The A Word

The A-Word is a scar on my life. It's not the A-Word that middle schoolers use to sound cool. It’s a word that means slow, different, dumb, and stimming like a lunatic. Those words popped into my mind as I glared at my Trigonometry quiz while my dad drove the Honda. The red 0 out of 20 marks on the paper burned my mind. I rocked my body back and forth to soothe my anxiety, but then I stopped. Rocking represented the A-Word. 

“At least I can retake it,” I mumbled, remembering when Mr. Xavier handed back my quiz, shaking his head in disapproval. I’d rather time travel to my early childhood years and cure the A-Word part of myself so that I wouldn’t be failing Trigonometry. 

“All that matters is that you tried your best, Christa,” my dad said, his hands grasped on the wheel and blue eyes focused on the road. “Some people don’t even make it to Trigonometry.” 

“I know.” His words comforted me, but then I glanced at his lanyard, which read Kingston High School. Charles James. Special Education Department. Now the words felt like senseless comfort lines that someone would say to a person with special needs. 

I glanced at the gloomy, overcast sky. My head rested against the window, bobbing up and down while the car rumbled. My life had been a wreck ever since I started Trigonometry. It cost me early mornings and lost sleep to keep my grade at a C. 

“Cs get degrees, sweetie.” Dad smiled at me. 

“I guess.” Unless you are in special ed like me. Being a special ed kid carried a stigma, but, special ed didn’t sting as much as the A-Word since many popular kids at school were also in special ed. 

I gently clenched my dry hands into fists. Soft stings erupted through my hands and tiny pearls of blood sprouted from my skin’s cracks. The frigid November wind always dried my skin. I picked at the dead white skin flakes. 

A rumble echoed in my ears. I sat up and peered through the main window. It was the driveway, where a tan house with an auburn roof stood. Its rusty garage door opened. Dad drove the car through the entrance. 

“Well, it’s the weekend now. Let’s enjoy it.” Dad gave his toothy kiddish smile, which he meant to stir up joy. Yet I turned my head around silently, thinking of it as the special-needs smile—the smile that pities people whose body and mind don’t function to the capacity of people deemed neurotypical. 

I opened the entrance to the house and walked into the family room. The room was spacious and had a mahogany brown couch. Toys and past assignments or announcements covered the room’s sand-colored carpet. My mother, the most amazing woman in the world, sat in the blue La-Z-Boy in the center of the room. She was a slim woman with brown braided hair. She smiled when she looked at me with her hazel eyes. Her smile usually cheered me up, but my frown did not stir. 

“Hi sweetie,” she chirped, walking towards me, and embracing me warmly. “How was your day?” 

Nothing. I was silent. My vision blurred as my eyes filled with tears. 

She stood back and her cheery face morphed into a concerned frown. “Did math go okay?” 

I huffed like an overstimulated lion and shoved the quiz into her hands. 

Mom studied it for a minute and her eyes widened in shock. She must have thought I was an embarrassment. The girl who got a zero on a stupid quiz, rocked back and forth like an insane person, and cried like a baby every time her mother tried to untangle her hair. 

“Honestly, Mr. Xavier should’ve given you a point for trying. Can you redo it?” 

“Yeah, but I’m still going to get no better than a C!” The dam in my eyes burst open with tears and loud wails. “I’m never going to college!” The image of walking on a spacious campus with lush green grass, diverse buildings, and thousands of books faded away in my mind. 

“Christa,” my dad said in a slightly annoyed tone. “We’ve been over this. You can still go to college with Cs. Plus, you have As and Bs in your other classes, like history.” 

I wanted to give a small smile. It was true. I had As in my other classes. The mention of the word “history” sparked images in my mind of the muddy trenches of World War I, women’s suffrage meetings in the early 1900s, museums, and historical books. History was my blood and my strength. I could give almost every answer correctly in class. However, I didn’t give that slight smile. History was a special interest, a mark of the A-Word. 

“History will not lead to a successful career.” I stared down at my black sneakers, which had small rips and dents from whenever I ran and skipped in the backyard. “Math is the only path to success, and I suck at it.” 

It was true. Mathematics and STEM were groundbreaking fields. It was also commonly associated with people who had the A-Word. At least, it was a good association, since people saw it as helping humanity. They could brush off the rocking and humming as geeky, awkward scientist behavior. 

“That’s not true,” Mom piped in. “You can become a college professor, where you could teach and research history.” She put her hand behind my back, bringing me some warmth again. 

“Not when you're in special ed.” I ripped off my mom’s arm with my cracked and bloodstained hands. “Or worse yet, like me.” It was true. 50 percent of individuals with the A-Word were unemployed, which would be my fate. 

“People with ah… are successful and have gone to college. You can do it.” She used the A-Word, but I filtered it out in my brain. The mention of the A-Word erupted cringe and shame through my body. I tightly shut my eyes, trying to squeeze the A-Word out of my mind, though it was no use. I saw it every time I looked in the mirror. 

“I know that’s not true. Not since that counselor.” Two years earlier, my first guidance counselor said I would never make it to a 4-year college because I was in special ed. 

“Christa!” Dad narrowed his eyes on me. “You need to move on! You can’t let that counselor hold you back!” 

