The Ables (13 page)

When asked to an audience like this one, that was a question that required no answer.

***

Ooph!

We reappeared inside a huge office—his father’s office. The room had double-tall ceilings—that part I could tell for myself. Henry said later that nearly every visible surface was either wood or leather and that the room was what we might imagine Bruce Wayne’s office looked like.

“I’m not supposed to be in here, but, well, what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him,” Bentley declared, just a bit of his nervousness showing. “Anyway, there.” He must have pointed, because the others all oohed and aahed a bit.

“What is it?” Freddie asked.

“It’s the emergency call button to Goodspeed. If the city is ever in trouble, under attack or something, my dad can press that button, and a bunch of reinforcements would be here in moments.”

More impressed cooing.

“So it’s like the Bat phone,” I said casually.

“Oh my God, it
is
like the Bat phone,” Henry exclaimed.

“I’ve never heard of this,” James said flatly, almost mildly offended. “I never knew anything like this existed.”

“Well, they don’t publicize it,” Bentley explained. “There are only three of these in the city, all at the homes of board members.”

“So what happens if a board member resigns?” Sometimes, I was just a slave to my innate desire to understand the reasons behind things. “Does he just have a useless button on his office wall the rest of his life? Do they install a new one at the new guy’s house?”

“Honestly,” Bentley said, “I don’t think board members ever resign. I’m pretty sure it’s a lifetime appointment.”

“Jeez,” Henry scoffed. “Sounds like a crappy job to me.”

“Anything involving work seems like a crappy job to you,” I joked.

“Hey!”

“Has anyone ever pushed it—” Freddie paused to refuel on his inhaler before finishing his thought. “—on accident?”

“Man, I hope not,” Bentley said. “I can tell you firsthand you don’t want to make my father angry, that’s for sure.” This line of thinking prompted Bentley to get nervous again and insist we return to the guest-house before being discovered. “Come on, guys, I don’t want to get caught.”

“Well,” Henry said, “This was pretty cool. Definitely saved the best part of the tour for last.” Even when giving a compliment, Henry was kind of a jerk.

***

Back in the guesthouse, the conversation then turned quickly to the SuperSim and the fast-approaching school board hearing.

We sat on the floor in our sleeping bags in a giant circle. It was like we were sitting around an imaginary campfire. Henry sat across from me, with Bentley on his right. Then James, then me, then Donnie, Freddie, and back to Henry.

Bentley was laying out the challenges ahead of us if we were even lucky enough to win the appeal. “One of the things I’ve been thinking about that we’re going to have to overcome,” he said, “is speed.”

“Speed?” Henry asked.

“Yeah. We’re not very fast.”

“Ah,” I said in agreement.

Bentley continued. “I have a hard enough time walking, let alone running. You’re in a wheelchair, Henry. Donnie is … well, Donnie. James and Phillip might be able to run the best out of all of us, but they can’t see where they’re going. And Freddie’s going to break down from an asthma attack as soon as he takes three steps.” It was true, particularly the part about Freddie. He puffed on his inhaler just about as often as James talked about his transporter business. “We’re not going to be able to get involved in any chases, you know?”

He was right, and it was something I hadn’t considered. How could we catch criminals when we couldn’t even run? I was about to do my usual thing of looking for the silver lining when Bentley interrupted, “Did you see that?!”

“No,” James and I deadpanned, almost in unison. That would become a staple joke for the two of us, and it never failed to make us laugh. We called it “blind humor.”

“No, seriously: I think Donnie was just laughing at me.”

“Donnie wasn’t laughing at you, Bentley. He’s not even paying attention to you,” Henry said bluntly. “He’s in his own little world, as usual.”

“I think you’re wrong,” Bentley said curiously and slowly, like a scientist peering into a microscope at something interesting. “I think maybe Donnie’s been paying more attention than we thought, haven’t you, Donnie?”

“Yes.” I nearly soiled my pants when Donnie answered verbally. I had only ever heard him say yes or no a few times in school, and then it was only to his teacher’s aide—and almost always at inappropriate times, like in the middle of the teacher’s lecture. But answering questions and speaking conversationally? This was a stunning development, and I gasped out loud before slapping my right hand over my mouth.

