Trouble

"Trouble" is a trademark of Milton-Bradley.    

“I’ll be green,” I say. “I like green the best. It’s my favorite.”

“Okay, I’ll be blue,” says Peter.

Rain is splattering the giant windows in the classroom, so it's indoor recess today. The other kids are playing games, doing puzzles, reading books, and doing art. It's noisy. I'm in the corner near the door with Peter. When I got out the Trouble game, he wanted to play, so now he's sitting across from me, cross-legged on the floor. I don't know Peter very well. I sit in his group when I'm in Mrs. Bowen's class, but he doesn't talk to me very much. 
I start biting my left thumbnail and my right hand is twirling the hair at the back of my head.

Pop!

The bubble in the middle of the Trouble game board snaps up and the die rolls around, settling on the number 6. I move my green game piece out of the HOME row and into START. There's a little bit of a happy tingle in my chest. A 6 right away is a good way to start the game.

“You know why it’s my favorite?” I say.
"Huh?" Peter pops the bubble and gets a 3.

“Green—you know why it's my favorite color? I like it 'cuz it reminds me of the jungle,” I say. “I’m really into jungle animals like jaguars and spider monkeys . . . poison dart frogs . . . ” My left thumbnail is really jagged and I work at it with my teeth.

Peter reaches for his game piece.

“Actually, I should have said rainforest," I say, "not jungle. Because really, they’re a little bit different, you know. Like, most people think they’re exactly the same, but rainforests are more dense and—“

I stop. Peter is moving his game piece into START. Something in me bristles. That’s not right. The room feels like it's slanting at an uncomfortable angle.

“Actually,” I say, “You have to roll a 6 to move into start.” Now my right knee is bouncing up and down, and my thumb is starting to throb where the nail is ripped away.

“Whatever.” Peter shrugs. “Who cares?”

He leaves his blue piece sitting in START and it feels wrong. It’s not allowed. Why isn't he understanding me? I feel like I should explain again, so I do.

“No—I mean. It says so in the rules. You have to roll a 6 to move to START.”
He's ignoring me. “Just go,” he says. “It’s your turn.”

I reach for the game box and find the directions. My head settles a bit when I see it in black and white. I know I'm right. So, I read aloud. “See, it says, ’On your first turn, you must pop a number 6 to move one of your pegs out of HOME and into START. If you do not pop a 6 on your first turn, you cannot move any—‘“

Peter grabs the box out of my hands and drops it on the ground. “Jeez!” he says. “Get over it. Just go.”

My head feels tight. It’s not right. That blue piece sitting in the START spot is staring at me. It's a crumb in my bed—a rock in my shoe—a splinter under my skin. It's an uninvited thing.
I reach for Peter’s blue peg and pull it from the game board. I'll just put it back, make things go back the way they should be, make the room tilt back to center.
I’m about to put it back in his HOME row, but he grabs my hand.

“Hey! Put it back!” he says.

He’s loud. I wince and my shoulders shrug up near my ears to protect me from the way his voice jabs at me. People start looking at us. My face gets hot.

“I’m just putting it in HOME," I say. "You have to roll a 6.”

He squeezes my hand. “I said, put it back,” he says.

“Ow!” It's like my hand is caught in a trap. He's hurting me and I can't get away.

The prickly feeling starts in my chest. All the voices in the classroom get muffled. I can’t get enough air. I pull my arm back, holding tight to the game piece. He pulls too.

“Give it to me!” Peter is yelling now. “What’s wrong with you?”
What's wrong with me? There's nothing wrong with me. He's doing it. He's cheating. His question pokes around in my head and the bad thoughts start coming. 

“Shut up!” I yell. “Stupid! You aren’t following the rules. Put it back!”

A shadow falls over the game board. I hear Mrs. Bowen’s voice, “What’s going on?” but it sounds like she’s in a tunnel—echoey and strange. The whole world is Peter’s fingers crushing mine—and the wrongness of his game peg coming out of HOME on a 3.

I can't think anymore. There are too many bad thoughts inside and my head is too hot and my lungs are too squished. 
I shove him. He shoves me back.

A hand comes between us. I reach out and dig my fingernails into the skin of the arm that's attached to that hand.  My hand is shaking. There are tears on my cheeks. The hand jerks away. I hear my name. It’s a muted, hollow word.

“Angus!”

I drop the game peg—let go of the arm. Peter still has my right hand, so I push him hard with my left, and he falls backward. But, all I know is I’m free. I jump up and run to the other side of the room. There is a table there, under the window, and I crawl under it.

My hands are over my ears and I’m rocking back and forth. I hear the other kids get quiet. Then the whispers start—the laughing.
She’s coming. I know it. She’s going to make me say I’m sorry. I won’t do it. I’m not sorry. He broke the rules. He hurt my hand. 
I didn’t want to scratch her. But I was so hot and so tight and she was touching me and her arm didn’t seem like it was attached to her. And I didn’t mean it. But it was her fault. She shouldn’t have. He shouldn’t have. And I’m not sorry. I won't say it. I won’t.
      It feels like a whole episode of Planet Earth could have played before anyone comes over to the table. I see legs first and then someone squats down beside me. I see her head duck below the tabletop, but it’s not Mrs. Bowen, it’s Ms. Rice, from my other class. I hide my face.

“Angus?” she says.

“I won’t,” I say. “I won’t.”

“Won’t, what?” Her voice is gentle.

“I won’t say I’m sorry. It’s their fault. He cheated. And she shouldn’t have touched me.”

“Okay. You don’t have to say you’re sorry, but can we talk about it?”

“I hate it here!”

I’m bad. I’m so bad. I hurt her. I did it. Why am I so bad?

My thumb comes back to my mouth. There's nothing left to sink my teeth into, just my sore and ragged skin. I rest my forehead on my knees and let the rocking smooth everything away until they make me come out—until I can't hide anymore.

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.