How to Say I Love You Out Loud (6 page)

Somehow, miraculously, Phillip and I survive our first week together at Valley Forge without any major disasters. (Fifty-three days to go.) Although, the word
together
doesn’t really apply. I do everything I can to keep my distance from him, to distance myself from the reality of his presence altogether.

Still, there are a few minor mishaps the second week.

The first almost incident happens on Tuesday afternoon when Alex and I are standing beside our Gifted teacher’s desk, looking for a stapler during independent study. I notice the daily
attendance sheet that goes out to teachers, listing who is absent, who’s coming in late, and who’s leaving early. My brother has an appointment with his neurologist this afternoon.
Phillip Michaelson. His name is in print, right there, an inch away from Alex’s thumb.

I hold my breath, waiting for the inevitable dawning of recognition. The question that will certainly follow. My entire body is tense as I stare at the paper, wishing the name on the page into
oblivion.

Alex finds the stapler under a folder, holds it up to me with a smile, and returns to the table. In reality, I doubt he even glanced at the attendance sheet. In the meantime, I’m on the
brink of hyperventilation.

The second almost incident occurs on Thursday. I’m standing in the lobby, first thing in the morning, with the entirety of the varsity hockey team. Leighton is handing out “spirit
ribbons”—curlicues of maroon and silver to wear in our ponytails—in preparation for our afternoon game. I look up while fastening Erin’s ribbon onto her long ponytail and
make eye contact with Terry Roth.

Terry Roth is Phillip’s Behavior Support Consultant, his BSC, from one of the outside agencies whose goal it is to provide support to Phillip across the home and school settings. Terry
Roth has worked with our family for over two years, staying with us even after the move, and she’s spent countless hours in our home. But now she’s in my school, walking toward the main
office, familiar purple plastic clipboard in hand.

She notices me, and a bright smile graces her friendly face as she lifts her hand to wave. Terry knows me well—we’re friendly rivals across the board of the special-edition SpongeBob
Connect 4 game she bought in the hopes of enticing Phillip into group activities. She changes course slightly, as if she might be coming over to say hello.

But I do not give her the chance. I lower my head, turn on my heel, and snatch one of the ribbons out of Leighton’s hand. I hurry toward homeroom, hastily tying the bow into my hair,
ignoring the curious stares from my teammates.

I close my eyes as I walk, trying very hard not to envision the hurt, confused expression that likely replaced Terry’s smile.

It’s Friday afternoon when the third almost incident happens. I’m not being particularly careful, because it’s Friday afternoon and I just need to grab a forgotten textbook
from my locker before saying “adios!” to school for the weekend. The final bell has rung and several juniors and seniors are loitering in the junction between hallways, making plans for
the weekend.

My brother rounds the corner, heading in the direction of the boys’ bathroom, surprising me. Anne trails him closely, ensuring his trip to the bathroom occurs without incident. He is
wearing his gym shorts, despite the unseasonably cool fall weather, and his headphones. Even with the headphones in place, I watch as his hands fly to his ears, the noise of other teenagers
socializing around him still loud and unpleasant.

Phillip doesn’t notice as heads turn in his direction; he never does. He just continues on his course, shaking his head and making little grunting noises as he attempts to block out his
surroundings.

I am frozen in place—a deer attempting to camouflage itself among the foliage—as Phillip comes closer and closer.

But there’s no cause for my worry.

Phillip’s eyes meet mine briefly as he passes, but he looks right through me. His conceptualization of the world is black and white, and to him, Jordyn belongs at home. He does not expect
me here, and there is no sign of recognition; my presence doesn’t spark the hint of a smile.

A surprising pain grips my chest.

As much as I didn’t want my brother to call attention to me . . . it hurts that my brother didn’t even recognize me.

I mean nothing to him and have no impact on his world whatsoever. I might as well be another stranger, whose only purpose in life is to irritate him. I might as well be an object.

As I hurry toward the door, I find myself thinking of the pictures in our family photo album, the ones of my nearly two-year-old self seated in an oversized armchair, a swaddled newborn bundle
placed very carefully in my arms. In the first picture I’m a combination of petrified and shell-shocked. But in the second picture I’m smiling, bending forward so I can gently plant a
kiss on my baby brother’s head.

