both hands on her tray as she headed to the cashier.
Eric recovered pretty quickly and followed, but he’d clearly lost all appetite for
food. Since Michael was waiting at the emptiest table in the cafeteria, Emma slowed
down to allow Eric to catch up with her.
“Michael is
not
Allison.”
“If it weren’t for Michael, I’d have disappeared at Amy’s party. I know he seems like
a child or a simpleton to you,” she added, “but he’s not. He’s capable of very complex
thought and action—just not complex
social
action. It’s just going to bother him, and he’ll have no outlet for it, otherwise.”
“How, exactly, is it going to bother him? Never mind. Let me guess. You told him what
happened.”
“We didn’t plan on telling him, but it came up while we were walking to school. Sorry.”
“Emma—”
“He’s been a part of this since it started.”
“I get that—but this isn’t a goddamn party. Allison almost died. Michael will be at
risk in the same way. I don’t want to be responsible for—”
“You’re not. Tell him the risks—when we get to your place—and let him decide. He may
decide to bow out; there’s a lot of stuff he won’t join in on because he doesn’t like
the possible consequences. But let him make that decision. He’s not four; you don’t
have to make it for him.”
Eric fell silent; it didn’t last. “He’s not four,” he said, speaking through clenched
teeth, “but he still needs to be walked to school every morning.”
Eric had saved Emma’s life not once, but twice—and at the moment she wanted to slap
him anyway. She couldn’t recall being so angry with him before, not even when he’d
discovered the truth about Andrew Copis and hadn’t cared enough to try to help the
child. Her hands were full of tray, and she wasn’t close enough to the table to set
it down. She embedded the edges into both of her palms and kept walking instead, trying
to keep the momentary expression of murderous rage off her face, because Michael was
watching.
Eric didn’t seem to notice; he was looking pretty angry himself. That much anger at
a cafeteria table wasn’t comfortable; Allison, watching them approach, fell silent,
which was unfortunate because she’d been halfway through a sentence to Michael. Michael
looked at Allison’s less than familiar expression, then looked at Emma and Eric.
“Is something wrong?” he asked.
“No,” Emma said curtly, as Eric said, “Yes.”
They exchanged a glare, but Eric still waited until Emma was seated before he took
a seat himself. This took about four minutes longer than usual and was followed by
a tense silence, because the sound of chewing didn’t carry far in the uncarpeted acoustics
of the cafeteria.
“There’s nothing wrong with you,” Emma finally said. “It’s our problem.”
Eric said nothing, but he said it loudly. Allison started to push her food around
her plate. When she wasn’t angry herself, she was quite uncomfortable around angry
people.
Rescue came from the outside. Two of Michael’s D&D friends—Connell and Cody—saved
them by descending on the table and taking seats on either side of Michael, which
forced Allison to move over. While they didn’t have Michael’s autism spectrum diagnosis,
they were frequently socially clueless; silent, uncomfortable anger didn’t hit their
radars at all. They were deep in the middle of a technical discussion about a game
of some sort, which involved cards, numbers, and strategies that seemed far more like
math and statistics than fun to Emma. Michael was drawn to the magnet of the game,
though, and as he began to enter the state of animated compulsion that was most of
his focused discussion, Emma felt her jaw relaxing.
She still couldn’t have this conversation in front of Michael; she wasn’t certain
she could have it at all at the moment. She was angry enough that her food now tasted
like
Eric recovered pretty quickly and followed, but he’d clearly lost all appetite for
food. Since Michael was waiting at the emptiest table in the cafeteria, Emma slowed
down to allow Eric to catch up with her.
“Michael is
not
Allison.”
“If it weren’t for Michael, I’d have disappeared at Amy’s party. I know he seems like
a child or a simpleton to you,” she added, “but he’s not. He’s capable of very complex
thought and action—just not complex
social
action. It’s just going to bother him, and he’ll have no outlet for it, otherwise.”
“How, exactly, is it going to bother him? Never mind. Let me guess. You told him what
happened.”
“We didn’t plan on telling him, but it came up while we were walking to school. Sorry.”
“Emma—”
“He’s been a part of this since it started.”
“I get that—but this isn’t a goddamn party. Allison almost died. Michael will be at
risk in the same way. I don’t want to be responsible for—”
“You’re not. Tell him the risks—when we get to your place—and let him decide. He may
decide to bow out; there’s a lot of stuff he won’t join in on because he doesn’t like
the possible consequences. But let him make that decision. He’s not four; you don’t
have to make it for him.”
Eric fell silent; it didn’t last. “He’s not four,” he said, speaking through clenched
teeth, “but he still needs to be walked to school every morning.”
Eric had saved Emma’s life not once, but twice—and at the moment she wanted to slap
him anyway. She couldn’t recall being so angry with him before, not even when he’d
discovered the truth about Andrew Copis and hadn’t cared enough to try to help the
child. Her hands were full of tray, and she wasn’t close enough to the table to set
it down. She embedded the edges into both of her palms and kept walking instead, trying
to keep the momentary expression of murderous rage off her face, because Michael was
watching.
Eric didn’t seem to notice; he was looking pretty angry himself. That much anger at
a cafeteria table wasn’t comfortable; Allison, watching them approach, fell silent,
which was unfortunate because she’d been halfway through a sentence to Michael. Michael
looked at Allison’s less than familiar expression, then looked at Emma and Eric.
“Is something wrong?” he asked.
“No,” Emma said curtly, as Eric said, “Yes.”
They exchanged a glare, but Eric still waited until Emma was seated before he took
a seat himself. This took about four minutes longer than usual and was followed by
a tense silence, because the sound of chewing didn’t carry far in the uncarpeted acoustics
of the cafeteria.
“There’s nothing wrong with you,” Emma finally said. “It’s our problem.”
Eric said nothing, but he said it loudly. Allison started to push her food around
her plate. When she wasn’t angry herself, she was quite uncomfortable around angry
people.
Rescue came from the outside. Two of Michael’s D&D friends—Connell and Cody—saved
them by descending on the table and taking seats on either side of Michael, which
forced Allison to move over. While they didn’t have Michael’s autism spectrum diagnosis,
they were frequently socially clueless; silent, uncomfortable anger didn’t hit their
radars at all. They were deep in the middle of a technical discussion about a game
of some sort, which involved cards, numbers, and strategies that seemed far more like
math and statistics than fun to Emma. Michael was drawn to the magnet of the game,
though, and as he began to enter the state of animated compulsion that was most of
his focused discussion, Emma felt her jaw relaxing.
She still couldn’t have this conversation in front of Michael; she wasn’t certain
she could have it at all at the moment. She was angry enough that her food now tasted
like
Similar Books
