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sure?”
    â€œFor sure,” Paul says. Now imitating Raymond’s flat, emotionless, weird way of speaking again, he says, “Qantas … Qantas has never crashed.”
    â€œWhat?” Tim asks.
    Paul laughs. “You’ll see.”
    Cindy spins my wheelchair so that I can see the TV too. They move to the kitchen and grab some snacks, and Paul slips me a bite of potato chip and pours a sip of Coke into my mouth. Most of this food and drink dribbles down my chin. I’m glad that Rusty is in the backyard—otherwise he might eat my head. What dog could resist the temptation to chow down on a potato-chip, Coke-soaked snack of retard face? Sheesh, for a guy who wanted to juggle chain saws five minutes ago, I sure can turn into a wimp fast.
    Minutes later we’re all watching Dustin Hoffman and Tom Cruise play two adult brothers. Tom Cruise is Charlie Babbitt, a selfish, impatient businessman forced into taking care of his older autistic brother, Raymond, whom he hardly knows. Raymond has an amazing memory like mine, but his thing is for baseball and numbers. As the story unfolds, Charlie learns to love and admire his disabled brother. The movie is kind of like Paul’s and my relationship. Except of course that Paul has no idea I’m smart and he never will.
    Speaking of Paul, he’s sitting on the couch, his arm draped comfortably over Ally’s shoulder. Her right hand rests on top of his leg.
    Tim sits on the floor next to Cindy. They are a little way apart and they aren’t letting Paul or Ally notice that every so often they sneak their hands along the floor until they touch. Once touching, they grasp hands briefly, their fingers rubbing together, then quickly pull away so they won’t get caught.
    Why they are trying to hide this, I don’t know. Maybe this is a requirement of Tim and Paul’s friendship, or maybe Cindy is embarrassed that Paul will find out. But I can’t stop thinking, selfishly, full of self-pity, that Ally has Paul and he has her. It’s good seeing Cindy and Tim like this. But before, I felt like part of the group, and now I’m just the fifth wheel. Who do I have? Who will I ever have? I zone out of the movie and wonder if I can survive—being alone and feeling so lonely. Again I ask myself, “Was Dad right to want to kill me? Would it be better to be out of my misery?”
    Okay, shake it off, Prince Pity Party! Enough is enough already!
    It’s just the way it is....
    Think about better stuff....
    Get a grip!

13
    A s if suffering through the Rain Man lovefest yesterday wasn’t enough, today is my birthday. Yaaaaaay!
    It’s hard to lose the sarcasm. How can I get juiced about birthdays anymore? Today I’m fifteen years old, and I’m pretty sure this birthday is going to be exactly like birthdays fourteen and thirteen and twelve and … you get the picture.
    My day started with Paul singing me his version of the Beatles’s White Album song “Birthday.” We’ve always been a Beatles-addicted family—I know all the words to all their songs. Paul’s rendition, screeching the violent-sounding guitar solos, is grating and annoying in a hilarious way. And it’s not as if Paul can help himself. He sings this song to everyone in the house on their birthday and to all his friends over the phone on their birthday, as well. And he really rocks it, ’til your ears are ringing, if not bleeding, but you almost don’t mind.
    My mom brought to my school earlier today a white cake with white frosting that had red and blue and green and pink frosted balloons on it and the words “Happy Birthday, Shawn.” My Diaper-Changer William and Gorgeous-Steaming-Hot Becky, the teacher’s aides, and Mrs. Hare, the teacher, and my classmates gathered around my chair and sang “Happy Birthday.” Well, I should say that a few of the kids sang—those who wanted to and could actually