The Unlikely Heroes Club

DAY ONE
Chapter 1
A terrible fate creeps closer as our car rumbles along the highway. If Dad were here, he’d say Stop being dramatic, but I have no idea how else to feel. I have no idea what awaits me at my destination.
   I stare out the front window, eyes sliding between the other cars and their drivers and passengers, all of them enjoying their wonderful, fun spring break. I bet none of them are headed to the most boring and pointless classes ever invented, like me. I bet they’re off to the movies or home to eat pizza and play on their phones and computers.
   It’s spring break—these are the things I should be doing, too!
   I let out a sigh and adjust my seat belt, pulling it forward and away from my shoulder. That moves the collar of my shirt so the material touches my jaw. I now fold that down and place the seat belt on top to hold it in place. My shorts irritate my legs, and I itch at my thighs and lift the ends so air can flow up the leg holes. My feet feel sweaty in my thick socks and sneakers, and I wriggle my toes.
   I hold my breath for a few seconds, tensing away how horrible my clothes feel, and then make some more adjustments. I start to relax again. Sort of. I can’t stop thinking about what these socialization classes are going to be like and if the other kids there are going to find me weird or maybe I’ll find them weird . . .
   “You’re so fidgety,” my sister, Cathy, says from the seat beside me. “Just chill out. It’s two hours a day for a week. That’s it.”
   “And a graduation next week,” I add.
   “Well, okay, that too. But graduations are fun.” Cathy smiles at me now, her freckled cheeks flushed.
   I nod to her but don’t speak. Everything is fun and easy for Cathy.
   “Stop licking your lips, Oli.”
   I glance up to see Mom peering at me through the rearview mirror. I wish I had my tablet here to distract myself, but I’m not allowed to bring it to the classes this week. Dad says I spend way too much time on my Design-a-House app anyway, especially when I could be climbing trees or riding a bike—two things I’m sure I would not enjoy.
   “They’re looking sore and red again. Did you bring your lip balm with you?” Mom asks.
   I shake my head; I forgot.
   “Have you got yours, Cathy?”
   “Only my cherry flavor, and Oli doesn’t like it,” she replies, patting her sequinned shoulder bag.
   My lips are stinging a bit, and I open my mouth wide to stretch them.
   “Try not to do that, love,” Mom says. “You’ll make them even sorer. Here.” She passes me the lip ointment she keeps in the car for emergencies.
   “Thank you,” I say, taking it and squeezing a blob onto my lips. I stretch them again and let the cream ooze into my skin.
   “Are you okay?” Mom asks, taking the tube back.
  No, not really. But I say, “Yes, thank you.”
   “Nervous?”
   I nod. I think that’s what this feeling is.
   “I know. But it will be fine. Don’t forget, the other kids going are also in elementary school like you, and I bet they’re all nervous too.”
   Unlikely. But I nod again. I bet all the other kids are super cool and talented and brilliant and have no reason to be nervous about anything. Most people I know are super cool and talented and brilliant at something. Like Adrian Raynes from my class. He’s already reading adult books. And there’s Justin Lebowski, who plays violin and is probably going to be the best violinist in the world. Jessica Li, who runs like the wind. Fatima Ongouw, who can stand on her hands for, like, hours.
   And even my family is brilliant at stuff. Dad builds amazing furniture, Mom runs marathons, and Cathy gets school awards for being a math star and is playing the lead, again, in her next school play.
   Me? I have no talents at all. I’m not clever or sporty or creative. I’m quiet and don’t like chatting that much. All I really want to do is design buildings on my app. I’ve been called a wimp and boring at school before by some kids. A nerd too. I don’t like it, but it’s fine, as long as those kids leave me alone.
   I focus out the window again, at the cars whizzing by in the other direction, at office blocks and buildings lining the highway, and beyond at the vast blue sky dotted with marshmallow clouds. A gray road sign states in big black letters that New State College awaits us at the next right turn. We’re nearly there. My tummy spins like a washing machine.
   Mom says these boring socialization classes are going to help me learn how to recognize my emotions, make friends, and cope better in more situations. And Dad says I should attend them because “What have you got to lose?”
   I hate it when Dad says this.
  Socialization. I don’t know what that word means, but Mom says the classes this week will give me some skills to better understand people’s behaviors and facial expressions and know how to react and respond. I get it. I don’t really have any real friends, and I’d like some. Plus, I often don’t know what to say or even how to feel. It’s quite normal for autistic people like me to feel this way, apparently, but I kind of wish it was easier.
   Cathy sings along to the radio, and Mom flicks the turn signal on as we stop at the traffic light. I swallow down my nervous feeling. Mom says all I have to do is get through this first session, for her, and then we’ll talk about going back tomorrow. I don’t like letting Mom down, and she seems sure this is all going to help me, so I’m here and it’s happening. She promised to buy me whatever food I want afterward, and I already have some ideas about this.
   “Nearly there,” she says.
   The lights turn green, and I grip the soft black seat on either side of my legs.
   Mom turns the radio down.
