My spriter finally got back to me, after what seemed like an age. Work is continuing on SUPERJAIL.

http://www.fabioisonfire.tumblr.com

I’m remembering my Junior year in high school right now.

I’m an aide for a middle school Geography class. It’s a windy Wednesday afternoon. 2:30 in the P.M. Today I’m helping Michael out. I don’t have much Michael experience but I’ve heard that Michael has a form of autism. I don’t have much autism experience either.

Michael sits alone, in the front of the room. He doesn’t have his own desk, either. He uses a table. He’s using a spare, brown, and obviously spared computer chair, a heavy contrast to the blue and orange plastic seats his classmates share.

I’m sitting next to Michael now, introducing myself. But he knows the drill, I can tell. ‘You’re here to help me, you’re here to tell me what to do, right?’ his face is saying to me. I don’t think he’s very interested in my greeting or my help. I wouldn’t be, either.

“How about we start at the top of chapter four?â€?

Michael is reading to me right now. He’s painfully making out phrases, each sentence doing battle with his head. I can tell he’s struggling.

“How about we take a short break from this?â€? I say to Michael.

“Okay.â€? Michael is setting his book down. His teacher, Mrs. Warila, walks out of the room briefly.

“Man, this class reminds me of hell. Know what I mean, Mike?â€? I say, leaning back into my chair now.

Michael is looking me directly in the eye when he says “I’m in a kind of hell of my own, if you know what I mean.â€?

I’m looking into Michael’s eyes and I do know what he means. But I don’t acknowledge that now. I’m ignoring what Michael is quite clearly saying to me and I’m continuing to read with him.

But I’m sorry for you right now, Mike. I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I know what you mean, and I’m even sorrier that there isn’t anything I can do for you. I’m sorry that this is your reality. I’m sorry.

“Okay, let’s continue onto chapter five…â€?