We talked to Donnie plenty—don’t get me wrong. We would say something about Old Lady Crouch—that’s what we called her, somewhat affectionately—and then turn to him and say things like “Isn’t that right, Donnie?” We weren’t sure he understood us, but we always wanted him to feel like he was part of the group.

But he had never answered us verbally.
Ever
. This was unprecedented.

We were all stunned. Bentley recovered and grabbed the reins again. “Donnie, what’s so funny?”

Nothing. I could practically hear the gears in Bentley’s brain turning. “Donnie … did you have something to add to our conversation?”

Again, nothing.

“Donnie, can you run?”

“Yes.”

Holy crap! He did it again!

Somehow, it was even more remarkable the second time.

Donnie’s disability left him with a mild speech impediment, and from what little I’d heard him speak, he seemed to slur his words a little bit. But there was no mistaking that he had answered in the affirmative and had done so in direct response to Bentley’s question.

“Donnie,” Bentley said carefully, “Can you run fast?” There was no immediate response that I could hear. I wondered if the breakthrough moment with Donnie had ended just as abruptly as it had begun. Bentley tried again, speaking more deliberately. “If I asked you to go outside and race one of us around the guesthouse, would you win?”

Without warning, I felt Donnie bolt up to a standing position and leap away from the circle of sleeping bags.

“Donnie!” Bentley yelled.

“What the heck?” Henry exclaimed.

Before anyone could fully process what was happening, Donnie ran to the front door of the guesthouse and sprinted outside. He’d taken Bentley’s question literally, not hypothetically. He had completely misunderstood the meaning of what he’d been asked and was now outside running around the house, absolutely trouncing all of us in a race none of us were running.

Bentley and Henry scrambled and chased after him, calling his name in a shouted whisper, trying to avoid waking Ted and Olivia. I wasn’t sure what the guys were thinking taking off after Donnie like that because they were the least likely people I knew to catch up to anyone—outside of myself and James, that is. But there wasn’t anyone else around that could go after him either.

James, Freddie, and I just sat there shrugging in disbelief. I wasn’t about to go running anywhere in a house I barely knew. I shook my head trying to clear the cobwebs and get a grip on the situation. “Is he really outside racing around the guesthouse right now?”

I was asking myself as much as anything, thinking out loud, but James answered anyway. “I’m pretty sure he is, yeah.”

“Wow.” I couldn’t believe it. I was still reeling from the fact that Donnie could understand direct sentences and questions. “I didn’t know he could understand us that well.” Right away, I started searching my memory for anything I might have said previously in his presence that could have been embarrassing or hurt his feelings. I couldn’t think of anything, which was comforting.

“I don’t know, Phillip. All Bentley did was ask if he could win a race, and Donnie thought that meant it was time to race … immediately. Maybe he understands us more than we thought, but I wouldn’t say he understands us
well …
you know what I’m saying?”

James was right. I realized only in that moment how true it was that Donnie’s mind wasn’t as mature as his body. We’d been told that on the first day of school, but I guess I didn’t give much thought as to what it really meant.

After a few more moments of quiet, the front door burst open again, and in three great strides, Donnie reached his sleeping bag, plopping to the floor with a light thud. His breathing was quickened, but he wasn’t gasping for breath or anything. And he just sat there … breathing rhythmically, as though nothing strange at all had just occurred.

I wanted to speak but couldn’t think of anything to say. I was afraid of Donnie misunderstanding again and doing something unpredictable.

After a few seconds of the four of us just sitting there in stunned silence, I heard the door open again. Henry and Bentley entered, and they seemed relieved to see Donnie. “There you are,” Bentley said with a sigh of relief. He used his cane as he made his way back to the circle, with Henry’s wheelchair wheels squeaking behind him. They were both gassed, panting and wheezing from a level of physical exertion neither of them was used to.