I guess I’d decided pretty quickly that having a sibling might be a pretty cool thing. I guess I inherently knew how to love my baby brother.

As it turned out, I never really got a brother at all. Sometimes being reminded of this can leave me feeling very sad and alone, even when I’m struggling to acknowledge that that brother
exists in the first place.

It is Monday morning, forty-six days left according to my countdown, when disaster strikes.

I am unprepared, not expecting it. It’s Monday morning, after all, and my guard is down after two weeks of near incidents that never amounted into anything more.

Nothing about the meltdown should have surprised me.

Phillip hates Monday mornings as much as the next person . . . and ten times more than that. After hiding out in our house all weekend, having to return to school pisses him off royally.

Anne is absent, and there is a substitute, a tall, dark-haired male, in her place. Phillip hates substitutes. He hates unfamiliar, unexpected faces barging into his personal space. Men in
particular seem to set him off.

And at 10:02, when the hallways are filled with students transitioning between classes, the vice principal decides it’s a stellar time for an unannounced fire drill.

Bright red and white lights flash like strobes from the top corner of every hallway. Then there’s the noise, a piercing, persistent, drawn-out
bleeeeeeep
that just won’t
stop. It hurts my ears, it’s so loud and unnatural.

Even so, Phillip’s screams can be heard above it.

On instinct, I am pulled toward them, even though I should be joining the group of kids filing neatly out the nearest set of double doors.

The screaming intensifies, and I jog toward it, joining the crowd of my peers who have gathered, fire drill ignored, as they all stare, silent and openmouthed, at the display that is my brother.
They clutch at their book bags, or cling to the arms of their significant others, half terrified of the crazed animal on the floor before them.

Phillip has apparently thrown his book bag, and books and papers have spilled out of it. He has removed his shoes and peeled off his socks, and as I approach, I see him hurl one of the shoes in
the direction of the substitute one-on-one assistant. “Stupid! Dumbass!” The second shoe is thrown. “It may be stupid, but it’s also dumb!”

SpongeBob has reemerged.

He yanks at his hair, tugs on his earlobes.

“Stupid dumbass. Phillip goes to Bridges. Put the apples in the basket. THE APPLES GO IN THE BASKET!”

Some of Phillip’s rants I can make sense of. I have no idea what the apples are about. The words could mean a million different things or nothing at all.

I end up as frozen and helpless as everyone else.

Phillip wriggles around on the floor as his fight-or-flight responses battle each other. One moment he is curling himself into a protective fetal position, squeezing his eyes shut, clenching his
teeth, and stuffing his fingers into his ears. He cries out, as if pained by the flashing lights and relentless noise. The next moment he is lashing out—eyes wild, face red, as he unfurls his
long, thin legs and attempts to kick the substitute in the shins.

The one-on-one dodges the blows. I can tell he’s trying to maintain a semblance of calm, but his hands are shaking as he fumbles with Phillip’s binder, which is way too thick for him
to possibly have reviewed this morning, looking for some type of guidance in its pages.

Eventually, he finds some page of instructions and tries to prompt my brother to use his words in a more appropriate way. “Phillip wants . . . Phillip needs . . . ,” he
encourages.

Phillip retreats and curls back into the fetal position. He is crying again. “My blocks! My blocks! Put the apples in the basket! Why . . . aren’t . . . the . . . apples . . . in . .
. the . . . basket?” My brother’s tears turn hysterical. “Phillip wants blocks. Phillip needs blocks,” he sobs.

The substitute’s face tightens with frustration. He has no idea whatsoever what Phillip wants or needs.

I do. I can help.

Phillip has called his headphones his “blocks” for as long as he’s worn them. It’s a term that makes sense to him, I guess, since they do such a good job blocking out all
the sounds Phillip tries to avoid. I don’t know why he doesn’t have them with him for a hallway transition, but the substitute probably didn’t have a chance to make it to that
page of his binder.

I don’t know a lot of things, though.

I don’t know why it didn’t occur to the vice principal to give a heads-up to the new Autistic Support classroom that a fire drill was coming and that it probably wouldn’t be a
good idea to be in the halls after third period.