   “Oh, Mom, I like that song,” Cathy moans. She’s also an amazing singer and practices all the time.
   “Sorry, but I need to concentrate,” Mom replies.
   “I think the parking garage is just up here somewhere, according to the map they emailed over,” she mumbles.
   We cruise along Oblong Street as Mom continues to talk to herself. All kinds of people are milling about, some fancy office buildings line the sidewalks, and there are also a few stores and cafés and restaurants. I spot a doughnut shop and decide that’s where we’re going afterward.  I’m going to have the biggest doughnut drizzled with chocolate icing and filled with chocolate sauce or custard. I bet Cathy picks one covered in multicolored sprinkles.
   We keep driving, and I continue admiring the buildings, gathering ideas for my own designs. There’s a small old brick one up ahead covered in graffiti and surrounded by temporary mesh fencing. It stands out from all the other modern ones. Opposite, on the other side of the road, another tall building looms, throwing the small one into shadow.
   “This is it,” Mom says.
   My destination.
   “Ooh,” Cathy says, peering out and up.
   It’s silver and shiny, with plenty of big windows, and I admit to wanting to take a closer look at the college. I love architecture, old and modern designs, but also what’s on the inside. Maybe this won’t be so bad, if I get to see some cool interior design. I might even find some ideas for the new house I’m designing on my app.
   A car horn blares somewhere close and then another. I hear a shout followed by a high-pitched squealing— the sound of slamming brakes. I frown, grit my teeth, and look around, left, right, out the front. Cars continue screeching to a halt.
   Mom squeaks.
   Cathy squeals.
   “OH MY GOODNESS.” Mom brakes hard, and our car stops suddenly.
   Cathy squeals again.
   The seat belt tightens against my chest as I shoot forward. “What’s happening?” I shout, my heart beating out of control and heat whooshing to my face.
   Has there been a crash? Is someone hurt?
   “An animal . . . just ran out into the road!” Mom says.
   “Seriously?” Cathy says, her hazel eyes wide.
   “What?” I lean farther forward, gripping the headrest of Mom’s seat. My eyes are wide as I search between the cars.
   And then I see something: a brown blob darts between the stopped cars in front.
   “There,” Mom says, pointing.
   “Where? I can’t see it!” Cathy says, shifting about.
   I swing my head, looking for the animal, but I can’t find it now. Where’s it gone? Has it been run over? I stare out the passenger window, and my eyes catch movement right beside our car. I gasp. It’s the animal, and now that it’s this close, I know what it is.
   A dog. A small brown dog with heaps of curly fur.
   My eyes are wide as I stare at it, and I actually think the inside of my body has stopped working. It glances left to right and then lifts its head and looks right at me. RIGHT AT ME. Its little face is dirty, fur all matted and patchy. But its eyes are big and bright and beautiful. I can’t look away. I need to open the door and scoop it up, because busy roads are not good places for dogs without owners—or even dogs with owners, for that matter.
   But I don’t.
   I keep staring, and the dog keeps staring back at me.
   Then a shout breaks through the staring moment, and the dog darts away. More cars skid to a stop on the other side of the road as it gallops across. I’m still not breathing, and my chest is painful and tight; terror is eating me up. Will it get squashed? Please no. Animals in pain is the worst thing ever, and if I see that happen, it will be stuck in my head and memories for the rest of my life. Someone needs to get it, grab it, save it from being hit. Now!
   “I still can’t see it!” Cathy says, but I don’t tell her where it is. I should, because Cathy would definitely be out of the car trying to save it. But I can’t speak.
   People have stopped walking to watch, but no one is trying to get to it. Why not? I want to undo my seat belt, leap out of the car, and rescue it before it gets hurt.
   I will my hand to reach out for the door handle so I can do all those things.
   But I don’t.
   I just sit here, watching it maneuver in and out of the paused traffic until it reaches the sidewalk on the other side. Cars start moving; the world is starting up again. Mom edges the car forward as well, but I can’t take my eyes off the dog.
   Where’s its owner?
   Our car trundles by as the dog limbos itself beneath the temporary fencing and disappears somewhere around the old graffiti-covered building. At least it appears uninjured and will be safer there. I keep looking for it, my head turned so I can watch out the back window. But the dog’s gone.
   I’m sitting like a statue, too afraid to rescue a poor lost pup that stopped right beside me, looking at me. Wanting my help.
   I think I’m going to cry.
   “Well, that was exciting,” Mom says, and I turn to face the back of her head. “Poor thing. I hope it’s okay.”
   “I can’t believe I didn’t see it.” Cathy sighs and smooths down her bright patchwork leggings.
   My words are all dried up so I don’t reply. But at least I’m breathing now, which is helping to release all the pent-up tension in my arms and legs. It definitely wasn’t exciting. At all. It was horrible, and I feel sick to my stomach.
   “Let’s go get parked, okay, Oli?”
   I stare at the bottom of Mom’s black ponytail brushing against her freckled neck and still have no words. I do not want to do this class; I don’t even want a doughnut anymore.
   All I can think about is that poor dog and how I did nothing to help it.