"H-How're you doing, Tim-Tim? Is everything a-a-all right?"
Timmy didn't look good at times. His cerebral palsy often prevented him from focusing, making him inevitably get behind in class (mostly in a class which was not adapted to his cognitive level and didn't even provide him a proper desk). Now, things didn't seem to have gotten any better. True that Timmy looked fine for someone who was shot by the head and, in spite of it, could process the information he was given, but he seemed like he was even slower than before and had a terrible time focusing. The teacher knew what he had gone through and didn't ask him to participate in the class. Still, Timmy seemed terribly lost sometimes, like he got mentally exhausted very soon. Jimmy could see his frustration, his continuous necessity to stop to clear his mind. He wondered if it was too soon for him to be back to school. He could manage with simple tasks, but slightly complicated concepts overwhelmed him. Jimmy wished it was only temporary—but, surely, scattering one's brains on the floor had to have some permanent sequels.
Timmy looked at his best friend and, drawing a smile, he nodded. However, Jimmy found it a bit forced, terribly tired.
"I-It's okay if you feel disoriented and stu-stu-stu-stuff. It's amazing enough for you to be here." Jimmy smiled, wrapping an arm around Timmy. "Not even an atomic bomb c-can kill you!"
Timmy's smile widened and Jimmy felt like this time it was more sincere.
Jimmy had become sort of a guardian to Timmy. All kids in class had, in a certain way. Stan had been shot in an arm once, Bebe almost broke her ankle while fleeing...All of them had experienced at some point the horror of a shooting, but none of them had been shot in the head and, of course, he was the most defenseless kid in the class and perhaps the whole school. Adults would forget soon about their wounds, those who didn't make it, the anxiety, but at least one thing was for sure: they had each other.
So Jimmy escorted Timmy to the classroom, always walking by his side to make sure he was okay. He was afraid that his brain would start failing at some point, he couldn't deny it. Once there, he kept smiling at him from his own seat. He knew Timmy appreciated the attention, too.
"Good morning, children." Mr. Garrison came in, leaving his books on the desk, and looked around. "Well, as I told you yesterday, today we're doing that pop quiz we've been delaying for a few weeks. I hope you reviewed your notes."
Some children grunted and buried their face in their hands.
"Take away all of your books, and I don't want to see any cell phone around here, understood?" Garrison warned the children as he gave each one of them a paper. "This quiz will be easy if you've been studying."
He stopped when he reached the other side of the class, where Timmy was.
"It's all right, Timmy, you don't have to do it. Just...take a nap or something."
"Timmy..."
"Oh, come on, he doesn't get to do the quiz?" Cartman complained out loud.
"Dude, he's still pretty weak." Kyle said to him in low voice.
"Then why did he come to school? To rub in our faces that he doesn't do the work?"
"Eric, I am hearing you." Mr. Garrison warned him.
Timmy had heard that too, and felt so terrible he almost asked Mr. Garrison to give him a paper too, even if he had lost so many lessons he was behind his classmates and knew none of the concepts the quiz was about. Only seeing Jimmy raise a thumb to him made him feel better. He didn't do as Mr. Garrison told him and read the book, trying to understand what was going on.
He had to stop so many times, he just didn't seem to be able to focus for long. The subject was not that complicated, he just had to rest his head at the end of each sentence so that the concepts stuck in.
The class finished the pop quiz and followed its normal course, as Timmy noticed when he raised his head from the book and actually listened to what the teacher was saying.
"...which would come with the telephone. Who can tell the name of the man who invented it?
Silence. Some students looked at all parts of the class, trying to avoid eye contact.
"No one? Come on, children, even a two-year-old knows it. Are you seriously dumber than a two-year-old?"
There was someone who did know the answer. All heads turned to the left side of the classroom. Timmy had raised his hand.
"Timmy?"
Timmy opened his mouth but didn't reply immediately. It was noticeable how he struggled to put his thoughts into words.
"It's alright, Timmy, take your time. We've got plenty of time till next class."
"Pfft!" Cartman protested out loud, placing an elbow on his desk and his hand on his hand.
Timmy took deep air.
"It was...An...An...Ant...Antonio Meu...Meu...Meucci...Bee...Bell didn't...inv-vent it…"
Clyde turned his head to look at Craig with his eyes wide open.
"That's...right, Timmy. Good observation." Even Mr. Garrison couldn't hide his surprise. "Graham Bell patented the telephone, but it was Meucci's invention."
Timmy smiled too, feeling the eyes of all the class on him, gazing astonished at him.
He had formed a sentence. For the first time in his life, he had formed a full, coherent phrase and uttered it in a comprehensible way.
"Helen?"
His achievement brought a smile to his mother's face too when he told her about it. She looked at him with her mouth wide open, delighted to hear it. She was so proud of him! She asked him to get closer so she could kiss him in the forehead and caress his cheek (now that the other boys weren't watching).
"Helen Helen Helen Helen…" She had always known he was very intelligent. He had to tell his father about it when he came back from work, he would be so, so happy to hear about it.
"Timmy!" His triumph had encouraged him to keep trying. It was difficult, but it was a gigantic progress, and he wanted to go forward, form new words.
"Helen…" Well, yes, his mother was right: he shouldn't force himself too much. After all, he had gone through a serious trance. He had to take his time.
"Timmy." Of course, Timmy promised his mother, kissing her cheek.
However, that was a promise he couldn't keep. He felt tired, like ideas were difficult to retain, his head often hurted from thinking too much, but at the same time, he had lots of them in his head, fleeting but clear.
His father, when Timmy told him about it during dinner, didn't react like his mother, and that confused Timmy a little. He expected him to praise him out loud, to say how proud he was like him, to kiss him, but all he did was look at his plate, with his Adam's apple going up and down during a good while, and placed his hand on his before telling him he was glad. It almost seemed to Timmy that he was about to cry, for reasons he could barely understand. His mother did; that was what he felt, seeing her eyes getting wet seeing them two.
Timmy couldn't keep the promise he made to his mother. After dinner, when he was allowed to play in his room for a while before going to sleep, Timmy sat on the floor and held Gobbles in his hands.
"Timmy? Timmy Timmy Timmy…" He sang to him. Did he miss him while he was at the hospital? Because he did, a lot.
Caressing the turkey's snood, Timmy sighed.
"...Sh...Sh...S...Mpf…"
Gobbled couldn't raise his head with that extremely thin neck of his, but he raised his eyes at Timmy to watch his face.
"...She...She...sssells...seashells...b…b...by...by the seashore!"
Timmy breathed deep, and embraced Gobbles, even if he couldn't possibly be aware of what his owner had gone through and why the sounds coming from his mouth were important.
