Unlocked : a Love Story Part 5

Tracy's heart thudded hard in her chest. Please, Father ... be with me. I'm not sure how much I can take. Please, Father ... be with me. I'm not sure how much I can take.

I am with you, daughter. I love you, and I will fight this battle for you ... Trust me, precious child. Trust.

The answer whispered to her anxious heart and gave her something to hold onto. She couldn't imagine what the next hour would bring. Trust G.o.d, Trust G.o.d, she told herself. she told herself. No matter how you feel, Tracy. Come on. No matter how you feel, Tracy. Come on. She peeled off her Walmart vest, tossed it on the backseat, and stepped out of the car. She peeled off her Walmart vest, tossed it on the backseat, and stepped out of the car.

She was early, so she didn't rush. Instead she soaked in everything around her-the groups of kids, their laughter and conversation. So different from the life her son was living. A pang of sadness. .h.i.t her and wrapped itself around her heart. This was his senior year. Tonight these kids would go to a Fulton High football game and Holden would go to therapy. Even if something finally helped Holden step out into the light where the rest of them lived, it would be too late for any of this. Too late to experience high school. Stop it, Tracy ... Stop it, Tracy ...

She reached Mrs. Bristowe's cla.s.sroom and peered through the window in the door. Holden was already sitting cross-legged on a pillow in the corner of the room, his eyes focused on the bare ceiling. She wanted to run to him and take him in her arms, cry out to him. Holden, honey ... it's me, your mom. Come out of there, baby. Whatever's holding you, break away. Holden, honey ... it's me, your mom. Come out of there, baby. Whatever's holding you, break away. But she couldn't do that. She'd tried before, and it only frightened him. One time when she asked him to find his way back, he covered his face and rocked for half an hour. That was two years ago. Tracy hadn't brought up the subject since. But she couldn't do that. She'd tried before, and it only frightened him. One time when she asked him to find his way back, he covered his face and rocked for half an hour. That was two years ago. Tracy hadn't brought up the subject since.

Please, G.o.d ... I need You. The schooling and therapy ... it isn't working, Father. How can I reach him? We need a miracle, Lord. Please.

Mrs. Bristowe must've seen her, because she came to the door and opened it. Her smile was pleasant, but she looked worn out. Not a good sign. "h.e.l.lo, Mrs. Harris."

"h.e.l.lo." She never knew whether to go to Holden in a moment like this. Holden rarely acknowledged her, but she was determined to treat him the way she would if he didn't have autism. So she crossed the room and crouched down to his level. "Hi, Holden. It's conference day, okay? I'll talk to Mrs. Bristowe and you do your math. Then we'll go home."

Holden rarely looked at her, and never responded. But Tracy was pretty sure he rocked a little. She smiled at him. "I'll take that as a yes." She stood again and followed Mrs. Bristowe to her desk. When they were seated, the teacher set a file with Holden's name on it squarely in front of her. "Mrs. Harris, you know that the first meeting of the school year is important. We like to a.s.sess how our students have progressed over the summer and whether we have them on the correct plan." She drew a deep breath as she opened Holden's folder. "We've definitely seen changes in Holden since last spring."

"Yes." Tracy sat rigid in her chair, her sweaty palms locked together on her lap. "He seems, I don't know ... unsettled, I guess."

"Yes." Mrs. Bristowe paused. "Definitely." She pulled a single sheet from the file and handed it to Tracy. "Here's a report from an incident the other day. I'll give you a few minutes to read over it."

Tracy glanced at Holden, but he didn't seem to be listening to them. He had his work tray on his lap and he was hunched over the paper, working trigonometry problems with as little effort as it took him to breathe. She took the report from Mrs. Bristowe and began to read.

The doc.u.ment told about a situation that past Monday where Holden stopped to listen to the drama production cla.s.s singing a song during rehearsal. Tracy looked up at Holden's teacher. "He wanted to stay? To listen to the music?"

"Definitely." She angled her head thoughtfully. "Of course, that's a mainstream cla.s.s, and Holden hasn't been approved for mainstream drama. There's no telling how he would act in that situation."

"So you didn't let him stay?"

"I couldn't. I'd need permission on a lot of levels before I could do that." She hesitated. "I'll get to that in a minute."

