One boy is all checks and balances. He is followed around with a laminated card. A series of positives equal checks which equal one starburst candy. If he doesn’t look at the teacher or spaces off, a notation is made for future reference.

One boy is at constant odds with his body. He wears a unitard under his clothing for modesty–his pants like to come down. He has been known to pee next to other kid’s desks. The moment he touches his toes for a 10 seconds it is so precious, so genuine; the whole room seems to hold its collective breath.

One boy seems to always be overlooked. Void of emotional drama, physical challenges, and problems with authority, he floats from one thing to the next. A shy, sweet smile spreads across his face when he sees me, eager to dance. Very little words escape him, instead he gallops happily from one corner to the next. I try everything I can to verbally recognize his silent grace.

One boy is terribly conflicted internally. One moment he is fine with being brought back into the world, next thing you know he is howling with offense. Hands clutch his ears, eyes close defiantly, he slacks and wobbles and refuses. This is one of the hardest parts about autism for me: for a few precious moments I can see the little boy within, the genuine article, before it slips away and he is no longer touching his toes with joy but hiding, oppressively, under the table.

The one, solitary girl, is so beautiful it’s shocking. Bangs cut neatly across her head, long eyelashes, and pink tights hiding her diaper. She never sees me, only glimpses around me, past me, through me. Vapid.