I’m not “the autistic kid.” Don’t call me “the retard.” I’m Joey, and I like to build things.
I build cars with my dad. I build computers alone. I build electric generators out of plastic boxes and microscopes out of soup cans.
I wish my classmates knew what I have built. Maybe they would like me. Maybe they would be my friends.
Sometimes I feel trapped inside my own body. I wish more than anything that I could talk, that I could make comprehensible sounds instead of just my moans and groans and laughs. I wish people spoke slower to me so I could understand. And if I didn’t understand, I wish people would repeat what they said, not scoff and walk away.
I like peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. I eat a diagonally-cut peanut butter and jelly sandwich at 12:13 every afternoon in the back left booth of my high school cafeteria. My dad says I need to stop eating peanut butter jelly sandwiches in my high school on the weekends, but I like eating the same sandwich at the same time and the same place every day.
Yesterday, I built a birdfeeder with a motion sensor that disposed bird food when a bird passed in my backyard. So far, I have seen forty-three birds eat from the feeder. Forty-four: Eastern Bluebird. Forty-five: dark-eyed junco.
I’ve been told I act more like a bird than a human. I’m beginning to believe it. I flap my arms and jump out of my seat; I often do this before I’m consciously aware of it. I’m better at making bird calls than speaking English. I don’t like myself in the mirror because my nose looks like the beak of a Peregrine Falcon.
Regardless of the ignorant remarks I hear people retort in the hallways and classrooms, I’ve always felt comfortable at school. It is my seventh year of high school, and my dad says I must leave this spring.
I can’t imagine where I’ll be or what I’ll do after I leave high school. I can’t eat my peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in the cafeteria or finish my Lord of the Rings jigsaw puzzle during free period every day in Mr. Clayton’s room.
Sometimes, when I’m building things, I stop and wonder what I will do after I’ve built it. I grow comfortable after developing a plan for the project. Starting a new one is scary. I am nervous it will not work. I get nervous no one will like what I’ve built.
Dad says I cannot live with him after I am done with high school. He says I am going to a place where I’ll meet people just like me, and there will be people there to take care of me. He says it’s like summer camp or a sleepover party that never ends. I’ve always wanted to go to a sleepover party. I’ve always wanted to go to camp, too.
I don’t want to go to this camp, though. Dad hasn’t told me when I can come back or if I can come back.
My classmates all talk about going to different schools next year where they can study one topic for years. I wish I could study how to build things. My knowledge now comes from what I’ve taught myself; there’s so much left for me to learn.
But who wants to teach engineering to a boy who can’t speak and responds with spastic flaps of his arms? No one sees my potential, but I know it’s here.

***
It’s Saturday afternoon, 12:09. It always takes 214 seconds to reach school in my dad’s Grand Cherokee. The sun shines through the growing foliage in our quiet Pennsylvanian town. 13, 14, 15 seconds. An American Robin hunts for a worm and a Bay-breasted Warbler sings a beautiful tune for a mate. I echo the song in the back of my throat. 64, 65, 66.
I reach inside my pocket for my peanut butter and jelly sandwich in a plastic bag. 12:11. 108 seconds left of the drive.
12:12. Why did Dad turn right on Olive Street? A right on Olive leads to the Wal-Mart, Post Office, and Taco Bell. He was supposed to make a left on Chestnut, a right on Peach, and a left on Olive to get to my high school on the left.
My hands tremble as I feel the peanut butter and jelly sandwich get warmer in my pocket. 12:14. I’m late. I try to speak, to make noises. Only a low moan escapes. I am immediately shushed.
“Joey, we’re going to Taco Bell. You’re welcome to eat your sandwich, but we need a change of scenery, just like you’ll get a change of scenery in the nursing home in June. Think of this as a trial run,” he looked sympathetically into my eyes. I averted mine quickly.
I’m itchy. I’m hot and sweaty. I don’t like this change. I’m comfortable with the way things are. I scream. I thrash around. I pound my fists on the dashboard.
I wish I could say calmly, “I would like to go to the high school, because that is where I am most comfortable.”
I can’t. This is the only way I can communicate. I have no control over my hands, over my voice or face. I exaggerate the gestures I can make: a scream, a hit, a screech owl imitation.
“Joey,” Dad crooned pleadingly. “Joey!” he shouted. I quieted.
“Listen, none of us like change in our lives. But there comes a time when we all have to accept what is going to happen and anticipate it optimistically. I’m asking you to do this gradually; first, we’ll change the place, then the food maybe a week later.” His knuckles are white clutching the wheel. His eyes stare straight ahead at the road.
I study his tight mouth, his red ears, his mussed hair. He looks like this when I adjust the wrong part on his car. I’ve seen this face on my emotion flashcards at school: Frustration. There’s something else. I see a drop of water fall on his cheek and catch a sunray: Sadness. Though I rarely look at anyone’s eyes, I cannot avert mine this time.
“I’m sorry I’ve hurt you. I’m sorry I can’t do what is best for you. I wish I knew what you need, what you want,” his voice wavered, and our Grand Cherokee came to a crawl on the side of Olive Street.
I like school. I like school. I wish he knew that I like school and I want to learn about building things and I want to build things with other people who like building things.
My limbs become tense and my stomach knots as I exhale hot air, attempting to utter a syllable of the English language. I imitate the shrill call of a Cedar Waxwing. No problem.
I try the squawking call of a Pionus Parrot. No problem.
That’s it! If parrots can imitate humans, and I can imitate parrots, can’t I imitate parrots imitating humans?
“Awaaaaa-iiiiiiii awaaaaa-liiiiiike awaaaaa-schoooool,” my throat vibrated as I squawked. I like school. My tongue moved in ways it had never moved before. My dad cocked his head and raised his brows: Surprise. My eyebrows rose with his. I felt the corners of my mouth stretch to my ears.
“Waa-iiiii Waa-liiiike schooool,” my monotone voice rung. It was the best sound. I like school. I like books. I like to build things.
And I love birds.
I am not trapped. I am free, free as a bird to communicate, to study, to do what I want to do and build what I want to build. I wish to tell my dad everything from my last 21 years, every cool thing I think he’s done and every joke I’ve wished to tell him.
I will tell him at Taco Bell over a cheese quesadilla at 12:32. I will tell him I want to learn how to build things. I want to learn from books and teachers. I want to tell my dad I am happy.
I am free, and I am happy.