Tracy nodded. Why did Holden have to have a committee make a decision for him? If he wanted to hear a song, wasn't it possible to stand by him and let him listen? Everyone agreed about the importance of music, right? Even the school therapists. Tracy contained her frustration. She found her place on the page again and read how Holden had become agitated and how he'd dropped to the floor and produced a couple dozen push-ups in the hallway. Tracy felt tears br.i.m.m.i.n.g as she read the final line: When we finally reached the gym with the other special-needs kids, Holden was completely noncompliant. When we finally reached the gym with the other special-needs kids, Holden was completely noncompliant.

Noncompliant? Because he wanted to listen to music? Tracy wrestled with her frustration. She dabbed at her eyes and handed the piece of paper back to the teacher. "What do you mean, 'noncompliant'?" She had to watch her tone. Nothing good would come from getting angry or frustrated with the woman. After all, Holden had been a little noncompliant for her too.

Mrs. Bristowe's expression softened, and a fresh kindness shone in her eyes. "We have a protocol for the students. You know that. So once I got Holden back on task and into the gym, I asked him to partic.i.p.ate. The kids were throwing a Nerf ball, working their large motor skills along with their ability to interact. Holden didn't want to do that."

A Nerf ball. Tracy pictured the woman in her line at Walmart a few weeks ago. The boy was tossing a Nerf ball, talking about playing with his mom later that day. It was something Holden loved to do when he was two and three. But now he was eighteen. Maybe he didn't want to toss a Nerf ball. She forced herself to focus.

"We never make the kids partic.i.p.ate. As you know, we introduce an alternate activity. So I gave him a math sheet and asked him to sit in the observation chair."

"The observation chair?"

"Yes. It's a comfortable seat in the corner of the gym where special-needs students can observe other kids interacting. Research shows there's benefit to observing."

Tracy wanted to scream or laugh out loud. Wasn't that all Holden wanted to do? Observe kids in the theater room? And did the woman really have to use all the right education words? She could just say she had Holden sit to the side and do his schoolwork. She clenched her hands and nodded. "You said he was noncompliant."

"Yes." Her tone suggested the worst was yet to come. "Instead of working on math, he stood and turned in circles. Small circles, then larger circles, then sweeping circles until he was almost in the way of the other kids."

Circles? Holden hadn't moved in circles since he was five years old, six, maybe. Panic coursed through Tracy's veins. They'd resolved that behavior through therapy before his seventh birthday. "Did ... did he do anything else, anything that would explain why?"

"No. I spoke to him several times, but he never looked at me. He circled until finally he grew very irritable. Then he dropped down and did a series of push-ups-like always. After that he sat in his chair, but he wouldn't work on his math the rest of the day." She looked at Holden. "He's been disagreeable every day since then."

Tracy couldn't fathom why Holden would regress now, or what was at the cause of it. She prayed for him constantly, and never took a day off from therapy. This week his therapist was helping him understand the musical PECS cards. That reminded Tracy. "Usually he uses his cards? Did he have them? So he could tell you what he was thinking?"

"First ..." Mrs. Bristowe smiled patiently, "he doesn't really tell us a whole lot with the cards. There are glimpses, yes. But little more." She looked at Holden's file for a moment, then back at Tracy. "And yes, he had his cards when he stopped to listen to the drama cla.s.s."

"What did he say?" Maybe there was a window here, a way to know what Holden had been thinking.

"One of the girls in the cla.s.s came out to talk to him. He showed her a card he uses often." She hesitated. "The one with the pair of eyes."

"It says 'I see.'" Tracy glanced at Holden, but he was looking up again, most likely unaware of their conversation. She leaned closer, her voice lower. "What if he really meant that, Mrs. Bristowe? Maybe he could see that the cla.s.s was involved in music, and he wanted to take part. Or maybe he wanted the girl to know that he saw her. Even if maybe he wasn't looking right at her."

"Sure." Mrs. Bristowe looked bewildered. "Any of those possibilities exist. And he had access to his PECS cards in the gym. But instead of using them to express himself, he turned in circles."

Tracy sighed. They were getting nowhere. She couldn't defend Holden's actions unless she knew what he was thinking. Same as anyone who worked with him. "What about his cla.s.s work?"

"It's about the same as last year." She pulled a group of papers from the file. "He continues to excel in math, of course."

"You mainstreamed him this year. How's that going?" She had asked Holden, of course, but he hadn't given her any sign except one. "He started showing the cards differently after school started. He used to hand them to me, but after the first day, he stopped that." Tracy folded her arms in front of her. "Now he holds tight to the cards when he shows them to me."

