Count on Me by Melyssa Winchester Page B

room.
    “No, I’m alright. I’m just looking for someone.”
    “Who would you look for in here, Mr. Walker?”
    She doesn’t come right out and say it, but trust me; I can hear it in her tone. She knows I don’t h ang out here and I wouldn’t be caught dead around anyone who does. It’s just another way the grapevine around here works. Everyone knows what I’m all about.
    “Isabelle Reagan. I thought I’d find her at her locker, but she’s not there so I thought maybe she came here.”
    “She hasn’t been here today, but if she does make her way in, I can tell her that you’re looking for her.”
    “That would be great. Thanks.”
    I’ve never been this polite before and I’m surprised by it. Normally, I try to run under the radar whenever I’m around teachers, figuring that if I can just blend in, they won’t call on me or even notice my existence. Here I am now, actually having a conversation with one of them and acting pretty decent doing it.
    When the hell did this happen?
    “Well if there’s nothing else I can help you with…” she says motioning toward the door.
    “Actually, Ms. Taylor gave me something that I need to read over and get back to her. Do you think it’s alright if I do that here?”
    I can tell I’ve shocked her. It’s not a secret that you don’t have to ask to spend time here, but I figure with as weird as she’s acting with me being here at all, the least I can do is ask for permission.
    “Of course you can. Everyone is welcome here. “
    She walks away from me after I slam her with one of the fakest smiles I’ve ever done and I make my way down into the stacks of books in the corner, hoping against hope there’s a place at the end I can sit privately and read.
    What Isabelle wrote is burning a hole in the back pocket of my jeans, so the sooner I pull it out and read it, the sooner the near obsession I have with keeping it close to me can end. I can do what the teacher asked of me, read it and return it to her, putting it out of my mind once and for all.
    I soon realize the minute I sit down and unfold it in my hands, reading just the first two lines at the top, that the last thing I’m going to want to do is give this back when I’m done with it. No, this is definitely something I’m going to want to keep with me, just like I want to do with the actual girl herself.
     
    To: The person in the future
    From: Isabelle Reagan
     
    There are people that will tell you that high school is the best time of your life. That when you’re older and look back on it, there will be so many good memories and things you want to treasure and hold onto forever.
    They lied.
    High school is not the best time in your life or it isn’t when you’re like me.
    When I was four, my mother was worried about me, so she took me to the doctor and even though it took awhile to figure out what was wrong with me, they finally did.
    I’m autistic.
    I know. You don’t have any idea what that means and that’s okay. No one does. I’m not even sure I do and I’m the one that’s spent the last 13 years living with it.
    Here’s the thing. People think that be cause I don’t talk much or I seem to always be lost in my own little world, that I’m stupid or deaf. Some even think I’m retarded. I’m none of those things and I don’t like that word. It makes me cringe and want to cry every single time I hear it and trust me, I hear it a lot here in Wexfield.
    Being autistic is different for everyone that experiences it. Some people have things that are similar, but for the most part, we’re all different. That’s why there’s this whole list that doctors have about it because there’s so many different forms, that you can’t lump everyone in the same one.
    For me it’s like this.
    When I was little, I didn’t speak until I was six and even when I did, it was like I was two because I didn’t speak the way the rest of the kids my age did. I would point, grunt and jump for what I wanted and