Kristy and the Secret of Susan Page 3

“Kristy?” she said.

  “Yes,” I replied. “Hi, Mrs. Felder.”

  “Goodness, you’ve grown,” was her reply, as she held the door open for me.

  “Really?” I said. “Thanks. I’m still the shortest person in my class, though.”

  “I guess I haven’t seen you in awhile. I knew your family better when David Michael was little. Your mom and I tried to set up playdates for him and Susan, but Susan was already … different. Even then. She’s eight now. How old is David Michael? He must be almost eight.”

  “Yup. He’s seven and a half,” I replied.

  Mrs. Felder nodded. She had led me into the living room, which was bright and sunny. A grand piano filled almost a quarter of the room. And walking restlessly back and forth in front of it was the little girl I had seen out Claudia’s window.

  Susan.

  She was wringing her hands in front of her and making clicking noises with her mouth. She didn’t look at either her mother or me.

  “Susan?” said Mrs. Felder. “Susan? … Susan!”

  Susan continued walking and flapping and clicking.

  “Susan!” said Mrs. Felder more loudly. “Come here, please.”

  Like a sleeper waking from a dream, Susan turned and walked toward us. Her eyes were fixed on some point above our heads.

  “Susan, this is Kristy,” said Mrs. Felder.

  “Hi,” I said, getting my first close-up look at Susan Felder. And I saw that she was beautiful. Her eyes were wide and deep brown, and her hair, which was almost as dark as Claudia’s, fell in soft curls to her shoulders. She could be a model, I thought.

  Since Susan hadn’t answered me, I said, “Hi,” again.

  Susan, still staring into outer space, wrung her hands a few times. Then she turned and flapped her way back to the piano.

  I looked at Susan’s mother. My eyes must have been question marks.

  “She doesn’t speak,” said Mrs. Felder. “She could, but she doesn’t. She can sing, though. Come on. Let’s sit on the couch and I’ll tell you about Susan.”

  I almost said, “In front of her?” but I realized that Susan probably would not be listening.

  Mrs. Felder and I sat down, and I said, “I looked up autism in the dictionary, but I didn’t understand the definition.”

  Mrs. Felder smiled. “I’m not surprised. There’s a lot more to autism than anyone could fit into a dictionary definition. The best way I can describe it to you — and the symptoms vary from person to person — is that Susan is in her own world, and she doesn’t seem to want to leave it. She doesn’t communicate with anyone, she exhibits the strange behavior you see now — wringing her hands, clicking her tongue — and she rarely makes eye contact with anyone. Also, she doesn’t much like to be touched or hugged, even by her father and me.”

  “What caused it?” I whispered, awed.

  Mrs. Felder shook her head. “No one is certain. What we do know is that autistic symptoms always show up by the time a child is three — usually earlier, that most autistic people are boys, and that the syndrome is rare.”

  “Will Susan get better?” I asked.

  “Maybe. Some educators and doctors believe that if an autistic child starts acquiring meaningful language by the time he’s five, he can become much better. That hasn’t happened for Susan. She can sing, but she has no meaningful language. Even those children who do acquire some speech will probably never be what most people consider ‘normal.’ They might be able to live in a group home, work part-time at a job or in a sheltered workshop — but that’s about it.”

  I just nodded. I understood what Mrs. Felder wasn’t saying: Susan’s future looked bleak.

  Just when I was beginning to feel terribly sad, though, Mrs. Felder spoke again. “We’re somewhat encouraged, her father and I,” she said almost proudly, “because Susan is autistic but she’s also a savant. That means she has some very specialized talents.”

  “Really?” I asked, intrigued.

  “Yes. Although Susan is untestable, her IQ is thought to be below fifty, which is extremely low. But you should hear her play the piano.” Mrs. Felder smiled. And I began to feel hopeful instead of sad. “She’s really remarkable,” Mrs. Felder went on. “She astonishes everyone — her teachers, her doctors, even music teachers. She can usually play any new piece of music after hearing it only once. Just like that — she’s got the whole thing memorized and she can play it. She can play long, long scores, and any type of music — classical, ballads, show tunes, you name it. She can even play something she’s only heard played on another instrument, such as the violin.”

  “How does she do that?” I asked. I was amazed.