"I noticed that." Mrs. Bristowe pursed her lips. "I have a sense he's getting picked on from a few of the football players." She pulled a paper from the back of the folder. "A junior, Michael Schwartz, made this report at the office that day."

Tracy felt her heart skip a beat as she took the paper. If Holden was getting picked on, then he couldn't be mainstreamed. She could hire a tutor for him, or have his therapist help him with online studies. Holden wasn't going to be the target of bullies.

She studied the report. It wasn't long. Just a fact sheet with the student's name, the date and location of the problem-in this case the math building, two doors down from the room where Holden took trig. The only details came at the bottom.

I was in the math building, and I saw a bunch of football players kick the s.h.i.+ns of Holden Harris. I know who he is because I was a T.A. for the special-needs cla.s.s last year. After they pushed him around, one of the guys kicked Holden's backpack. His flashcards scattered all over the floor and he seemed pretty upset. I thought you'd want to know.

Tracy's hands shook, and her heart raced faster than before. "The answer's right here." She had to work to keep her voice down. "No wonder he won't let go of his cards. Holden was attacked and no one told me until now."

"I wouldn't say attacked. Michael might've seen it wrong." Mrs. Bristowe took the paper and returned it to Holden's file. "But you asked about the mainstream efforts. His teacher says he doesn't act like the other kids, doesn't look at the board or talk to anyone. And he's still doing the flapping I told you about last year. But otherwise, his cla.s.s work and test grades so far have been at the highest level.

Tracy leaned back in her chair. "So ..." Tears brimmed in her eyes, but she fought them. "What do we do?"

"That's up to you. No one is picking on Holden in cla.s.s."

"But the walk to the cla.s.sroom takes him by any number of people who might." Again she forced herself to talk quieter. "Isn't that right?"

"It is." Mrs. Bristowe gave a sad shrug. "If he were my son, I'd pull him. Let him work on his trig at home."

"But if we can't mainstream him in math, then how does he ever make the transition?" The answer hit her before Holden's teacher had the chance to respond. They couldn't mainstream Holden because he wasn't making the transition. Because therapy wasn't working and change wasn't happening and Holden hadn't advanced at all since last spring. It was the whole reason Mrs. Bristowe looked discouraged.

The teacher folded her hands on her desk and looked straight at Tracy. "I have an idea."

Tracy had never felt more defeated. Sure, she was praying, and she'd keep praying. But what reason did she have to believe anything would ever change for Holden? "What is it?"

"I mentioned it would take a committee to allow Holden into the drama room. But something has happened to expedite that process." She smiled, her eyes bright for the first time since the meeting started. "The drama student-the girl Holden showed the PECS card to the other day-has asked if Holden could observe rehearsals during sixth period. Our drama instructor Mr. Hawkins has agreed."

Tracy leaned her forearms on the desk and tried to comprehend what Mrs. Bristowe had just said. "She did that for him?"

"Yes." Mrs. Bristowe sorted through the folder and found one more piece of paper. "I've taken the idea to the team of specialneeds teachers, and everyone has signed off. It's up to you now."

"Of course." Tracy made a sound that was more laugh than cry. She brought her fingers to her lips and reached for a pen in her purse. Then, with a renewed sense of hope, she signed the bottom of the page and handed it back to Mrs. Bristowe. "When ... when can he start?"

"Monday." The teacher smiled. "I know Holden loves music. We've always known that. But this is the first time he's been so proactive about it, wanting to be in the drama cla.s.sroom. At the very least, he'll enjoy sitting at the back of the drama room more than tossing a Nerf ball."

"Yes." She sat a little straighter. "At the very least." No matter how small this step for Holden, it was something-a step in the right direction.

"That's all, Mrs. Harris." The teacher stood and shook her hand. She grabbed a second folder from an adjacent desk. "I made copies of everything in his file, for your records."

"Thank you." Tracy looked into the woman's eyes. "We ... we needed this." She went to Holden. "Time to go, honey. I've got your snack ready at home."

Holden took his PECS cards from his backpack and looked intently through them. Finally he pulled out a worn card, and this time she didn't reach for it. The card held an ill.u.s.tration of small, irregularly shaped black dots, and the word beneath that read "Raisins."

"You want raisins for a snack." Tracy grinned as Holden stood and followed her. "We'll have raisins."

