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Anything but typical, p.1
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       Anything but Typical, p.1

           Nora Raleigh Baskin
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Anything but Typical

  Also by Nora Raleigh Baskin

  The Truth About My Bat Mitzvah


  An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, New York 10020

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2009 by Nora Raleigh Baskin

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  SIMON & SCHUSTER BOOKS FOR YOUNG READERS is a trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  The Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau can bring authors to your live event. For more information or to book an event, contact the Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau at 1-866-248-3049 or visit our website at

  Also available in a Simon & Schuster Books for Young Readers hardcover edition.

  Book design by Drew Willis

  The text of this book was set in Leaf and Weiss.

  MTN 0110

  First Simon & Schuster Books for Young Readers paperback edition March 2010

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows:

  Anything but typical / Nora Raleigh Baskin.

  195 p. ; 22 cm.

  Summary: Jason, a twelve-year-old autistic boy who wants to become a writer, relates what his life is like as he tries to make sense of his world.

  ISBN 978-1-4169-6378-3 (hc)

  1. Autism—Juvenile fiction. 2. Schools—Juvenile fiction. 3. Families—Juvenile fiction. 4. Autism—Fiction. 5. Schools—Fiction. 6. Family life—Fiction.

  PZ7.B29233 An 2009


  ISBN 978-1-4169-9500-5 (pbk)

  ISBN 978-1-4169-5844-9 (eBook)

  for Steve



  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Reading Group Guide

  Teaser: The Summer Before Boys


  I once again, have many people to thank for their help and support in writing this book.

  First and foremost I give my love and thanks to my editor at S&S, Alexandra Cooper, who is just the right combination of intelligent and kind, cheerleader and coach.

  To Robin Millay, one of my smartest, oldest, most generous (she buys me books for no reason at all!), and most encouraging friends, who read an early draft of this novel—and still encouraged me. And worked with me on this all along the way.

  To Estée Klar-Wolfond, founder of the Autism Acceptance Project, who answered all my e-mails and then spoke to me (for a long time) on the phone, which turned everything around and helped me find my way into this story.

  To Michael Moon, current president of the Autism Acceptance Project (, who read a slightly-later-than-first draft of this story and gave me the greatest praise: “I was touched by the book for I could relate back to my childhood.” Coming from him, it meant the world to me.

  To my “Children’s authors who breakfast” breakfast group, thank you both Tony Abbott and Elise Broach.

  To the amazing artist, James Gulliver Hancock, who “drew” Jason’s words so perfectly.

  And to Lizzy Bromley, book designer extraordinaire, who also happened to have found JGH in the first place.

  Chapter One

  Most people like to talk in their own language.

  They strongly prefer it. They so strongly prefer it that when they go to a foreign country they just talk louder, maybe slower, because they think they will be better understood. But more than talking in their own language, people like to hear things in a way they are most comfortable. The way they are used to. The way they can most easily relate to, as if that makes it more real. So I will try to tell this story in that way.

  And I will tell this story in first person.

  I not he. Me not him. Mine not his.

  In a neurotypical way.

  I will try—

  To tell my story in their language, in your language.

  I am Jason Blake.

  And this is what someone would say, if they looked at me but could only see and could only hear in their own language:

  That kid is weird (he’s in SPED, you know). He blinks his eyes, sometimes one at a time. Sometimes both together. They open and close, open and close, letting the light in, shutting it out. The world blinks on and off.

  And he flaps his hands, like when he is excited or just before he is going to say something, or when he is thinking. He does that the most when he’s on the computer or reading a book. When his mind is focused on the words, it separates from his body, his body that almost becomes a burden, a weight.



  Only his fingers don’t stand still while they wait. They flap at the ends of his hands, at the ends of his wrists.

  Like insects stuck on a string, stuck in a net. Like maybe they want to fly away. Maybe he does too.

  In first grade they put a thick, purple rubber band across the bottom bar of his desk chair, so Jason would have something to jiggle with his feet when he was supposed to be sitting still. In second grade Matthew Iverson sent around a note saying, If you think Jason Blake is a retard, sign this, and Matthew got sent to the principal’s office, which only made things worse for Jason.

  In third grade Jason Blake was diagnosed with ASD, autistic spectrum disorder. But his mother will never use that term. She prefers three different letters: NLD, nonverbal learning disorder. Or these letters: PDD-NOS, pervasive developmental disorder– non-specific. When letters are put together, they can mean so much, and they can mean nothing at all.

