summary // nobody gets what's in patrick's head. not even pete.
patrick is 15 and pete is 17; it's more implied than anything though because of creepy highschool age differences ew
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"Patrick? Do you know the answer to number seven?"
A million thoughts flutter through my brain, all at once. That's nothing new: my thoughts are always fluttering. Sometimes I picture butterflies inside my head, flapping their gentle little wings, each carrying a different thought with them.
"Patrick?"
Shoot. Okay, Trick, focus. She asked about number seven. Number seven. Number seven. Number seven – okay, it says: What is the national bird of the United States of America?
I should know that. Yes, I know that. That's an easy one. Okay, let's see. No, it's not quail. That's just California's bird. Quail's are so funny-looking...they're so fat and round with those little curly things on their heads and they scurry whenever--
"Typical Stumpy," I hear someone whisper, and I begin to panic.
Focus, Trick! Don't mess this up and give them another reason to tease you. The answer isn't quail. The USA's national bird...it's an eagle, right? Yes. It's the something eagle. Hairy eagle? No, birds have feathers, not hair. Think, Trick! Feathery eagle? No. Bald eagle...maybe? Not long enough, though. Wait – American Bald Eagle, that's it! Okay Trick, just tell Mrs. Jackson what the answer is.
"Do you have an answer, Patrick?"
"Um, yes ma'am...it's..."
I know the answer but I falter because everyone is staring at me. Why do they do that? Why do they always stare when it's my turn to answer questions? Don't they know how bad it makes me feel?
They're still staring. Stop staring!
Mrs. Jackson is sighing now. "Okay, Patrick, never mind. Ryan, do you know--"
"NO, I can answer."
"Patrick, there's no need to shout. Please lower your voice. Ryan--"
"NO, LET ME ANSWER! I KNOW IT, I WANT TO ANSWER!"
Silence.
Oh no. Why, why, why did I have to yell? They've all stopped doing their worksheets and they're all really staring at me now. Why does that always happen when I get frustrated? Why do I always lose control and yell? My mom told me once that yelling hurts people's feelings. I don't mean to do that. I never want to hurt anyone's feelings. But sometimes it just happens.
Mrs. Jackson picks up the classroom phone. I bury my burning face in my hands because I already know who she's calling.
"Patick." I peek through my fingers, which are covering my eyes, and Mrs. Jackson gently pries my hands away from my face. "Patrick, Pete is ready to see you. Go to room--"
"Room 205. Room 205. Room 205. I know," I whisper to her, sad and frustrated tears filling my eyes. Pete is the nice boy who helps people like me. He's young, but he's nice. Mrs. Jackson always calls him when I have an "outburst", as Pete calls them.
As I stand up, I know they're all still looking at me again. Someone snickers and somebody else says, "Patrick is crazy. He's so slow and stupid and weird."
That was Gabe, I think. More tears silently slip down my face as I make my way to Pete's office. Gabe's words are so mean. Why is he always so mean? He's wrong. I know he's wrong. Pete always tells me what to say to myself when people say mean things.
"Having ADHD is not the same as being crazy. Having ADHD does not mean I'm slow. Having ADHD is not stupid. Having ADHD is not weird."
I repeat these things to myself again and again and again until I arrive at the wooden door. There's a chip in the white paint. A tiny black smear stands out on the golden doorknob.
I reach up my hand and knock on the door. Four knocks precisely, so that Pete will know it's me.
"Come in, Patrick."
I wipe the tears from my face before stepping inside. Pete's office is so nice. The walls are painted a light shade of yellow that reminds me of sunshine. I love sunshine. It's so warm and light and makes me feel good, like I'm--
"Take a seat."
Pete's kindly-spoken words interrupt my train of thought. Something's always interrupting my train of thought.
I sit down and stare at my hands. There are four little red marks on the back of my left hand, from where I dug my nails into my skin after my outburst yesterday. They look like tiny crescent moons. I like the moon.
"Can you tell me what happened, Tricky?"
I want to shrug and say whatever but that would be disrespectful and I can't be mean to Pete. Not when he's so nice to me. Unlike Gabe. He's never nice to me.
I force myself to say, "I got called on during class. I knew the answer. It was an easy question. American bald eagle. So easy. Kindergarten level." Tears start to fill my eyes again. "They always stare, though. And the words in my head are afraid to come out of my mouth."
Pete's eyes are gentle and kind and brown, like warm hot chocolate. He looks at me with his nice chocolate eyes and gives me a reassuring smile.
"Were there thought butterflies in your head during class?"
"Yes. But also no. Because butterflies are too gentle. It's like..." I screw up my face in an effort to stop crying. "It's like there are a million TV's in my head and each one has a million different channels and someone is flipping through all of those channels very quickly. Every single TV. Millions of channels. That's what my head feels like."
Pete's eyes are warm and sad and sympathetic. He reaches out a hand and takes one of mine.
"I know, Patrick."
But he doesn't know.
No one does.
