Free Do You Think This Is Strange? by Aaron Cully Drake Page A

attended the same therapy sessions.”
    He tapped at his computer and went through various screens. “I see,” he said. “So you know she’s autistic.”
    â€œShe has PDD - NOS ,” I said.
    He squinted at his computer screen. “No, no,” he corrected me. “She’s autistic.”
    â€œSaskia Stiles is on the spectrum,” I agreed. “But her diagnosis is Pervasive Development Disorder, Not Otherwise Specified. PDD - NOS .”
    He pointed at his computer screen. “It says here she has—”
    â€œNo,” I said. “She has PDD - NOS .”
    He closed his laptop. “Potato, potahto,” he allowed. “So, she’s your friend, then?”
    I didn’t reply.
    No one says potahto.
    â€”
    Listen : Here is how I knew Saskia Stiles had this diagnosis. She told me, eleven years ago. She was excited about it.
    â€œI have Puh-DID-noss!” she shouted, jumping up and down. I didn’t understand what she was saying.
    Nine days later, I overheard my mother and father talking about Saskia, and my mother said, “She has PDD - NOS .”
    I realized then that Saskia knew that she was diagnosed with PDD - NOS because she had read it. And she pronounced it PuhDiDNoSs.
    The things you remember.

THE TRANSFER OF SASKIA STILES
TO MY CHEMISTRY CLASS
    Jim Worley was not a man who let ideas linger, good or bad. Saskia Stiles was an idea.
    â€œI think we can build on this,” he said and looked at me. I continued to stare at the wall. He didn’t say anything more and I realized I was expected to answer a question he hadn’t asked. Those are the worst kinds of questions.
    â€œWhat?” I said.
    â€œI said we can build on this.”
    â€œWhat?” I said.
    â€œWe can build on sitting at the same table as Saskia Stiles.”
    â€œYes,” I agreed.
    He nodded and made a temple out of his fingers. “Excellent,” he explained.
    â€œWhat,” I agreed.
    â€œIt’s fortuitous that the two of you met.” He said the words slowly, with a serious expression. “Do you understand what ‘fortuitous’ means?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œTell me, then.”
    â€œTo be fortuitous is to have the characteristic of experiencing good fortune.”
    â€œI suppose, I suppose.” He opened a folder on his desk and lifted a sheet of paper. “Saskia Stiles is in your grade. Takes the same classes as you. She’s also—” He stopped and looked at me. Paused. “—a loner. Like you.”
    â€œI’m not a loner. I’m an anthropophobe.”
    He blinked. “A what?”
    â€œI suffer from anthropophobia.”
    He opened a second folder and rifled through the papers. “I don’t—” he said, distracted. “It doesn’t say anything here about—”
    â€œI have a condition where I don’t enjoy interacting with others. At times it’s an irrational feeling and, therefore, a phobia.”
    He leaned forward. “When were you diagnosed with that?”
    â€œI’m self-diagnosed,” I explained.
    â€œOh,” he said and looked at a sheet in his folder again. He looked at another. Picked up another sheet. Put it down. “I see,” he said.
    He didn’t.
    â€œThis is a nice chair,” I offered.
    â€”
    Saskia Stiles was transferred to my chemistry class the next day.
    Jim Worley seemed pleased that we got along. He believed it was synchronous. She was non-verbal, and I didn’t like talking to people. It seemed to him, I expect, an ideal match. From that perspective, Jim Worley was a very insightful man.
    Saskia Stiles walked into my class only a few minutes after I took my seat at the back of the room. Her headphones ever over her wool cap. Her notebook ever present. She clutched it and her textbook to her chest like a breastplate. Hunched over, she looked down and moved with short quick steps, as if she were