I don’t know why I can’t move even though I want to.

I don’t know why I don’t push my way through the crowd and rush to help my brother, as I’m the one person there who knows what he needs. It could be the sheer size of the
crowd, nearly thirty juniors and seniors by this point. Maybe it’s because I notice Leighton and Dana standing front and center among the group, or because I notice that the surprise and
panic has lessened for some, and there are a few people actually starting to giggle. It could be nervous laughter, sure, but it’s still laughter.

At that moment, Mr. Daniels, our principal, appears from around the corner, walkie-talkie in hand. He takes one look at my brother on the floor and his eyes widen in shock. He blocks
Phillip’s body with his, as if everyone hadn’t already seen enough.

“This is a fire drill, gang,” he reminds us, voice loud and stern. He points toward the
EXIT
sign. “Outside. Now!”

My classmates duck their heads and shuffle toward the door. I join them, tucking my chin as I go, like someone very purposely avoiding staring at an accident scene as I step around Phillip.

But, keeping an eye out to make sure the principal isn’t watching me, I step out of line. I duck into the darkened entrance-way to the girls’ bathroom and wait.

“I think it’s the alarm that set him off,” the substitute tells Mr. Daniels.

I roll my eyes.
No shit.

“Let me run to the boiler room,” Mr. Daniels answers. “I can cut the alarm from there.” He turns on his heel and strides away.

When he rounds the corner, I spring into action. I’m at Phillip’s side in a flash, not bothering to explain my presence or purpose to the one-on-one. I drop to my knees, my own hands
shaking as I unzip the front pouch of Phillip’s bag, where I know a spare pair of headphones are stashed. They are not as high quality as the Bose pair, but hopefully they’ll do.

My brother’s eyes are shut and he’s still sobbing. If I could, I would wrap my arms around him, or at least squeeze his hand to alert him to my presence. But in such an agitated
state, my touch is not welcome. It would pain him further.

I keep my voice even and clear. “Here are your blocks, Phillip. Jordyn’s putting on your blocks. They’ll help.”

I carefully arrange the headphones on his ears and sit back on my heels. His body relaxes minutely, hands beginning to uncurl from fists, the set of his jaw slackening.

Thirty seconds later, the alarm stops. The wide, empty hallway is unnaturally quiet, Phillip’s residual cries echoing off the metal lockers.

I start to rise and my brother surprises me by grabbing at my hand. His uncertain, watery eyes meet mine. “Tell Jordyn ‘thank you’?”

I hold his gaze and nod quickly, conveying my understanding. Somewhere within his convoluted speech patterns, he is expressing his gratitude.

Before the substitute can ask a single question of me, I am gone, joining the crowd outside as if I’d always been a part of it.

That same afternoon, I have independent study with Alex.

As I walk into the small room, I’m devoid of the troubling mix of foolish anticipation and faint sadness that I usually bring with me to the Gifted classroom.

Phillip’s disability can be a powerful thing, trapping not only Phillip behind its walls, but other people, too. After the fire-drill incident, I feel displaced and distant. Not only is my
mind a million miles away, but it feels like my body is, too. My perception of the morning’s events, my understanding of them . . . they’re so different from everyone else’s. As
gossip circulates about “the new crazy kid who went psycho in the hallway,” it’s clear that no one realizes I was involved.

Certainly not Erin, who innocently wondered aloud at lunch if the boy was “crazy, or maybe retarded, or what?”

So when I see Alex already seated at the table, I’m not affected the way I normally am.

He looks up, adorable as ever in a distressed plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows, and smiles at once. “Hey, Michaelson. Happy Monday!”

Alex means it to be ironic, but all things considered, I’m not amused.

I mumble a greeting in response and collapse into the chair across the table from him. I pull out my binder, trying to focus. “Did Mrs. Adamson tell you what we’re supposed to be
working on today?”

He glances across the room, where our Gifted and Talented teacher is running lines with another junior, one who has decided on a first-trimester project of having a successful audition with a
professional acting troupe in Philadelphia for the holiday production of
A Christmas Carol.
Pretty ambitious, independent study projects considered.