Okay so I checked the wiki, but then realized. If Logan Mitchell was born in 1995, and sixteen in 2009, that's actually not possible. So. Hmm. What should I do? Oh, wait, I'll just fix the years on the chapter titles. Everything will be fine.
That's a tad bit annoying though.
Got it fixed. Gosh, okay. Logan and Carlos are twelve. James and Kendall are thirteen. Everything is on track so they are sixteen by 2009.
Oh and also, some major appreciation for Fish Stick Friday, whom I was unaware was a dude. But y'all. His stories—I just read Boyfriends—gracious. So good. So. Good.
I'm getting too distracted by other talented writers who aren't even active on the site anymore.
Happy reading, enjoy!
Dr. Brennan said it wasn't healthy. Kendall's mom said it wasn't nice.
It's not like he could stop it, though.
He didn't care that it wasn't healthy. He only cared a little bit that it wasn't nice.
It's not like Logan knew that Kendall was doing it.
Kendall thought of it like having a mirror split down the middle of Logan, symmetrical. Each part of him looked the same, his body split into two perfect halves, but it wasn't.
Because, now with Logan's new diagnosis word constantly at the forefront of his thoughts, taunting him, Kendall analyzed him. He didn't mean to, but he was just noticing things now.
Logan was still himself. It was just that, some of the things he did were so weird. Or, autistic, technically.
Like, Logan wouldn't make eye contact sometimes and he hated phone conversations. He only ate toast if he could help it. He repeated himself constantly, especially when it was late and he didn't know how to have a conversation.
He didn't talk to people that he didn't know, and he didn't talk to people that Kendall didn't talk to.
That was his autism, Kendall figured.
But on the flip side, he would spend hours if he could, just rambling on and on about some new medical breakthrough. That was Logan. That was completely Logan.
No, the voice in his head would persist.
The voice in his head that kept the phrase Logan is autistic in his mind at all times. The voice in his head that told him he had every right to punch the wall again, but what would his mom say? What would Dr. Brennan do? What would Logan do? The voice in his head that told him he had to fix this.
Today, the voice in his head said: Medicine is Logan's special interest.
Kendall didn't let it bother him. He knew that. Just like Kendall's special interest was to be a hockey player, James to be a pop star, and Carlos to be a superhero.
No, the voice cautioned. Special interests are intense. Obsessive. Has Logan ever really liked anything else as much as he likes medicine? He wants to be a doctor, Kendall.
He was not about to have a conversation with his own subconscious. That was nearing some James-level self absorbed behavior.
Shut it down.
But, he's stupid. He can't shut his brain down.
Shut up, he thought back at this aggressive voice in his head. You're stupid. You don't know anything.
Then why were you up researching until midnight last night? Just like Logan does.
No, Kendall was not just like Logan. He stopped when he got tired. Logan never stopped. Logan couldn't even tell he was tired if he was researching. Which is why Kendall made sure Logan was completely asleep before he took his mom's computer last night.
And researched.
Just like Logan. You can't ignore it, Logan has what he has, it's called autism, get the word in your head, and that's that. Go punch a wall.
He was already going to see Dr. Brennan after school today. He did not need more things to tell her. All he had been planning to say was, at the very most, a passive hello. Then he would revert back to his original habit of stubborn silence, until he was allowed to leave.
If he punched a wall, his mom would force him to stay for two hours, or some undetermined amount of time that would be both unnecessary and crazy.
He clenched his fist tightly, sitting up from his bed. As usual, Logan was already awake, quietly gathering up his clothes for the day. He didn't notice Kendall behind him yet.
"Morning," Kendall said. If he could talk to Logan, actually, instead of just thinking about him, then maybe that stupid voice would go away.
"Morning," he replied, and continued to pick out his clothes.
No eye contact. Monotone.
The voice was practically smirking at him.
Kendall fought to ignore it. The voice sounded like him.
"Why are you up so early?"
