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take it, Dawn. Babysitting for Jenny will be ... character-building." "Thank you," said Dawn, "but I have enough character already." Finally Mary Anne said, "Oh, I'll sit for Jenny. I usually end up with the Jenny-jobs. I can handle her." So I called Mrs. P. back to tell her Mary Anne would be sitting. Then the seven of us waited for the phone to ring again. It didn't, and finally Claud said, "Tell us more about Susan, Kristy." I had sat for Susan twice since I'd first met her on Friday, so there was a fair amount to tell my friends.
"Autism," I began, "is so strange. It's like Susan is keeping a secret from the world. Mrs. Felder describes Susan as retarded but says she isn't retarded, strictly speaking. I mean, she doesn't have Down's syndrome or anything. Her IQ is very low, but that's because her teachers can't test her. She won't talk. Why? She looks right through people as if they're not in front of her. She acts blind and deaf, even though she can see and hear. Why? And how can you test a person who doesn't talk and is so dosed off? You can't. That's why Mrs. Felder says Susan is retarded - because she's eight, yet she acts like a two-year-old - a slow two-year-old. But if her teachers or doctors could reach her, who knows what she could learn." "Anyway, what about the piano-playing and the calendar stuff?" said Jessi.
"Well, that's another thing that's so strange," I said. "Most of the time Susan acts like she's two - she doesn't dress herself very well or talk or anything - but how many two-year-olds do you know who can play classical piano?" "None," said Mal.
"And this business with the calendar," I went on. "Today I told Susan my mom's birthday and Susan immediately said 'Sunday* and she was right! Mom was born on a Sunday. How does she do that? I mean, you can just stand there and say any date, like July thirteenth, nineteen-thirty-one, and she'll say, 'Monday' or whatever, without missing a beat. Oh, also, today I tried to trick her. I said 'February twenty-ninth, nineteen eighty-five/ and Susan said very clearly, 'March first, Friday.' You know why? Because there are twenty-nine days in February only if it's a leap year, and nineteen eighty-five wasn't a leap year. Susan knew it immediately. But she still gave me the day that fell after February twenty-eighth." "Amazing," said Claudia, shaking her head.
"You know what's the worst?" I asked.
"What?" said Dawn.
"That Susan is so isolated. She's practically an outcast. Her parents send her away to school, and she doesn't have any friends, of course. I bet if her parents kept her here and put her on the school bus everyday to go to the special class at Stoneybrook Elementary, she'd fit in. She'd get to know kids in the neighborhood, maybe she'd learn how to play with them - " I was interrupted by the phone. Several calls came in, and we lined up three jobs. The last of them was for the younger Hobart boys across the street.
Mal's face turned pink. "Oh, please?" she said. "Please could I have that job? I know we're not supposed to ask, but . . . please? Just this once?" "Relax, Mal," said Mary Anne. "You can take it if it's okay with Stacey. You two are the only ones free that day." Stacey grinned. "Mal can have the job." "Oh, thank you," said Mallory rapturously.
After a few moments of silence (no ringing phones), Jessi said, "I was thinking, Kristy. You described Susan as an outcast. You know what? The Hobarts are sort of outcasts, too. Just because they have accents and say things like 'brecky' for 'breakfast' or 'jumpers' for 'sweaters,' or use slang words that we don't understand like 'rev heads,' the kids here are so mean to them. They torment them. It's as if they're prejudiced against them." "Yesterday," spoke up Mal, "Jessi and I took my sisters and brothers over to play, though, and the kids had a fine time together." "Mal and Ben had an especially fine time," added Jessi mischievously.
Mal turned the color of a tomato.
Stacey started to say something, but I