no

Only type h when you need help.

only wen I need elp

You can use h in words.

it was a joke

Okay.

Five minutes later:

say saskia do you want to try it

Saskia, do you want to try it?

h

“Do you need help?” I asked.

She put the phone down and lifted her hands, clasping them open and shut quickly. She picked up the phone.

no thanks

goodbye

We continued our studies.

I don't remember what I was studying. Just that it was with my friend.

In my life, I've had four true friends, although I am not counting Gordon, my hamster. My parents were the first two. Saskia Stiles was and is the third.

The fourth was Jack Sweat, and we became friends because he was a brute of a young man, plain in form and function. His eyes were intense, his tone deep, and his words sparse. He preferred the language of motion and that was why we were friends.

He attended a nondescript school three blocks from his home and was the captain of the wrestling team. He could have gone to any number of schools. Everyone wanted him, but a public school got him. He needed to be close to home: on weekends and some evenings, he worked at his father's store, the Butcher's Shop.

Jack Sweat was one of the few people who still stayed around after I told him I was autistic. He said he didn't hold it against me. And then he hit me.

But I hit him back, so we were even.

—

Behind the Butcher's Shop was a boxing club called the Butcher's Gym. Both were owned by Jack's father, Leonard Sweat. In his prime, before he became a butcher by trade, he was known as one by name. He was the Butcher in the simplest of ways: a relentless fighter, he never quit, was never knocked down, and never failed to finish a fight. At the end of twelve rounds, he sometimes looked like a slab of meat.

In the end, his career battled itself to a draw and he hung up his gloves. The Butcher turned his nickname into a name when he bought a meat shop at the edge of downtown. After that, he opened a gym and trained others for a different kind of meat processing. That was where I met Jack Sweat for the first time.

—

I opened my eyes
and I was fourteen, standing outside the Butcher's Gym. Bill drove me down, dropped me off, and drove away, all at my request. “You don't want your dad walking you in to get boxing lessons, do you?” he said, and then he nodded. “Fair enough. Who
would
want that?”

The front of the Butcher's Gym is painted yellow and black. Plate glass runs across most of it, floor to ceiling. When people look inside, they see a boxing ring and an octagon and someone training in at least one of them. From seven in the morning to ten at night, the gym is never empty.

Except on Sundays, when the gym is closed. Nobody gets to beat anyone up on the Sabbath.

I walked in the front door of the Butcher's Gym and stood at the edge of the carpet. The place was hot; it smelled like wet socks. A compressor ran in the corner, cooling the meat in the freezer of the Butcher's Shop next door. It made an overriding background noise so consistent in tone and tremor that, within thirty seconds of being in the room, the sound was forgotten.

An athlete methodically punched the third heavy bag in a row of five. A man with a white towel on his shoulder held the bag. When he saw me, he let go and walked over.

He was short with a thick brow, feral eyes, hairy arms and hands. His face bore the history of someone who had boxed all his life. His nose skewed at arguing angles, his ears cauliflowered, and thick scar tissue made his forehead look armour plated.

“Help you?” he asked.

“I'm here against my will,” I said. The man looked at me, frowning.

No, that's not right
, a thread said.
Try again.

I said, “I want to talk to the Butcher.”