"It's not early."
Kendall glanced at the digital clock on his desk. 10:08.
"It's ten a.m, Logan."
"Yeah, and that's not early."
"But it's Saturday!" Kendall complained, throwing himself back down on the bed. "Go back to sleep."
Kendall wasn't tired. He had been up for a while with this voice for company. If he slept, maybe then it would finally disappear.
"No," Logan said simply. "Visiting hours already started at nine."
"Visiting—who?"
Joanna Mitchell, the voice clarified for him when Logan wouldn't. Logan had gone stoically silent. He stood rigidly at the open closet, his hand half holding a hanger. He pulled it out of the closet. The shirt fell off the hanger, onto the ground.
Logan snatched it up. It was not his shirt. It was Kendall's. The purple flannel, the one that would fit him. He unbuttoned it, pulling his arms through the sleeves.
Joanna Mitchell who almost killed herself over her autistic son.
Kendall needed to punch the wall.
Instead, he wordlessly approaches Logan, helping him button the flannel.
This is not going to be a good day. Something is going to go wrong.
Logan is this close.
Close to?
Meltdown.
—
The hospital is sick and clean and sterile. That's what Logan keeps muttering under his breath. That's what Kendall is trying not to hear.
He's holding Logan's hand to keep him moving. Logan is shaking beside him, still muttering to himself.
"Alright, boys," his mother said, sitting down on one of the chairs in the hallway. She had Katie in her lap, uncharacteristically quiet.
"Kendall, come sit down. We can wait out here while Logan talks to his mom."
"Mom," Kendall began to protest, holding on to Logan tighter. "Mom, look at him."
Logan stared at the door, half-ajar, a small stream of dull hospital lighting peeking through. He heard the low hum of various machines. Was she hooked up to a ventilator? He couldn't hear from his position. Was she still alive? Maybe should could breathe on her own? Maybe she stopped breathing.
She died. Before he even got to see her.
No. That's not true.
Obviously, the heart rate monitor was beeping, she was alive.
She didn't want to be alive, because of him, but she was alive.
He lets go of Kendall's hand. He's twelve years old, a twelve year old boy, at that, he really should break that habit. Twelve year olds don't hold people's hands. Especially not their best friend's hands.
But Kendall was secure. Kendall was safe, he wouldn't leave him home alone, he wouldn't try to kill himself like his mom did.
But he wanted to hold his mother's hand, too.
He wanted for someone to hold him. He was going to fall if someone didn't, he wasn't even convinced he could walk the five feet distance from his current spot to inside his mother's hospital room.
He carefully places one foot in front of the other, counting as he walks. Silently, hopefully, but he's probably counting out loud.
And he sees her.
She's hooked up to a heart rate monitor, like he expected. She's breathing on her own. She looks pale, and her short bob is all tangled and messed up.
The hospital gown clings to her like a tangled web. The bluish-white fabric is indistinguishable between the stark white sheets.
She's awake.
"Mom?"
Her eyes, pale blue, stared at the wall. She sat up slowly, almost like stop motion. Each move, careful, deliberate, after the other.
Then, her eyes met his, and he looked away.
He could hear his mother stifle a sob. "Hor—Logan."
His eyes glisten with tears. Finally she's calling him Logan.
All it took was an autism diagnosis and a suicide attempt?
Did she even leave a note? Would she have?
"Mom," he repeated, voice quivering as he approached her. He bent down, tentatively, lightly pressing his lips to her cheek. A handhold, that might break her.
That might break him.
"I—I—"
His mother stops, swallowing hard. She closes her eyes, reopening them. "How are you?"
He's scared, and he's numb, and he doesn't know what to say.
"How are you?" he echoes, lucky it can be interpreted as a question for her. He doesn't want to talk, he'll mess up.
He'll say something wrong and they'll both end up crying.
"Logan, I'm so sorry."