“I guess we do have one person on our team after all who can run fast.” Bentley paused before sitting back down to scold Donnie the way a loving father would. He spoke for all of us when he said, “You scared the crap out of me, Donnie, do you know that?!”

“I win,” Donnie said, beaming.

And that’s when the entire group just lost it. It was one of those moments where the situation hits you just right, and you cannot help but laugh uncontrollably. “Yes, you did,” Bentley managed to say between gasps. “You certainly did win, Donnie.”

The giggling became infectious—even Donnie started chuckling.

We laughed so loud and so long that we woke up Ted, who had to come out and tell us to quiet down and go to bed already. It struck me as humorous that it was ultimately the ruckus after the fact that woke up Ted; not the incident itself—not the sounds of the door opening and closing or kids running around the house outside—but the laughter.

We tried our best to calm down, and as Ted turned out the lights and headed back to his room, we all got situated in our sleeping bags and prepared to go to sleep. There was a bit more giggling and chatter for a few minutes, but it died down pretty quickly. It was later than I’d ever stayed up, and most everyone was exhausted.

As I lay there trying to fall asleep, I felt a new sense of responsibility for Donnie, and it was heavy. We all took care to look out for him and be inclusive with him, and we had already grown a bit protective of him from an emotional standpoint. But now, with a fresh demonstration of our influence over him, I began to worry for his physical safety.

What if he misunderstands us during the SuperSim and gets hurt?

I shuddered. Granted, any of us could be hurt during the SuperSim, but it wasn’t quite the same with Donnie. I wasn’t sure he had the same measure of free will that we did. He was participating as an extension of his loyalty to us—not because he wanted to play superhero or even understood what it was. He just wanted to belong.

I thought about how protective he was of us special ed kids at school—single-handedly keeping us bully-free. Would that same instinct, combined with the newly-discovered eagerness to please, cause Donnie to do something rash and get himself hurt in the SuperSim? It suddenly seemed like a very real possibility to me.

But then again, I did have a tendency to over worry. I was always seeing trouble where it likely didn’t exist, which made it nearly impossible to tell the real dangers from the imaginary ones.

Just as I was finally quieting my mind and starting to drift to sleep, Henry whispered, “I win.” And the unquenchable laughter started right up all over again.

Our team was still barred from competing. We’d filed our appeal paperwork with the school board—the first legal step we could take—but had yet to have our day before the school board to state our case. We held a few more get-togethers—strategy meetings, mostly—but it didn’t seem to be helping very much. I think it was tough for us to give practice our full attention when we all sort of carried a secret fear we would lose the appeal.

Still, Bentley seemed confident in our chances of winning. But I wasn’t quite convinced. In truth, the hearing loomed large for me. Things usually had to be black and white for me to have any comfort, and our eligibility status for the SuperSim was anything but black and white. It was a muddled grey mess as far as I was concerned.

Despite Bentley’s insistence that our rights were being infringed upon, I knew from Mrs. Crouch’s Custodial Studies class that custodian law superseded American laws. I feared the school would simply deny our appeal on the grounds of doing so for our own protection, and that would be the end of it.

With the hearing now two days away, at least the worrying would soon come to an end.

It was so heavy on my mind that I didn’t even notice that Donnie wasn’t in school that Monday. He’d seemed fine on Friday at Bentley’s sleepover—fine enough to spontaneously race around the house in his pajamas—but I guess he picked up a cold or something. But again, I didn’t even notice he was missing. My thoughts were consumed by the SuperSim and on our planned defense of our petition for reinstatement.

My teachers blathered on about the usual stuff while I ran over contingency scenarios in my head.
What if they deny our appeal without hearing our arguments? What if they hear our arguments but deny us anyway? What if all this meeting and training and practicing we’re doing leads to a big fat nothing?

Looking back, it’s easy to see that I was far too anxious for a seventh-grader, and it wasn’t going to get any better with what awaited me in life.

Bentley tried to reassure me at lunch. “Phillip, look: There’s no way they’re going to keep us from competing. It’s discrimination, plain and simple. It’s just the right thing to do—logically, morally, and legally.”