How to Say I Love You Out Loud by Karole Cozzo Read Free Book Online Page B

unnatural.
    Even so, Phillip’s screams can be heard above it.
    On instinct, I am pulled toward them, even though I should be joining the group of kids filing neatly out the nearest set of double doors.
    The screaming intensifies, and I jog toward it, joining the crowd of my peers who have gathered, fire drill ignored, as they all stare, silent and openmouthed, at the display that is my brother.
They clutch at their book bags, or cling to the arms of their significant others, half terrified of the crazed animal on the floor before them.
    Phillip has apparently thrown his book bag, and books and papers have spilled out of it. He has removed his shoes and peeled off his socks, and as I approach, I see him hurl one of the shoes in
the direction of the substitute one-on-one assistant. “Stupid! Dumbass!” The second shoe is thrown. “It may be stupid, but it’s also dumb!”
    SpongeBob has reemerged.
    He yanks at his hair, tugs on his earlobes.
    “Stupid dumbass. Phillip goes to Bridges. Put the apples in the basket. THE APPLES GO IN THE BASKET!”
    Some of Phillip’s rants I can make sense of. I have no idea what the apples are about. The words could mean a million different things or nothing at all.
    I end up as frozen and helpless as everyone else.
    Phillip wriggles around on the floor as his fight-or-flight responses battle each other. One moment he is curling himself into a protective fetal position, squeezing his eyes shut, clenching his
teeth, and stuffing his fingers into his ears. He cries out, as if pained by the flashing lights and relentless noise. The next moment he is lashing out—eyes wild, face red, as he unfurls his
long, thin legs and attempts to kick the substitute in the shins.
    The one-on-one dodges the blows. I can tell he’s trying to maintain a semblance of calm, but his hands are shaking as he fumbles with Phillip’s binder, which is way too thick for him
to possibly have reviewed this morning, looking for some type of guidance in its pages.
    Eventually, he finds some page of instructions and tries to prompt my brother to use his words in a more appropriate way. “Phillip wants . . . Phillip needs . . . ,” he
encourages.
    Phillip retreats and curls back into the fetal position. He is crying again. “My blocks! My blocks! Put the apples in the basket! Why . . . aren’t . . . the . . . apples . . . in . .
. the . . . basket?” My brother’s tears turn hysterical. “Phillip wants blocks. Phillip needs blocks,” he sobs.
    The substitute’s face tightens with frustration. He has no idea whatsoever what Phillip wants or needs.
    I do. I can help.
    Phillip has called his headphones his “blocks” for as long as he’s worn them. It’s a term that makes sense to him, I guess, since they do such a good job blocking out all
the sounds Phillip tries to avoid. I don’t know why he doesn’t have them with him for a hallway transition, but the substitute probably didn’t have a chance to make it to that
page of his binder.
    I don’t know a lot of things, though.
    I don’t know why it didn’t occur to the vice principal to give a heads-up to the new Autistic Support classroom that a fire drill was coming and that it probably wouldn’t be a
good idea to be in the halls after third period.
    I don’t know why I can’t move even though I want to.
    I don’t know why I don’t push my way through the crowd and rush to help my brother, as I’m the one person there who knows what he needs. It could be the sheer size of the
crowd, nearly thirty juniors and seniors by this point. Maybe it’s because I notice Leighton and Dana standing front and center among the group, or because I notice that the surprise and
panic has lessened for some, and there are a few people actually starting to giggle. It could be nervous laughter, sure, but it’s still laughter.
    At that moment, Mr. Daniels, our principal, appears from around the corner, walkie-talkie in hand. He takes one look at my brother