  From third grade until this year, sixth grade, Jason had a one-on-one aide, who followed him around school all day. She weighed two hundred and three pounds. (Jason asked her once, and she told him.) You couldn’t miss seeing her.

  But the thing people see the most is his silence, because some kinds of silence are actually visible.

  When I write, I can be heard. And known.

  But nobody has to look at me. Nobody has to see me at all.

  School doesn’t always go very well. It is pretty much a matter of time before the first thing of the day will go wrong.

  But today I’ve gotten far. It is already third period. Mrs. Hawthorne is absent and so we are going to the library instead of art class. This is a good sign. You’d think art class would be one of the easiest classes, but it’s not. I mean, it’s not that it’s hard like math, but it’s
hard like PE. A lot of space and time that is not organized.

  Anything can go wrong in that kind of space.

  But not in the library. There are computers in the library. And books. And computers. Keyboards and screens and desks that are built inside little compartments so you don’t have to look at the person sitting next to you. And they can’t look at me.

  When we get into the library, somebody is already sitting in my seat, at my computer. At the one I want. Now I can’t breathe. I want to log on to my Storyboard website. I was thinking about it all the way here. I have already had to wait so long. I don’t know.

  “Jason, this one is free,” the lady says. She puts her hands on my shoulders. This lady is a lady I should know, but her face looks like a lot of other faces I don’t know so well, and I group them all together. Her face is pinched, but her eyes are big, round like circles. Her hair doesn’t move, like it’s stuck in a ball. She belongs in the library or the front office or my dentist’s office.

  But she is here now, so I will assume she is the librarian.

  I know from experience that she is trying to help me, but it doesn’t. I can feel her weight on my shoulders like metal cutting my body right off my head. This is not a good thing.

  I also know she wants me to look at her.

  Neurotypicals like it when you look them in the eye. It is supposed to mean you are listening, as if the reverse were true, which it is not: Just because you are not looking at someone does not mean you are not listening. I can listen better when I am not distracted by a person’s face:

  What are their eyes saying?

  Is that a frown or a smile?

  Why are they wrinkling their forehead or lifting their cheeks like that? What does that mean?

  How can you listen to all those words when you have to think about all that stuff?

  But I know I will get in trouble if I don’t look at the lady’s eyes. I can force myself. I turn my head, but I will look at her sideways.

  I know the right words to use.

  Last year Jane, my one-on-one, taught me to say, “I am okay just as I am.”

  I am okay just as I am.

  She told me I had to say something in this sort of situation. She said that people expect certain things. She said that people will misunderstand me if I don’t say something.

  This is one of the many, many things I need to run through in my mind, every time. Also the things my OT, my occupational therapist, has taught me:

  Look people in the eye when you are talking (even if this makes it harder for you to listen).

  Talk, even when you have nothing to say (that’s what NTs do all the time).

  Try to ignore everything else around you (even when those things may be very important).

  If possible put your head and your body back together and try very hard not to shake or flap or twirl or twitch (even if it makes you feel worse to do this).

  Don’t blink.

  Don’t click your teeth. (These are the things people don’t like. These are the things they hear but can’t hear).

  “I am okay just as I am,” I say, and I take a step forward. I want the librarian to take her hands off my shoulders. The weight of her hands is almost unbearable, like lead. Like the lead apron the dentist puts on you when you get an x-ray, a crushing rock while the technician counts to ten. And you can’t move.

  Or they will have to do it all over again.

  Also, I want to stand close, so there will be no confusion that I am next in line. The person at the computer turns around to the sound of my voice. It is a girl. Most girls look the same, and I can’t tell one from the other.

  Long hair. Earrings. Different tone of voice.

  A Girl.

  I don’t know who this girl is, or if she already hates me, but chances are she does.

  The girl doesn’t say anything, so I have to look at her face and figure it out. Her eyes are squinched up, and her lips are pressed so tightly together they almost disappear. I recognize that she is unhappy or even angry, but I don’t know why.

  “You are breathing on me,” she says. “You’re so gross.”

  “Gross” could mean big or refer to a measurement or weight, but in this case it doesn’t. It means she doesn’t like me. She is, in fact, repulsed by me, which is how most girls react. My mom tells me not to worry. My mom tells me I will find a girlfriend one day, just like everyone else. I will find someone who sees how “special” I am. I know no girl will ever like me. No matter what I do, no matter how hard I try.

  But maybe I am wrong.

  I hope so.

  I hope I am wrong and my mother is right. But usually I am right about these things.

  “I was here first, Miss Leno,” the girl says.

  Miss Leno is the librarian’s name.

