House Rules by Jodi Picoult Page A

spite of all his quirks and there are others who just don‘t get him and don‘t bother to try.
    Jack Thornton expected Jacob to be a math savant when that‘s not always part of Asperger‘s in spite of what Hollywood seems to think. Instead, he‘s been frustrated by a student whose handwriting is messy, who transposes numbers when doing calculations, and who is far too literal to understand some of the theoretical concepts of math, like imaginary numbers and matrices.
    If Jack Thornton is calling me, it can‘t be good news.
    Did Jacob tell you what happened today?
    Had Jacob mentioned anything? No, I would remember. But then again, he probably wouldn‘t confess unless he was directly asked. More likely, I would have read the clues through his behavior, which would have seemed a little off. Usually when Jacob‘s even more withdrawn, or stimming, or conversely too talkative or manic, I know something‘s wrong. In this way, I am a better forensic scientist than Jacob would ever guess.
    I asked Jacob to come up to the board to write out his homework answer,
    Thornton explains, and when I told him that his work was sloppy, he shoved me.
    Shoved you?
    Yes, the teacher says. You can imagine the reaction of the rest of the class.
    Well, that explains why I didn‘t see a deterioration in Jacob‘s behavior. When the class started laughing, he would have assumed he‘d done something good.
    I‘m sorry, I say. I‘ll talk to him.
    No sooner have I hung up the phone than Jacob appears in the kitchen and takes the carton of milk out of the fridge.
    Did something happen in math class today? I ask.
    Jacob‘s eyes widen. You can‘t handle the truth, he says, in a dead-on imitation of Jack Nicholson, as sure a sign as any that he‘s squirming.
    I already talked to Mr. Thornton. Jacob, you cannot go around shoving teachers.
    He started it.
    He did not shove you!
    No, but he said, ‗Jacob, my three-year-old could write more neatly than that.‘
    And you‘re always saying that when someone makes fun of me I should stick up for myself.
    The truth is, I have said that to Jacob. And there‘s a piece of me rejoicing in the fact that he initiated an interaction with another human, instead of the other way around even if the interaction wasn‘t socially appropriate.
    The world, for Jacob, is truly black and white. Once, when he was younger, his gym teacher called because Jacob had a meltdown during kickball when a kid threw the big red ball at him to tag him out. You don‘t throw things at people, Jacob tearfully explained. It‘s a rule!
    Why should a rule that works in one situation not work in another? If a bully taunts him and I tell him it‘s all right to reciprocate because sometimes that‘s the only way to get these kids to leave him alone why shouldn‘t he do the same with a teacher who humiliates him in public?
    Teachers deserve respect, I explain.
    Why do they get it for free, when everyone else has to earn it?
    I blink at him, speechless. Because the world isn‘t fair, I think, but Jacob already knows that better than most of us.
    Are you mad at me? Unfazed, he reaches for a glass and pours himself some soy milk.
    I think that‘s the attribute I miss seeing the most in my son: empathy. He worries about hurting my feelings, or making me upset, but that‘s not the same as viscerally feeling someone else‘s pain. Over the years, he‘s learned empathy the way I might learn Greek translating an image or situation in the clearinghouse of his mind and trying to attach the appropriate sentiment to it, but never really fluent in the language.
    Last spring, we were filling one of his prescriptions at the pharmacy and I noticed a rack of Mother‘s Day cards. Just once I‘d like you to buy one of those for me, I said.
    Why? Jacob asked.
    So I know you love me.
    He shrugged. You already know that.
    But it would be nice, I said, to wake up on Mother‘s Day and, like every other mother in this country, to get a card from her