They were halfway to the car when in the distance Holden seemed to spot the football field. He stopped for a few seconds, then he folded his hands tightly together, brought them to his chin, and flapped his arms. The familiar behavior lasted only a few minutes, but clearly Holden was agitated. After reading the report, Tracy understood why.

"Come on, Holden. It's okay. We're almost to the car. Kate will be home soon." She touched his arm, but he jerked away. The rest of the walk to the car, he sorted through his PECS cards. When they reached the car he showed her the card he'd been apparently looking for. It showed a TV screen and the word "Movie." Again he didn't make eye contact.

"Yes, Holden, we'll watch the movie. Of course." Tracy moved her head slightly, trying to find that sweet spot where their eyes might connect. But it didn't happen. They climbed in the car and Holden was quiet, watching out the window for the ride home.

They met up with Kate and the three of them headed inside the apartment. Tracy and Kate made the snack-and Tracy was careful to add extra raisins. Holden brought his cards to the table, but he kept his focus on the food. Intent on the process of eating. Kate chattered, all cheery and suns.h.i.+ne, and between bites Holden lined up his raisins around the outside of the plate and Tracy wondered if there was maybe a connection. Whatever Holden was feeling, whatever he was going through, maybe the orderliness of turning circles or lining up his raisins helped him deal with it.

There was a connection somewhere, Tracy had to believe that. A reason for everything Holden did, every quirky repet.i.tive behavior, every silent hour. Now, like every day since Holden's diagnosis, it was a matter of finding the connection.

As Holden finished his snack, he seemed more anxious than usual, his mannerisms jerky and unsettled. Still, he took his seat on the floor and Kate took the spot beside him. It was like she had an innate understanding that something wasn't right with Holden, that he needed her companions.h.i.+p while he watched the movie. For whatever reason, she hadn't grown bored with the routine. Tracy was grateful. Kate was helping... even if Holden was agitated, he was aware of her presence. Lately she had even caught him looking briefly at Kate before and after the movie.

Tracy let the loop at the beginning of the DVD play through, let the song play out. Never be the same without your love ... live alone ... Try so hard to rise above. Never be the same without your love ... live alone ... Try so hard to rise above. Then, like every day for as far back as she could remember, she hit the Play b.u.t.ton and the movie began. Then, like every day for as far back as she could remember, she hit the Play b.u.t.ton and the movie began.

But today Tracy didn't want a reminder of the wonderful, communicative little boy Holden had been. The kitchen needed to be cleaned, and the laundry had to be sorted. Kate was little, but an extra child in the house had added housework and Tracy was glad for the diversion. She was on her way to Holden's room when she saw something that made her stop cold.

Holden wasn't sitting cross-legged the way he had a thousand times before today. He and Kate were on their feet, turning in circles.

The sick feeling hit like a freezing winter wind and took her breath. No, Holden ... don't go that way. You're letting it take you farther from me. No, Holden ... don't go that way. You're letting it take you farther from me. She wanted to go to him and hold his shoulders, look him in the eyes if that were possible, and beg him to stay here with her. She wanted to go to him and hold his shoulders, look him in the eyes if that were possible, and beg him to stay here with her.

She had taken two steps toward him when she caught the image on the TV screen and again she stopped, stunned too shocked to move. The scene was one where Holden and Ella were singing "Jesus Loves Me." But that wasn't all they were doing. They were also dancing.

"Holden ..." She whispered. She no longer wanted to interrupt him.

Kate turned circles around him, her arms raised. "We're dancing, Holden!" She giggled and skipped a few steps. "I love dancing!"

Holden didn't respond, but his circles grew bigger and then smaller again. And something else was different for Holden: his eyes were closed.

Tracy looked from the dancing three-year-olds on the screen to her son and Kate and back again, and suddenly she was absolutely sure about what was happening here. What had happened the other day in gym cla.s.s. So sure she wanted to call Mrs. Bristowe and ask her to come right over. The sick feeling left her, and a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. Holden was doing something that had once given him great delight, something that had connected him to a friend and made him laugh with delight. He wasn't turning circles because he was regressing. In fact, this might even explain the way he'd turned circles when he was five and six. He wasn't being defiant or difficult or agitated or over stimulated. He was turning circles for one very simple, very beautiful reason. Somewhere in the private world where he lived, Holden was doing something he loved to do.

He was dancing with Ella.

Eight.