  “Nobody is sure. I do play the piano myself, and when Susan was little I used to entertain her by sitting her next to me and teaching her simple songs. But then she just took off. Believe me, I can’t do what Susan does.

  “Oh,” Mrs. Felder continued, “if a piece of music has words to it — in any language — Susan can also memorize the song after hearing it once, and sing it while she plays. She has perfect pitch. We don’t think the words mean anything to her, they’re just more things to memorize, but singing and playing the piano seem to make her happy. She’d play all day if we let her. In fact, her musical abilities are the reason she’s between schools right now. We’re in the process of transferring her to a school with a strong music program. It’s about an hour outside of Stoneybrook. The teachers and Mr. Felder and I are hoping that, through music, Susan can acquire some meaningful language as well as some social skills. We feel this is the best way to reach her. Of course, we want her to study music for its own sake, too.

  “One more thing,” Mrs. Felder went on. “One other peculiar talent. Susan seems to have a calendar in her head. Although no one has ever explained days, weeks, months, or years to her, she can tell you the day of the week that any date fell on, as long as you don’t go more than sixty years into the past or more than about twenty years into the future. She found a perpetual calendar once and seems to have memorized it.”

  “You’re kidding!” I exclaimed.

  “Nope,” said Mrs. Felder, looking proud again, but mystified, too. “I’ll show you. Think of a date that’s important to you.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Um … the date Emily, my adopted sister, was born.”

  “Do you know the day of the week that happened?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right. Tell me just the date.”

  I told her. Mrs. Felder called Susan over and told her.

  “Monday,” said Susan in a monotone voice without hesitating. Then she flapped her hands and ran back to the piano.

  “That’s right!” I cried. “It was a Monday!”

  “Susan is correct about ninety-five percent of the time.” Mrs. Felder paused. “But if you ask her how she is, what she wants for dinner, if she has to use the bathroom … nothing. No response. She never initiates conversations, either. She just does not communicate. She can be very trying at times, too. Stubborn. Especially if you want her to stop playing the piano. But she’s never violent…. Do — do you still want the job?”

  “Oh, yes!” I said. I guess you can tell by now that I was thoroughly fascinated with Susan. I’d never met anyone like her. I’d never even heard of anyone like her. I was also feeling just the teeniest bit angry, though. Susan was very special. That was obvious. But everyone treated her like some kind of outcast. Her parents were taking her out of one away-from-home school and putting her in another. Why couldn’t they keep her with them? There are schools for handicapped kids around here. Day schools like the one Matt Braddock goes to in Stamford. There are also classes for handicapped kids in the public schools. And why didn’t her parents try to help Susan make friends? She couldn’t talk, but neither could Matt, and he had plenty of friends. The kids in his neighborhood learned some sign language so they could play with him.

  I decided that I would not only take on the job with Susan, but that I would use the mont
h I had with her to show the Felders that she could live and learn and make friends at home. She did not have to be an outcast.

  “That’s wonderful,” Mrs. Felder said. “I’m delighted to find someone who will watch Susan for me. It takes a dedicated, patient person. So — Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays from three-thirty to five-thirty, right?”

  “Right,” I agreed.

  “That will be a perfect break for me. And don’t worry. Susan won’t be upset when I leave. She never is. She has no connection to me or to anyone.”

  We’ll see about that, I thought. But I just smiled and said, “Okay. That sounds easy.”

  “Would you like to take Susan outside for awhile?” asked Mrs. Felder. “It’s only five o’clock. I know your meeting doesn’t start for half an hour. You can have a dry run with Susan while I’m at home.”

  “Sure,” I replied.

  “Okay, Susan, come here,” said Mrs. Felder, standing up. “Let’s put your sweater on…. Susan? Susan!”

  Was it always difficult to attract Susan’s attention? I wondered about that as I watched Mrs. Felder button Susan into a sweater. (I guessed that Susan couldn’t do that herself.)

  When Susan was ready, I took her hand and started to lead her to the back door. She pulled away a little, but then she allowed me to take her into her yard. Mrs. Felder was right. Susan didn’t so much as glance at her mother. She just followed me. Could she tell her mother and me apart?