No. He's done. He can't. She doesn't have to apologize, he deserves to lose his mother. She doesn't deserve to feel this way, to want to kill herself, but he understands.
"I know why you did it."
She closes her eyes. "You don't."
"Yes."
"No."
Yes. "Did you want to kill yourself because of—because of me? Because there was this—"
She shrieks, covering her mouth when she realizes she's done it. She lowers her head, hands covering her face.
"This was this study conducted that—"
He knows he shouldn't finish retelling the data found in the study, but the numbers help him make sense of it. It doesn't seem too personal, too scary, when he thinks of his circumstances as just another percentage.
"Fifty percent of mothers with children on the autism spectrum has elevated depression scores. This is likely because of—"
There's no percentage for the next half of the study. Then, it turns to speculation. Not even statistical analysis. Proposed hypotheses and speculations, which souldn't have been included in a clinical study in the first place, because it wasn't even reliable data.
It wasn't even data.
Speculation.
Just another way of saying hmm, we don't really know.
Scientists and doctors and medical professionals were supposed to know everything. That was an unrealistic standard and he knew it.
But.
They were not, absolutely not, supposed to, speculate.
And then proceed to publish these speculations alongside actual calculated data.
That was a clear misuse of the scientific method, which infuriated him.
At least, that's what he liked to pretend infuriated him. Not the nonsense (and it was nonsense, it wasn't even proven) that he was reluctantly reciting.
But really, he knew he was just getting angrier and angrier. Bubbling up.
He hadn't even started talking yet.
He cleared his throat, counting as he continued his recitation. He would not get overwhelmed. He would not freak her out more by getting upset. She'd just want to kill herself again. ""Parents receiving a diagnosis of autism are also—also coping with the loss of many of their expectations of parenthood.'"
He's not looking at his mother, he doesn't want to. He needs to finish, even though he can hear her suppressing her sobs like earlier.
"'It can be tough to engage in normal social activity with a child on the autism spectrum.'"
Logan thought his mom was more antisocial than he was. And he engaged in normal social activity, he had hockey practice. He had Kendall's house. So, this didn't really feel applicable, but maybe he wasn't understanding something.
""It can be expensive to treat a child on the autism spectrum.'"
Surely, it couldn't be much more expensive than it was before his diagnosis. He didn't know how much it cost to see Dr. Brennan, but the fact of the matter was, he didn't need to see her. He could stop if they went broke. And anyway, he was sure his mother's medication cost more.
"'A parent with a child on the autism spectrum may wind up quitting jobs they enjoy (and the income they need or want) in order to care for a child on the spectrum.'"
That simply wasn't possible. If she quit her job, they would certainly go broke. And—really, he wasn't that awful, was he? He had gotten worse, but she hadn't seen him. She didn't know about what happened at the grocery store, she couldn't have been so upset to—get herself hospitalized.
He wasn't ruining her life. This wasn't his fault.
But the speculations said otherwise.
"'Many children with autism have a tough time sleeping and keep their parents awake all night.'"
This didn't seem applicable either. Yes, he did have problems with the initial act of going to sleep. But, then again, she hadn't been there. They hadn't been in the same house for months.
Instead, Kendall had to deal with him. And Mrs. Knight, who already had her own two children to raise.
If he wasn't ruining his own mother's life, though he definitely was, he was, without a doubt, destroying the Knight family.
He wasn't supposed to be there at their house. He didn't live there. He had caused Mrs. Knight to skip work twice, both days in succession of each other. There was some well-deserved money she wouldn't be receiving, all due to him.
"'Parents who have to battle the school districts and state mental health agencies for any type of appropriate services are almost certain to run into issues and circumstances which are unacceptable, but over which they have little control.'"
The school district wasn't bad. He was doing well in school, he was at the top of his class. Almost, he would be, if he didn't have such an aversion—an issue—with group projects.
If he didn't get into arguments he didn't mean to cause with the teachers that paired him up with essentially incompetent, slacking group members.
