22 McKenna
McKenna
I don’t say anything as we start down the stone path or even once we make it to the street. Instead, I give us a few moments
to just exist alongside each other. Or maybe Leo is giving those moments to me. It’s calming, feeling the warmth of the pavement
through my flip-flops, soaking in the stagnant heat of the late-day summer air, meandering down this quiet street, both of
us getting to just be.
The neighborhood is pretty uniform, large plots of land showcasing stately, traditional homes flanked by artfully placed,
colorful hydrangea bushes. It’s a different vibe from the neighborhood where Glory’s little house sits, only six and a half
miles from here. I never minded living so close to the next house over. I could almost reach into our neighbor’s kitchen from
our window. But there’s something really soothing about the wide-open spaces in this part of town.
Once we’re about a hundred feet from the house, I start talking.
“I’m really sorry the swim lessons got canceled,” I tell him as we make our way past a white Colonial with blue shutters that
looks very similar to the Beckers’ house.
“I’m sorry too,” Leo says. “Was it my fault because of the whistle?” He doesn’t look at me as he waits for my answer.
“I think we all had a hand in it, if you want to know the truth. If I’d been better trained to teach children with autism,
I could maybe have prevented Johnny and Lindy from getting so unruly. Those two should have behaved better though. And Rohan
shouldn’t have screamed the way he did. Elias shouldn’t have tried to splash anyone. And yes, you should have known that blowing
a whistle so loudly and so many times might have made the situation more upsetting for the students, and for the club members
too. Each one of us has some responsibility for what happened.”
Leo glances over at me, but when our eyes meet, he quickly looks away, so I keep going. “People make mistakes. The important
thing is to learn from our mistakes. We just have to pick up the pieces.” I pause, wondering if that phrase is too theoretical,
and then say it another way. “We have to do the best we can to adjust to our new situation and move on.”
“I don’t want to move on,” he says, and for the first time since I arrived, his voice isn’t entirely dry. I can hear a piece
of heartbreak in it, and it makes me profoundly sad.
We’re approaching a cross street, where a middle-aged man wearing a Mets t-shirt jogs across our path.
He waves, and I smile back. I watch him for a moment as he makes his way down the street to our right, and then I turn back
to Leo.
“My grandmother always says that if you can’t change your circumstance, you should change your attitude.” I feel like a fraud
advocating for this approach. My behavior since losing the lessons hasn’t exactly been exemplary.
“I liked teaching swimming,” Leo says. “I want to keep doing it. I want to teach other kids with ASD. My mom wants me to go to a college program where I can learn how to be a teacher, but I was learning with you. I was teaching swimming with you. I want to keep learning with you.”
“Leo, I think you would make an excellent teacher. I could see you working in a classroom with kids, not just as a swim instructor,
but as an actual schoolteacher. What a beautiful idea.” And I mean it too. With the exception of the excessive whistling,
Leo had been so great with the kids. There must be some training he could get to prepare him to help in a classroom, even
if he isn’t the main teacher for the kids. I wince the second I have that thought. Why should I dismiss his aspirations? Who
says Leo couldn’t be a lead classroom teacher once he’s gotten the proper training? If his allies are assuming he isn’t capable,
how will he ever convince his adversaries?
“I don’t think I could teach in a school. I can’t even make friends.”
“Sure you can make friends,” I tell him. “We’re friends.”
“But you were my teacher. I don’t have any friends who are my age. Sebastian was my friend, but he moved far away.”
“I know a little bit about what that’s like,” I tell him, and he glances toward me with surprise. “Ever since I was little,
I was always so busy swimming that I didn’t have time to make real friends at my school. I only got to know the people on
my team, really.”
“The only people who like me are younger kids or grown-ups. The kids my age laugh at me, so I don’t talk to them. Except Sebastian,
but Sebastian moved away.”
“Well, maybe you’ve only met the wrong kids then.”
