scrubbing the floor with her feet.
She sat at the empty table next to mine. Like every other table, it seated four, on tall stools. At the centre of the table was a sink and a natural gas outlet for the Bunsen burners. She laid her books down, took off her backpack, and opened her notebook.
I also sat by myself. When I first came to this class, people tried to engage me, or become lab partners with me. Usually, it was a girl who sat with me. While this may sound amenable to a typical teenage boy, it was annoying to me. Girls like to talk .
I had endured several lab partners. Now, people rarely sat with me; it didnât take long for the others to learn I was a poor conversationalist. I said things that werenât in the proper context of the conversation. I said things that werenât in the proper context of the silence. I said things that sometimes startled them. So now, I sat alone.
Saskia and I sat silently, each at our own table, waiting for the class to begin, looking at the blackboard. It was the sensible thing to do.
And then she began testing the taps. On. Off. On again.
When the chemistry teacher walked into the classroom, he put down his notes and looked directly at Saskia.
âYoung lady,â he said. âStop playing with the water.â
She ignored him. Perhaps she didnât hear him, but I think she did.
âYoung lady!â His palm slammed the desktop. âHey!â
The end to this was not going to be happy, I could see, especially if he did the thing he appeared about to do: walk up and grab her, or even try to take her headphones off. At best, there would be a confrontation. At worst, there would be a one-person riot.
A deer in the city , said the threads.
Shut up, I explained.
Mr. Pringle stepped away from his desk, his jaw tight, his brow furrowed. He breathed through his nose.
âMr. Chips,â I said, softly, but clearly, crisply, as if I were speaking from the ranks at reveille.
Seriously? asked the threads.
Mr. Pringle stopped, mid-step, frozen. His eyes snapped to mine, then his head slowly followed suit.
âWhat,â he said, his lips parted, his teeth clamped together, âdid you just say?â
I stared at my textbook and turned pages slowly. âShe canât hear you,â I said. âShe has her headphones on.â I flipped the pages of my textbook back and forth.
He looked at me, then back at her. âWell, sheâd better bloody well take them off,â he said. âTell her to take them off.â
âBut she wonât take them off.â
âThe hell she wonât.â
âThe hell she will ,â I replied, then turned the pages faster.
I could feel his glare. He stared at me for ten seconds. My mouth dried, I began to sweat, and I felt a pressing need to swallow. Then he went back to his desk and shuffled through his papers. Seeing a red manila folder on his desk, he picked it up and opened it. As he read it, he glanced up at Saskia three times.
âAutistic,â he said. âGreat.â
Heads turned. Eyes fell on Saskia, the newest artifact of interest in the class.
âP.D.D.N.O.S.â I said.
Mr. Pringle looked at me. âChrist, Wyland, now what?â
âI donât know,â I hastily responded. I had meant to say nothing at all. I wasnât interested in a conversation. Not another one. Iâd already had one, earlier in the day, with Jim Worley. That was enough.
âOkay,â said Mr. Pringle. He slammed his folder shut and put it down on the desk. âDo you know her?â
âYes.â
He considered her as she ran a pencil back and forth under the water. Slight squeaks, barely audible above the sound of the central air coming from the ceiling above her, popped from her lips.
Mr. Pringle nodded. âCongratulations, professor, sheâs now your lab partner, and your responsibility. Go sit beside her. And, for Godâs sake, get her to stop playing