If he wasn't sharply reprimanded and sent into the hallway when he accidentally answered questions without raising his hand, or got too bored of waiting for the other kids to answer incorrectly, and just muttered the right answer under his breath.
He was never trying to be disrespectful, why was it considered disrespectful? He was never obtrusive. He understood the teachers were doing their jobs. He just didn't know why some teachers insisted on long, tedious processes when answers could be found quickly.
He didn't understand why the teachers hated him now, they used to like him.
He had gotten a participation award in fourth grade. James and Carlos had laughed at it, because it had a bad pun: that the student [Logan] was always ready to jump in with an answer or comment. He was promptly handed a jump rope, a pink one, which he gave to Katie.
In third grade, he had won the science fair. His teacher made the whole class congratulate him, with a smile on her face.
In second grade, he was the fastest reader. He immediately gravitated towards the nonfiction science textbooks in the library, and the teacher had been impressed. That teacher—Mrs. Lowe—had also made him stay inside for recess so he could finish the actual reading assignment. Which, was the stupid Cat In The Hat or something. He had read it, begrudgingly, and then took one of the life science textbooks from the library outside. He read it while the other kids played. Mrs. Lowe took it away 'because it was making it harder for him to make friends' like a book could do that.
He didn't exactly recall any names of any friends he had had back in Texas. The library was better.
In first grade, he had been tasked to deliver a presentation on the solar system. He still stuttered when he was nervous, and the other kids laughed at him. His teacher told him he had gone over time, and he was forced to sit down. He did not get credit for the presentation. He didn't even get to make it up later, he just dealt with the torment that came with the presentation permanently etched into the crevices of long-term memory. He recited it to himself while the other kids went, and then, got yelled at, because he wasn't paying attention.
Was that why they had moved to Minnesota from Texas? Because he kept getting yelled at by teachers?
Had this problem—his autism diagnosis–-really forced his mother to uproot and reevaluate their entire lives?
That speculation was accurate.
"'As children with autism grow older, parents often face retirement with full personal and financial responsibility for an adult child who depends on them for everything.'"
This was not true. Logan was independent. He did not depend on his mother for much.
Well, driving, but he could walk to school if that was a problem.
And money, but, if he really forced himself, he could try to get a job at the grtocery store. He knows that's counterproductive, since the incident at the grocery is what likely catapulted them into this situation. At least, it's a relevant factor. But, at the risk of becoming an 'adult child' which he would not allow himself to become, he would force himself to get a job at the grocery store.
If he needed to. He hoped not. He really didn't want to.
He's said everything he could say. All the speculations. And so, he's neglected to acknowledge that his mother is crying again and it is very obviously his fault. There are doctors and nurses in the room now.
"Mom," he whispers.
"Don't—don't scaree like that, it's not your fault, hmm—Logan. Logan, please."
She convulses with cries that punctuate each word.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry."
He walks over to her bedside, reaching for her hand.
If he can hold it, he can shut up, and he won't have to deal with the bubbling feeling.
Now, he knows those are signs of a meltdown.
An autistic meltdown, specifically, which still sounds pathetic.
He cannot have a meltdown in front of his mother.
So, he sighs of relief when her cold hand closes around his, and her thumb rubs circles into his hand, just like she used to do.
He closes his eyes and breathes,
It might be his fault.
But they're both still alive, holding each other.
Maybe they're both to blame, But they're still alive.
If they're both alive, they have a chance to be okay.
There's a voice in his head: Mask.
They'll be okay if he can mask.
He just has to put on his mask.
He just has to figure out how to do it.
How to mask.
For his mom, for Kendall, for James, for Carlos, for Katie, for Mrs. Knight, for everyone.
He's a doctor. He can fix himself, because Kendall couldn't.
Kendall doesn't know what to do.
But Logan just has to listen to the voice in his head.
The voice that tells him to mask.
Then they'll all be okay,