The Beauty of a Friend

A couple of days after my last mention of my friend, the librarian attempted to formally introduce us. "Do you know Ari?" she asked.

"A little," he replied in English with a touch of what I recognized as autistic sarcasm. The only signal was in how his hands moved, but I was tempted to burst out laughing.

I was in the media center instead of my tech class. The whole class is on the internet, so it's not difficult for me to do such a thing. (I mean, halfway through the allotted quarter of the year, I've already completed the entire curriculum by working a tiny bit each day.) But the teacher is the loudest teacher in the school. I get along with him perfectly well, but if anything is to be accomplished and any sensory meltdowns are to be avoided, I need to be in a different area.

On that day, my friend had just completed standardized tests. His teacher was putting on a movie on the subject, despite there being more kids who had not yet completed their tests and were just coming in. My friend protested by walking out of class and coming to the media center, where he knew I would be (his class is next to mine, and I have greeted him while checking in with my teacher before). We went to lunch together, looked at a book on masks of the world, and overall had a nice time.

After lunch, he made me laugh.

It's rare that I laugh in public. I tend to appear totally unemotional, which I've developed as a result of being bullied for most of my life. But every once in a while, something will make me smile...or laugh for two minutes straight.

My good friend noticed busts of some of the best speakers and poets in history on the top of one of the bookcases. He asked how dusty they were, which the librarian struggled to answer. So he composed a song, on the spot, asking the busts of Robert Frost, JFK, and Dr. Martin Luther King, jr. questions about their lives.

I laughed continually from the first line to the last.

Ever since, if he's seen me walking through the halls on my way to lunch, he will begin a song on philosophy just to make me giggle like the little girl I never got to be. The bullies may have taken away my childhood and my laughter earlier than I would have liked, but sometimes, a friend can get it back for me.

If ever life is just too much,

If ever there's no end,

If ever you're the only one,

Then let me be your friend.

A Language All Our Own

Three days each week, I see another autistic kid at lunch. He's one year older than me, and very smart with languages. He and I have never sat at the same table or had a conversation anyone else could hear, but we are good friends.

We hum.

It took me a couple of weeks to understand his hums, at first. I assumed they were just a stim, as were my occasional hums. But then I got to thinking: I don't say thank you or you're welcome. I hum them. Thank you is a proper doorbell-ringing third, and you're welcome starts on the lower of the two notes.

My friend has a far more complex language than I had ever dreamed was possible.

He uses only a handful of pitches, with slurs and pulls to form terms and phrases. I studied his ways for a good two weeks before attempting to introduce myself.

I was met with very good reception.

"Hi, I'm Ari," was my first sentence. He froze, glancing at my face as I watched him in my peripheral vision.

We haven't stopped talking since.

The first day was a very good day. We got to know one another. He was lonely, and I explained that my friends weren't really "friends," as they had the habit of turning on me and becoming horrible bullies. I suggested that we be friends, proper ones at that. He froze again, a habit I've found is his way of acknowledging a thought while processing it. Finally, he agreed.

Last Friday gave us a very crowded lunch with few available seats, a situation not previously encountered, as it was the first Friday of the quarter. His normal table wasn't available for him to sit at. His low-pitched humming signified trouble. The teachers offered to have him sit somewhere else, but he held up a single index finger. As he walked towards me, I tapped the otherwise empty table I was at. Again, the finger was presented. He had seen what appeared to be an empty table in the middle of the room, and after ensuring that no one's bags were underneath, he sat there. I knew to trust him.

Each day, I eat quickly before going to the bathroom. If I'm already done eating when he arrives, he'll call for me using my hum name. I'll respond with a quick greeting, followed by "One moment!" in our humming language.

Today had two significant events. Another autistic boy was walking through the cafeteria, and my good friend's back was turned, so he didn't know who was behind him. But I hummed to both of them, and my friend rocked quietly in greeting after realizing who it was from my sounds. Secondly, there was a bee. I like bees, but my friend doesn't. He saw my curious glances upwards as it flew overhead, and told the assistant principal, who opened a window. (The bee was not harmed in the process.)

My friend and I can read one another like books...or maybe audiobooks.

I have a world that's all my own.

I have a genius mind.

I have no way of showing such,

Except for my own kind.