Everyday Hero (11 page)

We didn’t speak. Finally Megan sat up and picked at the grass. She sprinkled it like
green confetti over her boots.

“You’ve got to understand. I don’t want to go back,” she said.

“Because of the bus trip?”

“No. Because I don’t want to live with my mom and stepdad,” she said.

I wondered why, but I didn’t ask because I don’t like it when people ask me questions.

“I—” She pulled at the grass, yanking out clumps, the dirt still clinging to the
roots. “He’s a jerk.”

Jerk—a quick, sharp, sudden movement.

“He’s mean,” she said.

I still didn’t understand.

“Do I have to spell it out? He hits me.” She threw a handful of torn grass.

Hit—to bring one’s hand or a tool or a weapon into contact with someone or something
quickly and forcefully
.

“But that is wrong,” I said.

Megan laughed. “Duh.”

“That is hands-on behavior.”

“Yeah, well, guess what. He missed that lecture.” She laughed again.

“You should tell an adult, or call the police.”

I remembered a police officer, Constable McNaughty, who had visited our old school.
He’d said that if someone was hurting us, we should tell an adult.

“I can phone Constable McNaughty,” I said.

“No!” Megan shouted the word, twisting her body so that she faced me. “No! Don’t!
Don’t interfere. You’ve done enough. And it will make things worse. I only told
you so you’d understand why I
can’t go back and…and so you’d stop following me around
Vancouver.”

“But he did something wrong. He should be punished.”

Megan shrugged. “I wish I lived in your world.”

“But you do.”

“Nah, not so much.”

I wondered what she meant. Only a few people, like astronauts, had been out of our
world. “You are not an astronaut,” I said.

“No, no. It’s not that. I mean, everything is so black and white in your world.”

This is also not true. Asperger’s does not result in color blindness. “I perceive
colors like anyone else,” I said.

“I didn’t mean…whatever.”

Then I remembered how Dad had said that she looked like a girl with a problem. “So
that is your problem. Your stepfather hitting you. That is a problem.”

“Yeah, you could say.”

“So you don’t actually have bad hand-eye coordination. Those bruises?”

“Him. So you understand now. And you’ll let me get on the bus?”

“It is against the rules to hit. You should tell the police,” I repeated.

Megan stood. The chains on her belt rattled. I stood also. She pushed her fingers
through her hair. “Do you know what they’d do if I told your Constable McNaughty?”

I shook my head.

“They’d put me in foster care.”

“Is that bad?” I asked.

“Don’t you know anything? Yeah, it’s bad. Besides, my stepdad would find a way to
get back at me or take it out on my mom.”

Again I was silent. I wasn’t sure what
take it out
meant.

“Alice,” Megan said after a moment, her voice so soft I had to lean forward to hear
her. “I can’t go back. I’m scared.”

“Count. I count when I am scared,” I said.

“Then I’d be counting forever…to…like, infinity. Some things, you know, like a bus
ride—they end. This—this doesn’t end. It—it gets worse.”

“My mom says running away doesn’t fix a problem.”

“That’s dumb, and you know what? Your mom’s dumb sayings and all your dumb rules—they
don’t work in the real world.”

I didn’t know what to say. I felt like I had in Hawaii, the sand disappearing under
my feet.

I remembered that when I was in kindergarten a boy had hit me with a Thomas train.
The teacher had taken the Thomas train away because hitting was against the rules.
Then he had hit me with a plastic dinosaur. And the teacher had taken the dinosaur
away because hitting was against the rules.

“Hitting is against the rules,” I said.

“And that’s all that matters?”

“Yes,” I said.

***

“Come on,” Megan said, standing up with a rattle of chains.

We’d sat on the grass so long that my legs were numb and the rear of my pants felt
damp.

“Where?”

“Your house, I guess,” Megan said.

“It is my grandparents’ house, and it is sold. You’re not running away?”

She shook her head. “Not today.”

We stood and slowly walked back down the hill toward my grandparents’ house. I counted
our footsteps. When we went in, I saw Mom standing at the stove. Steam rose from
a saucepan and something boiled with a
plop-plop-plop
.

“Thank goodness,” she said when we walked in.

“Told you she could look after herself,” Grandpa said. He stood in the place where
the kitchen table had been, leaning on his walker.

“I got a saucepan and a couple of bowls out of the packing box if you want soup,”
Mom said.

“Four bowls,” I said.

The kitchen smelled of chicken soup. This is a good smell.

“Nah, I don’t need food,” Megan said.

Mom said nothing but ladled the soup into the bowls, putting one in front of Megan.
The table was gone, so we sat on stools at the counter.

“I’m glad you came back,” Mom said to Megan.

Megan shrugged with a jangle of chains. “Why would you care?” She traced her finger
along the
metal outline of the spoon, not picking it up. Spirals of steam rose from
her bowl.

“Because…” Mom paused. “Because Alice wouldn’t have come home without you.”

The corners of Megan’s mouth lifted. “I guess that’s true.”

***

The moving van came the next day. Megan and I had slept in sleeping bags that Mom
had also pulled out of a box. I slept in the room upstairs. I’d slept there before,
so at least the window was in the right place.

In the morning, we’d rolled up the sleeping bags and stuffed them back into the box.
We’d also cleaned the bowls and the saucepan and packed them as well.

Mom had said that I could stay with her at a hotel for a few days, just until we
got my grandparents unpacked and settled, and then we could go home. She said Megan
could stay too.

I do not like staying in hotels, but I didn’t want to go on the bus again. Besides,
Mom said that she would get a suite, even though it was expensive,
so I could have
my own room, and that she would make sure that it was nonsmoking and was not near
the kitchen or the swimming pool.