“I’ve met a lot of kids. It happens with too many of them. I’m bad at it. Talking to people my age. Even though my age keeps changing. I don’t get better at it.”
I’m not sure how to answer, so I just say the first thing that comes to my mind. “I bet that makes you feel sad.”
He nods.
An SUV is approaching us from the distance, and I notice we’ve drifted toward the middle of the street. I reach out for Leo’s
arm but then lower my hand before making contact. “Here, move this way with me,” I say, motioning toward the grassy lawn beside
us. “Let’s get out of the path of cars. Do you remember what I told you a couple weeks ago—what my friends and I say to each
other when we’re feeling nervous or upset?”
“Yes.”
I wait for him to say more and then smile when I sense that, as usual, he’s only going to answer precisely what has been asked.
“So tell me then. What do we tell each other?”
“No bad days,” he answers.
“You know what I think?” I ask.
“No. I don’t know because you haven’t told me.”
“I think you should be allowed to have bad days and to feel whatever you’re feeling. You don’t have to try so hard to be anything
other than who you are. And besides, the bad days help you appreciate the good days. You’re growing and learning every day,
and so are the other kids your age. One day soon, you’ll find people out there who’ve been looking for a friend just like
you.”
“I don’t know where to look. Maybe you’re the only new friend I’m going to have. Can I stay friends with you?”
“Of course. We can always be friends, but my life is very busy with swimming and school and everything. Now that the lessons are canceled, we might not find much time to hang out together. That doesn’t mean we’re not friends.
Like you and Sebastian—you can still think of him as a friend even though he’s far away.
But I don’t think these friendships are going to be enough for you.
You should try to find some other friends who have more time, who are closer to your age, and who can do activities with you.
But wherever I am, and no matter how busy, I’ll always be cheering you on. ”
“What if I decide I don’t want other friends?” He kicks a pebble on the street and then says, “Oh wait, that was a good one.”
He crouches down and grabs the little stone, bringing it closer to his face for a better look and then shoving it into the
pocket of his shorts.
“Maybe you don’t want other friends,” I repeat. “That’s something only you can decide. In my opinion, having other people
to talk to and share experiences with really adds value in life.”
“I have my family for that.”
“Well, then, you may be the luckiest one among us.”
Later, when I’m seated on a worn leather bench at the charming Whole Bean coffee shop, I watch Beck walk back toward our table,
a small plate of biscotti in one hand and a packet of Domino sugar in the other. He’s wearing lightweight khaki cargo pants
and a navy t-shirt, and I’m suddenly curious if these are the kinds of clothes he wears to work to do the “field research”
I’ve heard about from Leo. Out of nowhere, I have this deep urge to know more details about Beck’s life, what’s going on beneath
that put-together surface. But that would not be keeping things light and casual, I remind myself, as my feelings and wants
ricochet off the different walls of my brain.
“I always think one of these will be enough,” he says, tearing open the sugar as he sits back in his seat across from me. “But I really prefer things sweeter.”
“Ha!” I point an accusatory finger at him. “Then I am definitely not your type.”
His head cocks to the side. “Why would you say that?”
I lean back against the cushion, wondering how much to say.
“I wasn’t completely honest with Leo.”
Beck’s eyes narrow, and I instantly imagine so many different scenarios where he’s had to protect his brother over the years.
“No, nothing like that,” I hurry out, unsure what I’m even denying. “It’s just, I didn’t tell him I got fired. I didn’t want
him to think he had anything to do with it. That shitstorm was all me and my colossal stupidity.”
I then recount all the reckless, embarrassing decisions I made that led to me being out of a job. I feel like I’m at confession.
After I’ve gotten out all the dirty details, I add, “I shouldn’t even be here right now. I should still be parked in front
of my computer searching for alternate employment.”
Almost as soon as I left Hollyhock on Wednesday, my first call had been the Sizz. But the position I left at the diner has
been filled.