  I looked around Susan’s backyard and saw a swing set, a sandbox, and a tricycle. The toys seemed a little babyish for an eight-year-old, but at least they would be something for Susan and me to play with.

  “Come on, Susan. I’ll give you a ride on the swing,” I said, letting go of her hand.

  But Susan had other ideas. As soon as she was free of me, she began to gallop back and forth across her yard (which was fenced in), clicking her tongue and wringing her hands. I let her go to it, partly because I didn’t want to push her into anything right away — and partly because something was going on in the Hobarts’ backyard, which I could see clearly from the Felders’. I couldn’t help watching for a few minutes.

  The Hobarts were the Australian family. Claudia had learned their names. And the four boys were in their yard, facing a bunch of neighborhood kids who weren’t looking too friendly.

  “You want fairy floss?” exclaimed one familiar-looking kid, snickering.

  “Yeah! It’s rad,” said one of the younger Hobarts. “Totally cool.”

  What was fairy floss? Candy?

  Then a girl said, “If you guys are so cool, do some Crocodile Dundee stuff for us and prove it.”

  I turned away. I had to watch Susan. But I felt like a fighter. I would have to battle for Susan — because I knew she needed me to battle for her. And I might have to battle for the Hobarts if the other kids didn’t stop teasing them.

  Nobody can say I don’t stand up for what I believe in. (I think I learned that from Dawn.)

  For some reason, even though Tuesday afternoon was a beautiful day, the Pike kids didn’t know what to do with themselves. When Jessi arrived to sit with Mal, she found the ten-year-old triplets — Adam, Byron, and Jordan — nine-year-old Vanessa, eight-year-old Nicky, seven-year-old Margo, and five-year-old Claire draped all over the furniture in the Pikes’ rec room, looking bored out of their minds.

  Mal was standing over them saying, “I hope you guys are going to find things to do today.”

  “Me, too,” said Mrs. Pike as she hurried out the back door. “Please behave, kids. I’ll be back by six.”

  “ ’Bye, Mom,” said Mal as the door closed behind her mother.

  “Do, do. What can I do? I’ve lost my sock and I’ve lost my shoe,” said Vanessa, the poet.

  “You have not,” pointed out Claire.

  “I know,” replied Vanessa. “I was just making a poem.”

  “A stupid poem,” said Adam.

  “It was not stupid!” exclaimed Vanessa.

  “Kindergarten baby, stick your head in gravy —” Nicky began.

  “Enough, enough, enough!” cried Mal. “Look. The weather is lovely. Why don’t you guys go outside? You could ride your bicycles —”

  “Nah,” said Jordan.

  “— or go skateboarding —”

  “Nah,” said Nicky.

  “You could stay inside,” suggested Jessi. “There are plenty of things to do here, too. You could play a game —”

  “Nah,” said Vanessa.

  “— or,” (Jessi couldn’t believe she was about to suggest this), “you could watch TV.”

  “There’s nothing good on,” said Margo.

  Silence.

  Finally Nicky said, “You know, a new family moved into Mary Anne’s old house. The Hobarts. James Hobart is in my class at school. He’s really weird. He talks funny —”

  “He’s from Australia,” said Mal. “He has an accent, that’s all.”

  “Australia?” spoke up Byron. “You mean like Crocodile Dundee?”

  “Well, yes,” agreed Jessi.

  “Crocodile Dundee can do all kinds of neat things,” said Jordan. “I hope the Hobarts are like Crocodile.”

  “They’re Crocs!” cried Nicky gleefully. “That’s what everyone in my class calls James and his brothers. The Crocs!” Nicky snickered.

  “You guys,” said Mallory warningly. “That is not very nice. Remember when the kids here used to call us the Spiders?”

  “The Spiders?” repeated Jessi, perplexed.

  “Yeah, because there are eight of us,” explained Vanessa, looking troubled. “Like the eight legs on a spider. We hated that name.”

  “I’ve been called worse,” said Jessi quietly. “You don’t even want to know all the names people have called me — and just because of the color of my skin.”

  “What names?” asked Margo.

  “Never mind,” replied Jessi, sounding tired. “Nothing as cute as Spider, believe me.”

  The Pike kids stared at their hands, their shoes, the floor. None of them could look at Jessi.

  “Name-calling isn’t very nice at all,” Claire finally said in a small voice.