“Charles.” Mom patted Dad’s back. They both whispered to each other. 

Dad softened his eyes and shifted his attention back to me. “Sorry, sweetie. Sometimes I get frustrated.” 

He walked over to hug me, but I pushed him away. My face turned hot red. 

“You don’t understand!” I stomped away from my parents, fists clenched on my sides. 

“Christa, please…” 

“No.” I marched up the stairs like a wounded soldier in battle and across the upstairs hall. I flapped my hands like I was a livid bird. In one room I passed by my brother. He had a mop of brown hair on his head, wore green headphones, and was glued to the computer screen. 

I entered my small room and slammed the door shut. The floor was covered with coat hangers, childhood stuffed animals, books, and random papers with scribbles. Pain and anger continued to swirl in my mind as I crashed into my bed, covered with pink sheets with white polka dots. 

“I’m a failure. If only I didn’t have the A-Word, my life would be perfect. My grades wouldn’t matter. And I would be better at math.” Tears stained my cheeks, my green eyes turned red, and my head ached from the pain thrashing in my mind. The pain of shortcomings, dashed dreams, and being different. 

“Why?” I wailed like a sad puppy. I dug my head into my pillow and wailed and wetted it with my tears until I fell asleep. 

...

 

CLANK! I jolted up in bed with anxiety surging through my veins. My body shook as I held the pink blanket against me. I scanned the dark room, breathing nervously. 

“Who’s there?” I stayed still, blood rushing through my body. Was it just someone getting water, or a thief? Thieves can have guns, I thought to myself, remembering a case of a thief who murdered a man back in the 70s. Chills went up my body at that thought. 

Then it was silent. No sound except for the rustling of trees outside. 

I lowered back into the soft bed. Then a white light flashed in the room. 

I screamed and jumped up. “Who’s there?” 

My eyes widened in shock. A woman stood by my bed. She wore a black graduation gown and an academic cap with a golden tassel hanging from it. Her skin was pale and milky brown hair cascaded down her back. I looked into her eyes. They were green like mine. 

Is she… No. That would be dumb, I thought. 

The woman flaunted her elegant smile. “It’s not dumb. I’m you.” 

My cheeks flushed red. It felt like she peeked into my brain and snooped through my thoughts. 

“Don’t worry, I’m not a stalker.” She inched closer to me and beamed, exposing her white teeth. “I remember your thoughts from 2019.” 

“What do you mean?” I raised my brow in confusion. “It’s 2019 right now.” Was she crazy? Maybe she was trying to fool me like the kids back in middle school would do, since they thought I was dumb. 

The woman pressed her pink lips into a thin line, then gasped, her hand pressed against her mouth. “I forgot to mention. I’m from 2025.” 

My mouth gaped open. How? How could she be from 2025? I scanned her and gasped. The gown was adorned with a red sash that had a white snake with a star etched in it. Phi Alpha Theta, I thought, the History Honors Society. I had wanted to join it ever since hearing about it. People needed good grades to get in. Maybe she got it from junior college. 

“Junior college?” The woman scoffed. “I’m getting my bachelor’s in history with a minor in creative writing.” A bachelor’s, the words raced in my head. How? 

“I make it to a 4-year college? How? I’m getting a C in Trigonometry.” 

She laughed lightly. “That’s right. We did well in other classes like Spanish, History, English, and Psychology. Then you get an A in Stats next year.” 

“An A? But I suck at math.” 

“Not with Stats.” She stretched her arms and yawned. “Stats is practical and then we take it in our first semester of college and pass with a B. But let's stop talking about math, it’s boring us.” 

“What interesting things are coming?” Most people would think it’s boring, since I’d be mostly memorizing dates and writing papers. 

“You help create an exhibit in the library.” 

“An exhibit.” 

She nodded. “And you get an A in most of your major classes. Then we ace senior thesis and now we’re on our way to…” 

“Teaching high school or college.” It would most likely be the main thing I could do, since history is mostly an educational enterprise. 

“Nope. We go to grad school to get a library science degree. We’re going to help with research.” 

A smile beamed across my face. My future self was confident, beautiful, and had a bright future. I won’t ever have to worry about the A… Then my smile drooped. My future self’s legs were shaking and her hands flapped up and down. Never mind, I thought. 

“I know.” She stopped shaking her hands and placing her right arm around me. “Being autistic is hard.” 

I looked into her—our—green eyes in shock. “You said the…” 

“I know.” Her voice turned soft. “It’s hard to accept. Especially when people judge you for it and it makes life harder. However, we learned that it’s better to accept our challenges and focus on our strengths. We use our special interest in history to become a great researcher.” She took her arm off my back and placed her warm hands on the sides of my cheeks. “Christa, life is hard now and will be later, but don’t give up. Keep going, we have a great future ahead. Promise?” 

My mind went through the different possibilities of this choice, which it always did. Life will be hard, I thought anxiously. What if I can’t do it? What if I fail? Then I looked at our gown. I have a future. I pictured myself walking across the stage, grabbing my diploma, and hearing my parents cheering. 

“I do,” I said with a sunny smile. “I will not let Trigonometry or people’s judgment of my autism stop me.”