He gropes for his glasses, finding them about three feet away. "Guess I should'a seen that coming," he mutters, replacing them on his face, "What with all the changes going on today, she was bound to do that sooner or later. Man, I gotta stop talking to myself." He winces, rubbing his cheeks. "That's gonna leave a mark." Shoving himself to his feet, he surveys the damage. Books tossed to the floor. Computer spitting sparks. Posters torn down and crumpled.
Mechanically, he sits by the pile of books and begins re-shelving them. Tallest to shortest, right to left. It all looks neat and organized that way. He turns to the posters and smoothes them out, making a mental note to put them under cloth and iron them later. Lastly, his computer. He pulls off the false front, along with its hard-wired sparking device, and sets it aside for repair later. The real computer, underneath, is in perfect shape. He pats it lovingly, then walks toward his door. He rests his hand on the knob.
Right. Left. Right. Open. He treads lightly down the hall, avoiding the dark green tiles. Stepping on them always makes him feel anxious, so he stays on the light green patches.
Although he isn't as shaken by the day's events as his sister, he finds it difficult to brush off the feeling of betrayal. He snorts. He's had to deal with it for years, why does it still bother him? Perhaps because the psychologist had nodded, taken notes, and listened to every single thing he'd had to say. It was more than his Dad had ever done, so he'd had some hope, until she'd walked out of the room in the middle of his last, winded sentence. Then he knew she was just there to label him.
He grits his teeth. He's been fully aware of his condition since he was five years old. He's known its name since he was eight. His Dad knowing it won't change anything. He kicks the wall in frustration. How many times will he let them trick him into thinking they care?
He wanders through the house, before realizing, dully, that there's nothing he really wants to do. He retreats back into his room. He gazes fondly at his poster-covered walls. He collects paranormal paraphernalia faster than a druggie can find a fix.
He snaps on his computer, and its warm-up buzz jars him uncomfortably. He snaps it off again, letting the buzz die off into silence. Then he starts it up again. The same sound comes from the computer, but now it's a comforting hum. The blue screen illuminates his face, flickering welcomingly. He smiles and clicks on his favorite file, the one titled Aliens. He painstakingly documents his few glimpses of Zim that day.
He'd seen Zim come out to yell at GIR, who'd coaxed the lawn gnomes into playing volleyball, with him as the ball. He could tell by the tightness of Zim's outfit and the less-than-normal flailing he did that the alien was outgrowing his uniform. Also, Zim had put one contact in upside down, and his wig was unkempt. This, Dib presumed, was because he had been working hard on something and was short on sleep.
He leans back, his arms folded behind his head. He revels in the fact that he can, at any time, tell what Zim's mood is, decipher GIR's cryptic insanity, find which spots the lawn gnomes don't watch, know the weakest area in the Computer's defense system, and what crazy phrase to yell so Zim's attention is focused on something else. He knows enough about Zim, his accomplices, and his gadgetry to write books. But he still doesn't know enough. He doesn't know why water burns the alien, why he screams all the time, what his leaders really sent him to Earth for, and why he hasn't abandoned GIR yet. He growls in frustration. What good do details do if the facts they're connected to don't explain anything? I need to know everything about the situation, but I'm missing so many pieces.
Angrily, he snaps off the computer and kicks his chair. Morose, he flops down on his bed, staring up at the glow-in-the-dark galaxy spattering his ceiling. It isn't like the night sky at all. The stars are grouped in threes, and two planets bookend the scene, with one more in the middle. All nice, neat, and organized. Three is a comforting number. Dib often measures his steps on the way to Skool, careful to ensure that his last step before entering is divisible by three. It's difficult, because he has to avoid the cracks in the sidewalk too, but he manages it most of the time. When he can't, he knows he'll have a bad day. Well, most of his Skool days are bad days, but those days are the worst.
Dib's ears catch something. He sits up, straining to hear. It's a muffled sound, coming from across the hall. It sounds like Gaz. Cautiously, he leaves his room, turning his knob three times, and knocks softly. "Gaz?" The sound stops. When no death threats sound out, he meekly opens the door. "Gaz, are you okay?"
It used to be a nightmare. If anything happened, or there was any change, she would throw herself on the ground and scream. She wouldn't move, wouldn't reason. She refused to speak until she was five, and even then only when absolutely necessary. To clip her nails, she had to be held down by all four limbs. Eventually, Dad had invented a robot to hold her down and de-claw her. Easier for a robot to ignore her terror, Dib thinks bitterly. Finally she discovered videogames, and the house fell into blissful silence. At first, Dib had relished it. But soon he began to loathe the console that was his sister's life.
"Take it away from her, Dad! She won't do anything else, she doesn't even leave the house except for Skool!"
Dad chuckles. "Now now, son, videogames never hurt anyone. You'll see, your sister will turn out fine."
Dib had figured out what was wrong with Gaz very quickly. The internet provided long lists of symptoms and behaviors to look for, and one day he'd asked her to come in. He'd pointed to the screen, explaining it to her. He'd expected shock and tears, but she simply stared at the screen.
"That makes sense. I guess."
Then she'd walked out.
He'd turned back to the screen, his attention caught by the new list of symptoms and behaviors that flashed onscreen. At first, he'd frowned, scrolling through it. Moments later, he'd also tilted his head to the side. "This does make sense."
Gaz sits in bed, curled up in her bunny pajamas. She wipes her cheeks, and Dib knows she's been crying. Hesitantly, he sits next to her. She doesn't hit him, she doesn't glare at him. She stares down at her hands, head bowed. He puts an arm around her shoulders, and she leans into his hug. His heart melts. She never lets anyone touch her, except Dib and Dad. And even then, hugs are off-limits unless she's had a difficult day. He wraps his arms around her and rocks back and forth, feeling her tears soak into his shirt.
"We're screwups, aren't we? Experiments gone wrong. Malfunctioning equipment." His sister's words shock him, and he tightens his hold.
"No. No we're not. Those stupid psychoanalysts don't know what they're talking about, and Dad doesn't understand. They're wrong, we're gonna prove them wrong. You hear me? We're gonna blow their minds with all we can do."
She smiles wanly. "You and your proof." She snuggles closer, listening to his steady heartbeat. Thu-thud. Thu-thud. Thu-thud. It doesn't change. It is constant, steady. He leans against the wall, still holding her close.
I know I'm borderline autistic. I know I've got OCD. They think they know me? They think they know my sister? They don't know squat.