  “No. It isn’t,” agreed Mal. “It hurts people’s feelings.”

  “‘Silly-billy-goo-goo’ doesn’t hurt people’s feelings, though,” said Claire. “I’m not being mean when I say ‘silly-billy-goo-goo.’” (Claire just loves to call people that name.)

  “No, you’re just being a jerkhead — just being silly,” Nicky corrected himself.

  “How about going over to the Hobarts’ to play with the boys?” suggested Mal. “I bet they’d like to know that not every kid around here is going to be mean to them. We could go as friendly neighbors.”

  The younger Pike kids glanced at each other. Jessi and Mal could tell they felt guilty about having called the Hobarts the “Crocs.”

  “Okay,” said Byron. “Let’s go.”

  “I think you’ll have fun. Maybe you’ll learn something about Australia. It’s not that different from the United States, you know. The kids speak English and they do lots of the same things you do,” said Mal.

  “Like what?” asked Nicky, as Jessi and Mal led the kids out of the house and Mal locked the door behind them.

  “Like ride bicycles,” replied Mal, “and go skateboarding and take ballet lessons and collect stickers and listen to music. They even dress the way we do. Jeans and stuff.”

  “Oh!” said Vanessa, looking surprised.

  “Just remember,” added Jessi, “not to call them the Crocs. They won’t like that.”

  “What about silly-billy-goo-goos?” asked Claire.

  “Better not,” replied Mal. “I don’t think they’d understand.”

  Jessi, Mal, and Mal’s brothers and sisters walked to the Hobarts’ and found the boys playing in front of their house. The oldest one was whizzing along the sidewalk on a skateboard. His hair was red, and he wore glasses like Mal. The two middle boys were riding their bikes, and the young
est one was on the front lawn with a brand-new toy truck.

  When the Pikes and Jessi stopped in the yard, the boy with the truck began to cry. His oldest brother ran over to him.

  “It’s okay, Johnny,” he said. “Don’t worry.” He looked at Jessi and Mal.

  “We come in peace,” said Mal, smiling. “Have no fear.”

  The boy grinned back at her. “Don’t I know you?” he asked.

  “Well … I’m in sixth grade at Stoneybrook Middle School,” Mal replied.

  “Oh. So am I. I must have seen you at school.”

  Mal and the boy looked at each other for so long that finally Jessi said, “I’m Jessi Ramsey. I’m in your grade, too.”

  The boy shook himself, as if he’d been daydreaming. “Sorry,” he said. “I’m Ben Hobart. Over there is James. He’s eight.”

  “He’s in my class at school,” spoke up Nicky.

  “And that’s Mathew,” Ben went on. “He’s six. And this is Johnny. He’s four. He’s a little upset. Some of the kids around here have teased him. Well, us, really.”

  “I know,” said Mal. “We’re sorry.” She wanted to say something else, but all she could think of was that Ben was gorgeous. His red hair was much nicer than hers (she thought), so were his glasses, and he did not have braces on his teeth.

  “Well,” said Mal.

  “Well,” said Jessi.

  “Well,” said Ben.

  Jessi was about to figure out how to get the younger kids to play together, when she realized they’d already figured it out on their own. James and Mathew had abandoned their bikes, Johnny had abandoned his truck, and the kids were standing in the front yard in a tight group. Vanessa was saying, “We’ll teach you guys how to play Statues. It’s really fun.”

  “I’ll, um, I’ll just go help them,” Jessi said to Mal and Ben.

  They barely heard her. “Okay,” Mal managed to reply. She and Ben wandered over to the Hobarts’ front stoop and sat down.

  If they sat any closer, Jessi thought, smiling to herself, Mal would be in Ben’s lap!

  Jessi supervised the game of Statues. She had to give the Pike kids credit. Not one “Croc” slipped out of anybody’s mouth, and Claire didn’t call a single person, not even one of her brothers and sisters, a silly-billy-goo-goo. Jessi wasn’t too surprised, though. The Hobarts might not have sounded “American,” but they certainly looked it. They were all wearing jeans (James’s were ripped fashionably at the knees), both James and Mathew were wearing Swatch watches, and their shirts were oversized and baggy. Johnny was even wearing a little pair of Reeboks.