  “Jason, here,” Miss Leno is saying. “Sit here. You can use this computer.”

  But I can’t use that computer. I don’t want to. I can’t. My breathing is too loud inside my ears. I stiffen my body, solidify my weight, so she can’t move me with her hands. You’d be surprised at how quickly people will try to move you with their hands when they don’t get what they want with their words.

  I wish Jane were here with me right now and then this wouldn’t happen. Words don’t always work.

  “Jason, hold still. There’s no need to get so upset. There are plenty of other computers.”

  Miss Leno is trying to shift my weight off my feet, and she’s trying to pretend she’s not, as if she’s just walking with me, instead of pushing me, which is what she’s doing.

  “Jason, please.” But she doesn’t mean please. There is no please in anything Miss Leno is asking. She is pulling me.

  I feel off balance, like I am going to fall. I need to shift my weight back and forth, back and forth, rock to stabilize myself. I can feel my chance to use my computer getting further and further away from me. There isn’t even enough time left in the period. I might not get to log on at all, even if this girl does get up. A hundred little pieces threaten to come apart.

  “Jason, please, calm down. Calm down.” Miss Leno’s voice sounds like a Xerox machine.

  Sometimes there is nothing to hold me together.

  Chapter Two

  There are some writers who know things and post them on the Internet so other writers can learn them. Some of them say that there are only seven plots in the whole world:

  Man vs nature.

  Man vs man.

  Man vs environment.

  Man vs machine.

  Man vs the supernatural.

  Man vs self.

  Man vs religion.

  It could be a woman, too, but they just say “man” in order to make it easier for themselves. Because they all seem to be able to understand it, because they are only speaking in their own language. In an NT language.

  But I can do that too.

  When I try.

  Very hard.

  It means man or woman vs nature.

  Man or woman vs man or woman.

  And so on.

  Other writers say there are only three plots: happy ending, unhappy ending, and literary plot (that’s the kind of ending that is uncertain). There is a whole book called Twenty Master Plots, which I happen to own. And another author wrote that he thought there were thirty-nine plots.

  But really, if you ask me, there is only one kind of plot.


  Stuff happens.

  That’s it.

  This is what happens next:

  “C’mon, Maggie, get up. Give him that computer. You’re not even doing anything.”

  Now Aaron Miller is standing behind me. Me, who is behind the girl who is using my computer. Miss Leno, behind both of us, still has her hands on my shoulders. If she doesn’t let go, I don’t know what will happen.

  But stuff usually always happens.

  I have known Aaron Miller since kindergarten, from back when I was the same as everyone else. You might not even have picked me out of a
crowd. Nobody was very good at anything back then, and a lot of kids did weird things and didn’t know enough to hide them. Charlie Karl wet his pants seven times that year. Chelsea Grey got caught sneaking into the cubbies and stealing the meat out of all the sandwiches she could find. Liza Duchamps picked her nose and ate it during circle time. Now that same girl is running for sixth-grade class president.

  Aaron Miller was my friend in kindergarten. I’d like to say he still is, but by definition I can’t. He hasn’t come to my house in five years. He hasn’t invited me to his birthday party since second grade. I am pretty certain I am not on Aaron Miller’s buddy list, even though he is on mine. But he is always nice to me, and when I sit at his table at lunch, he will talk to me.

  He doesn’t get angry when I don’t talk back the same way.

  “Anyway, you’re not supposed to be playing games on the computer, Maggie,” Aaron says to the girl. The girl’s name is Maggie.

  “What is it your business?” the girl, Maggie, says, but she stops her typing and looks at Aaron.

  “Everything is my business, Maggie,” Aaron says. “And you’re just being stubborn. You’re being mean.”

  Maggie says, “I’m not mean.” She immediately signs off and closes the window she has open on the screen. Then Maggie takes her fingers off the keyboard and pushes her chair back. It screeches, but I don’t move out of the way. I might be mistaken about what she is doing.

  I’m not.

  “All yours, Jay-Man,” Aaron says.

  But there are only twenty-three minutes left in the period.

  “Ow,” Maggie says, but I know I didn’t do anything that could have hurt her. I am just sitting down. She is just standing up.

  I want to say thank you to Aaron, but I need to claim my seat first, just in case someone else comes over and takes my turn from me. That has happened many times before. And then all this work would have been for nothing. I need to open my website, because the computers at school are slow, and this will take time too. The sooner you can begin something, the sooner it is done.

  I am logging in.

  “That is very nice of you, Maggie,” I hear Miss Leno saying. “I am sure Jason appreciates it very much.”

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