Imagine My Surprise! (25)

In which Keenan makes cool with school

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PART 5 — Keenan

25. Talking Out of School

After the nightwalk incident, Santa Clara County social services assigned me a social worker named Lydia. After meeting with us (me) she thought it be best that I be assessed, both psychologically and intellectually. Three years had passed, and kindergarten was approaching. So Lydia was again activated to ask us all a question: was Keenan a savant or a psychopath? More tests were required, they said. Voluntary, they implied. Loaded with consequences, we knew. This was what I’d been trying to avoid. But, in a rare moment of wisdom, we Harrises all decided I would take the tests — with the caveat that Santa Clara County would accept the results and stop micromanaging the Harris child.

A month later Lydia paid us a visit. Lydia was warm and gracious, greeting us like old friends. She sloughed off her coat and extracted her work tablet, ready for business. She had more silver threads in her hair, but time hadn’t been unkind to her. Also, she handled us like we were a special case, giving me the feeling that long conversations about us had taken place within the therapeutic bureaucracy of county health. And she was direct.

“Keenan, can you come here?”

Oh, shit. Here it comes.

I looked at her, at Lou and Drew. They had nothing and shrugged. Adulting was not their thing. So, I got up and faced Lydia, stood in front of her. It was fucking weird. She looked me in the eye and took my hand. What the fuck?

She said, “Keenan, because you’re so together, I thought I’d give you the choice of leaving the room or sticking around as I talk to your folks about some heavy stuff. Do you understand? What do you want to do?”

I was done with the pretense. “I’ll stick around.”

Lydia chuckled through a half-grin. “That’s what I thought.”

My parents, of course, paid attention to none of these subtleties but instead were breathless for some sort of verdict — shit handed down by the Man. Santa Clara County.

“We’ve been in contact with a Dr. Claveria, Keenan’s former pediatrician,” Lydia said to us.

Lou and Drew nodded with interest while I concealed panic behind a slack face.

“Claveria thinks Keenan is a prodigy. County thinks Keenan has Asperger’s Syndrome — that he is on the spectrum.” She looked at me to gauge my reaction after using the term “on the spectrum.” I couldn’t hide my consternation.

“Keenan. You know what that is?”

I nodded. I just couldn’t figure out a good old-fashioned lying response. Nothing about this seemed surprising to Lou and Drew. I literally couldn’t surprise them anymore.

She said, “Keenan, I don’t think you have autism.”

And I said, “I’m not autistic.”

“Your test scores look like an adult sat in for you.”

“Hey!” Lou and Drew protested.

“Hold on! They know an adult did not sit in for Keenan, it’s just that in addition to the 100% score on the multiple-choice questions, the written responses were grammatically complex.”

I shrugged. The parents didn’t react at all.

Lydia continued, “You see, In my opinion, clinicians and educators are too tired and unimaginative to really look into the reasons a young boy is preternaturally smart and aware. It’s easier to slap a label on them. In this case, I think it works in your favor, and I feel we should officially designate you as a child with autism.”

Lou and Drew hitched their breaths, but I was already there.

“I get it,” I replied.

This was unsurprising to Lydia, who believed in this alternate universe in which a five-year-old had an adult mind. “This will open up a lot of advantages to you, Keenan. A lot of leeway. A lot of lenience.” She gave me a pointed look, and I nodded okay.

“Some more interesting news is that we want to skip grades for Keenan; we just have to decide the proper amount.”

Lou and Drew could only look at me. By this time, Lydia had all but forgotten about them.

Drew said, “But how does that work? Do autistic kids skip grades?”

“Children with autism who are intellectually advanced often skip grades,” she said. “Look, my governing philosophy is to construct a path through which Keenan — and you all — will be most successful.”

I cleared my throat. “Let’s skip kindergarten and take it from there,” I said. They were skeptical. “Look,” I continued, “If I advance too far, I’m going to get picked on. I’m pre-K size. They’ll stomp me.” They still weren’t convinced. “Let me skip further ahead in a couple years. I can wait.”

“How about this: 1st grade, local public elementary with an afternoon program that lets me hang in the library and use the internet.”

“Look, Keen. With me in your corner, you’ll never take another psych test, is that okay?”

This was good. “Sold,” I said.

On the way out, Lydia reassured my folks, “Don’t worry, I’ll submit my report, write up an I.E.P. and send you guys the details.”

She was about to exit the screen door when she hesitated, holding it open. “Keenan. Come over here a sec.”

The parents stood back as Lydia drew me near. She smelled faintly like a perfume counter. She said into my ear: “This might surprise you, but I’ve run across a couple more like you, Keenan. Well, maybe not exactly like you, but seemed like grown-ups stuck in kid bodies.”

This was reassuring. I shrugged, whispering, “Ok.”

She sighed, and that sigh told me that those kids had had mixed success. “Just thought you should know.” She stood, addressing my parents, “Bye. Talk soon.”

Lydia turned and stepped off the porch. But before reaching the sidewalk, she turned her head and called back: “You be careful, Keenan.”