ENGLISH CLa.s.s WAS OVER, AND E ELLA WAS ONE OF THE LAST KIDS to leave the room. As she walked out she spotted Jake and Sam, but before she reached them she saw something she could hardly believe. The guys had another kid cornered. After the incident with Holden, Ella had talked for an hour that night with Jake. "It wasn't funny," she told him. to leave the room. As she walked out she spotted Jake and Sam, but before she reached them she saw something she could hardly believe. The guys had another kid cornered. After the incident with Holden, Ella had talked for an hour that night with Jake. "It wasn't funny," she told him.

"I'm sorry." He touched her hair, his eyes kind and genuine again. "We didn't mean anything by it."

Ella wanted to believe him, but this time their victim was Michael Schwartz, a quiet, artsy kid who had been in a number of cla.s.ses with Ella over the years. He played in the school orchestra and would probably be one of the lead flutists in the school's Beauty and the Beast Beauty and the Beast musical. Once last year they were in the same small group in their social studies cla.s.s. They had to talk about their families. She still remembered that she and Michael both seemed equally hesitant to talk about what went on at home. musical. Once last year they were in the same small group in their social studies cla.s.s. They had to talk about their families. She still remembered that she and Michael both seemed equally hesitant to talk about what went on at home.

"My parents are getting a divorce." Michael was quiet, not as confident as lots of kids. "I don't really talk about it."

And now here was her boyfriend -the guy who seemed so great over the summer-picking on the kid. Ella watched the way she had when the guys cornered Holden. Because she couldn't actually believe they were doing this, and she wanted to be sure it wasn't a two-way thing. Maybe Michael had picked a fight with them first.

"Hey, flower boy." Jake flicked the spot on Michael's backpack where the design included a few flowers. "What kind of wimp walks around with flowers on his backpack?"

Anger came over Ella in a flash. Whatever was happening here, Michael wasn't a part of it. Clearly the kid wanted to move along, but there was literally no way past Jake and Sam without a physical confrontation. She wanted to run up and push the guys away, but how would that look? Michael might come across as more of a victim, which could make things worse for him. Instead she seethed from her place near the cla.s.sroom door.

Sam was taking a turn with him. "So what is it, fruitcake, you have something against football players?" It was Friday -game day-and he and Jake wore their uniforms. "We too manly for you, flute player?" He laughed hard. "I heard only gay guys play the flute." Sam pranced around, pretending to play an invisible flute.

Ella silently seethed. She was finished with Jake. She didn't want any part of a guy who treated other kids like this. She took a few steps toward him and Sam, but she stopped herself. Michael wasn't in danger, and again she'd only make him look weak if she tried to rescue him.

"I'm not gay." Michael peered up at Sam through his long black hair. "Get out of my face."

"Really?" Jake shoved the kid. "You're talking back to my boy Sam?"

Ella couldn't stand there another minute. She stormed toward the guys, intent on pus.h.i.+ng Jake out of the way. At the same time, three other football players walked up, and Ella stopped herself once more. Jake's teammates seemed to understand pretty quickly what was happening, and one of them gave Jake a lighthearted shove.

"Leave the kid alone." The guy's name was Brian Brickell. He had also been in a number of Ella's cla.s.ses over the years. "Come on J-Bird, pick on someone your own size."

At first Jake looked like he might blow up at his teammate. But then he slapped Sam on the back and sneered at Michael. "Stay out of my way."

Michael said nothing. He took the opportunity to escape and did so without looking over his shoulder. As he left, Sam yelled at him. "Yeah, that's right. Don't look back, queer boy. This is our hallway. No flute players got it?"

Ella watched Jake go, and she felt horrified. She wanted to tell him off right here in front of his friends, but she was too sick to her stomach to speak or move. She would break up with him later. They were finished.

She looked the opposite direction at Michael Schwartz, hurrying out of the building. For an instant, she thought about running after him and telling him she was sorry about how Jake acted. Sorry because she should've stepped in. But Jake would see her, and that would get awkward.

Instead, she turned a different direction and headed out a side door. What was wrong with the kids at Fulton High? The school needed more guys like Brian Brickell, a reminder that not all football players were like Jake and Sam.

ELLA DIDN'T SEE J JAKE UNTIL TWO HOURS LATER BETWEEN cla.s.ses. He walked up to her, hurt plastered across his face. "You didn't say hi after English." cla.s.ses. He walked up to her, hurt plastered across his face. "You didn't say hi after English."

She stopped and searched his eyes. "We need to talk."

He chuckled, doing his best to charm her. "About what?"