Angus Drew

I’m in ‘my spot’—inside my closet, wedged as tight as I can get between two giant pillows. The bottom shelf is above my head, and there’s just enough room for me to curl into a ball with my knees at my nose. I reach out one hand and find the knothole in the wooden door with my finger. I slide it shut.

Darkness swarms around me, and silence sweeps me clean.

The only sound is my heart thump-thumping­–LOUD. I cover my ears and listen to the whooshing white noise, while I wait for the flopping fish in my chest to lie still.

“Angus?” My mama’s voice is muffled. I hear it, but it’s outside my world. I don’t answer.

She knows where I am.

I hear the slight sliding of the door—watch the long, golden sliver of light widen until my mother’s face obscures it in an oval-shape.

“I’m sorry, honey. You don’t have to wear it. I’ll take it back to the store.” Her voice is gentle, understanding . . . soft.

I notice tears still on my face and wipe them away with furious fists.

“You come out when you’re ready, okay? I’m making spaghetti with red sauce for supper—no meat. We’ll save you some.”

I nod silently, and Mama swooshes the door shut.

* * *

It was just a shirt‑nothing to get so upset about. I know that. Mama bought it for me for school. It was my favorite green—the deep, dark green of jungle leaves, where my favorite jaguars live. It had long sleeves and cool pockets. When I saw it, I loved it, but when Mama put it on me, I almost screamed.

It was like tiny needles prickling every inch of me, and I could feel my head starting to tingle. The space around my heart shrank and squeezed too tight. My skin felt too small, and I wanted to crawl out of it.

I pulled at the shirt, but Mama said, “Give it a chance. Let’s see it.” She buttoned it up and stood me in front of the mirror. Her hands pressing the fabric against my shoulders felt like sandpaper.

I don’t know how the shirt looked. All I know is I started to cry and whine, and rip at the buttons. It was like fleas were crawling under my skin. I wrestled and struggled until the shirt came off, and then I threw it on the floor and ran out of Mama’s room. I jumped on my bed and covered my head with the pillow, but I could still feel my skin vibrating, like all my cells were trying to jump off of me like sailors from a sinking ship.

I sat up in bed, with tears all over my face. I hit my forehead once. It made me feel better. I wanted to hit it again, but I remembered the story Mama read me, the one from my Speech Teacher at school. It said, “When I want to hit myself, I can go to my quiet space instead. My quiet space will help me to feel better.”

So, I jumped from the bed and crawled inside the closet.

* * *

So, here I am. The tingling in my skin and the top of my head is starting to go away. Squeezing my arms tight seems to help. I know that supper is waiting, and my stomach keeps rumbling. I’m not sure if I’m ready to go out yet, but I want to. I want to eat spaghetti with Mama and little Jesse.

My breathing is quiet now, and I’m not crying anymore. Maybe that means I’m ready–

Mama said to come out when I was ready.

I slide the door open and slip out from between the pillows. It’s bright in my room. I sit on the floor for a minute and breathe the cool, un-closet, air. My skin feels like it’s the right size again.

“Angus? Is that you? Supper’s ready.” My Mama’s voice is just outside my door. She opens it and comes inside.

I look up at her from the floor as she goes to my dresser and pulls out a blue t-shirt. She comes and sits beside me on the carpet.

“How’s this?” she asks.

I hold my arms out and she slides the shirt over my head. The smooth cotton cools and soothes my skin. I settle into it and Mama smiles. I smile back. She takes my hand and helps me up. We go out the door toward the smell of spaghetti in the kitchen. I feel better now.

By the way, it’s nice to meet you. My name is Angus Drew, and I have Autism.