Megan didn’t say anything. She didn’t say she would stay with us, but she didn’t
say she would not. I didn’t ask because I do not like being asked questions.

Most of the morning, Megan and I stood silently at the front window, staring at the
maple trees and watching the moving men load Grandma and Grandpa’s belongings into
the van. A lot of pieces were going to storage because there was no room for them
at the old-age home.

The spring sunshine shone through the diamond-paned frames. It felt almost warm,
and I didn’t mind standing there and counting the boxes as they were piled into the
van.

At last Megan spoke. “I think you’re brave, you know.”

I blinked.
Brave
means
willing to face danger, pain or trouble; not afraid; having
courage
.

“I screamed every morning in kindergarten,” I said.

“People think I’m tough. I’m not.”

“But…” I thought about how tall she was and how the kids stepped to one side when
she walked by and how she had helped me take the bus and go on the carousel.

“You’re braver than me. You’re the bravest person I know. You’re like a hero.” Megan
spoke the words in a rush.

Hero
comes before
mineralize
. It means
a person admired for his or her great deeds.

“I haven’t done any great deeds,” I said.

“Your whole life is a great deed. You’re always doing things even when you’re freaked.”

“Counting helps,” I said.

Megan smiled. She put out her hand, spreading her fingers so that our fingertips
touched. “I’ve decided to be like you,” she said.

“You can’t catch Asperger’s.” There are some things, like colds and flu and chicken
pox, that people can catch through viruses. Asperger’s isn’t one of them.

“I mean, I’m going to do things even when I’m scared.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to tell a social worker about my stepdad.”

She spoke loudly, her words reverberating around the empty house like she was making
a presentation in front of the class or onstage.

“My mom is a social worker,” I said. “Maybe you could talk to her. But what are you
going to tell?” I asked.

“That my stepfather hits me and my mom.”

“Hitting is against the rules,” I said.

“Yes.” Megan started to laugh “It really is that simple, isn’t it?”

She put her hand up, and our fingertips touched again.

“A hero?” I said in wonder. I had not thought I could be a hero.

Just like I had not thought I could be a friend.

I smiled, aware of a tingling, bubbling feeling in my body. I remembered going around
and around on the carousel and how my chest had felt warm and full and fluttery.

“But are heroes average in type, appearance, achievement, function and development?”
I asked.

“Huh?”

“Is a hero average in type, appearance, achievement, function and development?”
I repeated.

“Heroes are not average. That’s what makes them special.” Megan looked at me. “You
okay?”

“Yes,” I said, even though I usually do not like questions. “Yes, definitely. I am…okay.”

Epilogue

My mother stopped being a sandwich and we flew home—Mom and Megan and I. (Mom flew
back down to Vancouver two weeks later to make certain that Grandpa and Grandma were
still doing fine and adjusting to their new home. Then she came back and stayed with
us in Kitimat.)

Megan told the Ministry for Children and Family Development that her stepdad hit
her. She did not go into foster care because Mom arranged for her to stay with us.
Mom is a social worker, although she doesn’t have a job right now.

Mom and Dad argued about telling the school that I have Asperger’s. Mom said that
it would be better if the teachers knew. She said that she’d
contact my old school
and find out what had happened to the confidential file. Then it would be sent to
my new school.

She said that once the teachers and the principal knew I had Asperger’s, they would
make
accommodations
and I wouldn’t get detentions.

Accommodations
doesn’t have anything to do with hotels. It means that the teachers
would understand me better and I wouldn’t have to change for gym in the locker room
or go to cooking class if the recipe included onions.

Dad said that detentions hadn’t done me any harm. They’d done me good, if anything.
It was good luck that the file had never arrived, and we shouldn’t interfere now.

That’s when I told them to stop arguing.

I said, “I will decide. If I can be a hero, I can decide what we should tell my teachers.”

After that, Mom and Dad looked at each other.

“You know, I think you’re right,” Dad said.

“But—” Mom started, a frown puckering her forehead.

“I am a hero
and
a friend,” I said. “Besides, this is about me. So I should decide.”

Mom lips curved upward. “I think you’re growing up,” she said.

“I am five feet five inches.”

Mom’s lips curved upward more. “Fine. It is your decision. You decide.”

I went to my room. I opened my music box. I wound it up and watched the ballerinas
twirl and twirl and twirl.

I watched for forty-five minutes, and then I made my decision. I decided that I would
tell my principal and my teachers that I have Asperger Syndrome. We would phone my
old school and find the confidential file. Then my teachers would understand me
better and not get angry when I couldn’t go to cooking class or change in the locker
room.

Yes, I would tell them that I have Asperger’s.

But I would also tell them that I was a friend and I was a hero.

I would tell them that I was not average in type, appearance, achievement, function
and development.

But then, being average is highly overrated.

And, average or not, I was okay.

Totally, completely and absolutely okay.

Acknowledgments

I acknowledge the love, support, patience and encouragement of my family, who have
put up with my continued fascination with the written word and long hours tapping
at the keyboard. And, as always, I will be forever grateful to my mother and father,
who taught me to love reading and books.

Author’s note

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents
are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner.
Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Kathleen Cherry
lives in northern British Columbia with her husband and two daughters.
She is a school counselor and is currently pursuing her doctoral degree in psychology.
Kathleen loves working with children and empowering them to develop their creativity
through writing. She enjoys visiting school classrooms and libraries. As well as
writing, Kathleen also loves to run, travel and read. For more information, visit
www.kathleencherry.ca
.