The world's bitterest love story.

A couple weeks ago I volunteered to accompany my sister's Special Ed class on a field trip. This is an experience I had, as I wrote it down a few days later.

You'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll wish you had been there.






1.30.2010

I have little idea of what to expect. I can’t even remember what time I am supposed to show up—did she mean they should leave for the field trip at 8:30 or I should come at 8:30 in order to observe the class before the field trip? I told her that I would come early—was 8:30 early? On time?

Now early in any sense of the word seems regrettable. I pull at the skin under my eyes, trying to make them open a bit wider. An attempt to erase traces of night shift from my face, from my memory, from existence: futile.

I run into an old friend and try to look chipper. I sign my name, receive directions to Mrs. Carr’s room and act like I know my way around the school. I’ve only been here once before. Chaperoning Michelle’s homecoming dance. And one other time, bringing Danielle’s friend her phone charger, but I was in and out in a matter of seconds. Hardly even counts.

Luckily the walls are marked with signs: Rooms 100 – 110. I follow arrow clues and suspenseful numbers all the way to one-oh-seven: Mrs. Carr’s.

We meet. She looks nothing like I thought she might—very small. And kind of pretty. I remember how she told me that she undertook Special Education for the money. Who does Special Education for the money? We shake. We take turns mentioning how much Michelle talks about the other, how nice it is to finally meet after our conversation on the phone, how excited we each are for field tripping. She relieves me of my bag, tucks it away in a closet behind her desk, bids me follow her to the student in gym class. Gym class. Now I’m taken up by a wind of suggestions and following orders. Down the hallway again and we run into a few stragglers. A hefty smiley blonde, Kirsten, herding two students towards a ramp that ascends into a land of sweaty bodies and physical exertion. One of them hides her eyes from me, turning her entire body away, and clings to a small red cooler as though it were breathing. More introductions, more shaking and Mrs. Carr goes back the way we came. Paige is the one holding the cooler so tightly against her chest. Takes ice to the nurse on B days. Instead of looking at me, she hugs me. Apparently they’re working on that one.

I’m Ashley. Typical courtesies. Yes, I’m Michelle’s sister.

That’s
my name
too. 

An unnoticed, cramped voice from below sounds high wonderment through its owner’s nose. She’s sitting. In the hall way? In a wheel chair. Pinched features on a wide, freckled face look nearly worried (always nearly worried, I discover as the day wears on, as though longing for something slightly difficult to remember) as she peers at me through thick-rimmed black frames. Brown moppy hair and a lumpy sweat suit. She seems a soft heap of disarray. And sincerity.

Really?

Yes.
That means
we’re
friends.

How do you
spell it?

A-S-H-L-E-Y.

Oh.
Mine is spelled
A-S-H
L-A-Y.

Oh. That’s a good way to spell it. We’re almost the same. Seeing her awakens me slightly. I can’t help but converse with greater enthusiasm as we up the inclination. To my surprise, she takes the ramp on her own, wheeling herself with strength that her pillowy looks deny.
 
Look how strong you are! Maybe I could do that. Maybe.

She used to pull herself up it with her feet. Kristen. But she broke her leg and had to start using her arms instead. It was pretty incredible how fast she’d go. I watch and try to imagine her legs long enough to yabba-dabba-doo herself to the top.

Did you know
I
used to
live in
Oregon?

I didn’t. How long ago did you move here?

I think
maybe
about
six months ago.

On flat ground again. Nothing fazes her. We enter a small weight room on our left. Leaving explicit instructions for Ashlay to do her arm workout, Kirsten and Paige move on to the gym. She knows what to do, Kirsten insists, catching eyebrows I didn’t even have time to raise on her way out.

I wait for Ashlay to do something, unsure. She wheels close to the bench press equipment I lean against and picks up an elastic band at its base. This she takes to another machine, where she grabs the two handles and flings the middle around a vertical bar. Barely catches it. I finish pulling it on for her.
She goes to work when the chair’s brakes are set, pulling the handles toward her.
No wonder you’re so strong. Do you do this a lot?

Yeah.

The pulls are unpredictable. For the first few movements her right and left arms are coordinated. Then they begin to alternate. Then a small pause. Now together again.

Did you know
I have
a boyfriend?

Really!

But he’s
in Portland.

Portland?

Yeah. I
used to live
there.

Ohh. How long have you been dating him?

Since kindergarten.

That’s a long time!

Yeah.
He just asked me
one day if
I wanted
to be his girlfriend and
I said yes.

Ahh. Have you talked to him since you moved?

My mom’s
cell phone.

You talked to him on your mom’s cell phone?

I just
tried to
call
but he didn’t answer so
I just
left a message.

What did you say in the message?

I said
hi it’s your
girlfriend.
Bye.

A short pause.

I
love him.

Her hands drop to her lap, mid-pull.
You do!

But I didn’t
get to
tell him that
before
I left.

And the burden drops her chin to her chest.
Ohh no. I look at her, slumped over. The worried look has deepened above and around her eyes. It seems so real to her.

Yeah.

Another short pause. She resumes pulling again.

I
hope he hasn’t broken
up with me.

And here I have no more words because I am too busy drawing my eyebrows together and up. Even mere acknowledgments fail me.

I
will be so sad
if he has.

Probably he would tell you if he wanted to.

Yeah.
I will be
sad
if he has.

Now bittersweet tragedy makes me smile slightly.
Well, since he hasn’t said anything to you about it, that probably means he hasn’t.

Yeah.

She stops pulling on the elastic again.
How many of these arm exercises do you do?

Uhh
three sets.

I couldn’t tell where sets ended in her sporadic work. How many have you done already?

One.

Adjusting her grip with renewed determination, she is at it again.
Does it burn?

No.

After finishing her three sets, she unlocks her brakes and wheels herself a hamstring machine while I send the elastic home. For a moment I worry. The machine she chooses registers and I worry that I will have to lift her 20 year-old body out of her chair alone. I worry that I’ll drop her, that I won’t be strong enough. I worry that perhaps she’s doing something she shouldn’t be—hamstrings are definitely not part of the arms.

My mouth opens to voice as another class assistant walks over, adjusts the machine to its lightest setting, and leaves again. Ashlay, instead of looking to me for heavy lifting, positions herself behind the opposable extension and starts lifting it upward and back down again, with two hands. In that same, erratic pattern. Relieved, I straddle the bench opposite her and watch.

As she uses her arms, kids from another class—an average class—begin to file into the weight room next to ours and she watches them through the glass that walls between.

I like boys with
muscles.

The words bubble from her lips, a giggled confession.
My face curls in spite of itself. Is that why you like Toby? Does he have big muscles?

I don’t know.

Beat.

But that’s why he likes me.