Edward Adrift

to respond yet again, blue lights fill my rearview mirror. A Montana Highway Patrol car is pulling me over.
    Well, slap my ass and call me Sally. That’s just a saying, by the way. Scott Shamwell used to say that sometimes. I don’t want my ass slapped, and I prefer to be called by my own name, which is Edward.
    I pull over and wait for the officer.

    After the patrolman gives me a $250 ticket for reckless driving—and scolds me for texting while driving, saying that I’m lucky I didn’t kill myself or somebody else or worse, which seems silly to me because what could be worse than killing or being killed?—I remain in my turned-off car on the side of the interstate.
    Who is this, really?
I type.
Don’t lie.
    A few moments pass.
Kyle. LOL.
    You just cost me $250 and got me in big trouble with the Montana Highway Patrol.
    LOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOL!

    The taunting messages from Kyle keep coming. He tells me to be a “gangsta” and not pay my ticket. He tells me that the Dallas Cowboys suck and that the Denver Broncos and Tim Tebow rule. He tells me that he’s going to whip my butt on all his Wii games, which is probably true; I never was very good at Wii. He tells me that his parents are stupid and that his school is full of “douches.”
    I watch the messages as they continue to come through as I drive, which I’m probably not supposed to do, but I can’t help it. I’ll be stopping to eat in American Falls, which is 170.6 miles away, and I can answer his many text messages when I get there. In the meantime, I will monitor them.
    At 12:37, however, I receive a message that causes me to turn off the bitchin’ iPhone.
    Dont be all stupid when your here.
    I blink twice when I see it. The words sting me. Kyle, as much as anybody, should know that I’m not stupid. I explained my condition to him soon after I met him, and I know Donna has told him about it, and still he saw fit to message my bitchin’ iPhone and call me stupid. I’m not stupid at all. I’m very smart. I know a lot of things, and I know how to do a lot of things. The world sometimes doesn’t make sense to me. Other people regularly flummox me. I’m bad with crowds, and I don’t know what to do when people are emotional, but none of that means I’m stupid. The irony is now I’m the emotional one. Kyle’s message makes me want to stop this car and beat on it with a hammer.
    Also, Kyle has some nerve calling me stupid when he doesn’t know the difference between “your” and “you’re.”
    I try to imagine what Dr. Buckley would tell me to do, which is a poor substitute for actually hearing from her. For one thing, it forces me to use conjecture, and I’ve been clear all along that conjecture can be a dangerous thing. I guess I have no alternative now.
    I suppose Dr. Buckley would say that Kyle is a boy, and boys can be cruel. She might also say that his ugliness toward me is just a misplaced manifestation (I love the word “manifestation”) of his frustration with himself. Dr. Buckley often said that when we say nasty things about other people, we’re really criticizing something in them that we don’t like in ourselves. I’m not sure I ever fully understood what she meant by that, but taking that and applying it to Kyle somehow makes it easier to process. I know Kyle is having a tough time in his new town and at his new school. Maybe people are calling
him
stupid. Maybe he’s putting that on me so it’s not on him any longer. That’s a lot of maybes, which makes me uncomfortable.
    Finally, I remember Dr. Buckley once telling me that the children who would make fun of me when I was young were, in many cases, simply dealing with differences the way children often do. Children are perceptive about differences, and they sometimes fall victim to a sort of mob mentality where a lack of conformity is identified and punished. It saddens me to think that this might now describe Kyle, because up until this point, he and I have never let our differences—like our age—keep us from being good friends. When he and Donna and Victor left Billings 190 days ago, he hugged me in their old driveway, and I hugged him back, which is hard for me. Now he’s speaking (writing) to me this way. What if we can’t be friends anymore? I don’t think that’s something I want to contemplate.
    I resolve to leave the bitchin’ iPhone off until I arrive at Donna and