It was sixth grade’s turn to do the fitness tests of curl-ups and push-ups. I was subbing for the coach’s sidekick and monitoring the students who were waiting for their turn to curl and push. It would have been impossible for me not to notice the skinny boy with long brown hair that hung down past his eyes. He would every few minutes shake his head and then carefully go over his hair with his hand. I was impressed with his performance of doing more curls and pushes than most of his peers. I wondered if he was perhaps only shy or if he was somewhere on the spectrum too.
The kindergarten class was excited when the coach told them they would be going outside for P.E. Not so much when they were told they would be walking laps around the cones on the field. I walked with them thinking if they saw an “old” person do it, then surely they could do it too. A “kinder” who is on the spectrum chose not to walk with the others but chose me instead. Her talking up a storm relieved me of having to talk much. I was briefed on her life story. She lived with grandma during the week and with her parents only on weekends. I asked if she liked living with grandma and she shook her head no. She didn’t like the arrangement. As she put it, it was “sad”.
The tax man cometh. He had finished the paperwork and called Mom saying he’d be right over for her to sign so he could then file her taxes. Her 58-year-old daughter made the excuse of going to her favorite store to do some window shopping. She didn’t want to go through meeting a new person and do the introductions. I’m still growing up on the spectrum.