“It’s nice to see you again. I don’t know if your mama has told you or not, but I am going to do some stuff that feels like school with you today. We’re going to be—”
Genevieve interrupts me, waving off my explanation with her hand. Diamonds sparkle on her fingers. “Oh, please, you don’t need to waste your time explaining all that to him. He’s been through this lots of times, haven’t you, Mason?” She nudges him in the side.
“See you next Wednesday.” Same pitch and intonation.
She drops her voice to a whisper and puts her hand over her mouth. “That’s one of his favorite phrases that he says all the time. I forgot what y’all call it, but he’s got a few of them. You’ll see, I’m sure. He’ll use them today. Dang. What’s it called?” She snaps her fingers like that will help her remember.
“Echolalia?”
“Yes, that’s it!” She claps her hands together. “This one he picked up from preschool when he was four. Can you believe that? He only went once a week on Wednesdays all those years ago, but he’s never forgotten. His preschool teacher was just the cutest little thing that you ever did see, and every Wednesday when he left, she would say, ‘See you next Wednesday.’ Totally threw me the first time he did it because it sounded so much like her.” She adjusts her purse. Flips her hair over her shoulder. “Anyway, I think he says it whenever anything reminds him of school.”
“Makes sense to me.” Kids use echolalia for all kinds of different reasons.
“I planned on reading a book while I waited, but if you don’t mind, I think I’ll take a walk down to Main Street and have a cup of tea at Coffee Bean.” She changed her mind once she saw my office, but it doesn’t bother or surprise me.
“Sounds good. I’ll call you when we’re finished?”
She nods and turns to Mason. His long arms hang past his waist like he hasn’t grown into them yet. “You behave for Ms. Walker, you hear me, honey? And you do your best on those tests. Just like always, okay?” She doesn’t wait for him to respond before planting a huge lipsticked kiss on his lips.
He wipes it off with the back of his hand as soon as she pulls away.
I give him a friendly smile and motion to my office door. “Let’s go.”
He follows me with his head down and feet shuffling. I’ve rearranged the space to look more like a testing room than a therapy one. My desk is pushed against the far back wall to open up the middle of the room. I brought my card table from home, which we use for family game nights, and placed it in the center. All my testing materials from the WISC-V kit are laid out on top of it. A chair rests on each side. I motion to the one nearest the door. “Sit in that chair.”
Mason nods quickly and hurries to the seat. His frayed blue jeans drag on the floor. He stares at the chair for a few seconds before deciding to sit in it. He hunches over, folding into himself.
“Sit in that chair,” he declares in a voice eerily similar to mine.
I take a seat across from him and watch out of the corner of my eye while getting the blocks ready for his first subtest. His pale face hides underneath black curls, and he grinds his teeth back and forth while his right hand twitches with nervous energy.
“Sit in that chair.” This time he bursts into hysterical laughter after he says it. Flicks his fingers twice.
“Okay, Mason, are you ready?” The thing about testing is that you jump right in. There’s none of the usual rapport building like there is in therapy, so sometimes it feels a bit awkward to follow such a rigid script. It definitely took some getting used to in my early days. “Mason?” I tap the table lightly.
He lifts his head and manages a tiny smile. I smile back. He quickly looks away.
“Today we’re going to be doing a series of tests. I want you to take your time and think about the answers on each one. Just try to do your best, okay?” He takes a sneak peek at me. He has big blue eyes framed by dark lashes that look nothing but innocent and sweet. He flicks his finger twice against his thigh, making a sharp snap against the denim.
I place a response card in front of him and hand him two blocks—one red, one white. I take another response card and place it in front of me along with my own two blocks. “Look at me. Just do what I do.” I take my red block and place it next to the white block on my card. I open my hands to display the design like I’m doing a magic trick. “Now you try.”
I start the timer as he begins. It doesn’t take him long. It never does. Four seconds to completion. Just like always.
“Good job.” I reward him with praise even though you’re not supposed to. I hand him an additional block and move on to the next one. “Look at me. Just do what I do.”
I arrange three blocks in a different pattern. He’s successful again and just as fast, but this is where it gets tricky. He always gets the next one wrong. I try to act completely neutral as I rearrange the blocks again because I don’t want to lead him in any way. Just like I predicted, he puts together his wrong answer. For once, I’m grateful that kids with autism spectrum disorder have a hard time reading other people’s emotions, because it’s impossible to hide my excitement.
I try to contain myself as I take another block out of the bag and hand it to him. This design is one he always fails, too, and in characteristic fashion, he does just that. Normally, after two wrong answers in a row, block design is over, and you move on to the next subtest. Two wrongs and you’re out. That’s how it’s scored, but instead of gathering up our response cards and putting the blocks away like he’s used to, I leave everything out and keep going. “Look at me. Just do what I do.” I create the next design. One he’s never seen before. At least not according to all his previous tests. “Now you try.”
He twirls the new block I gave him in his left hand. His eyes skirt the room like he’s looking for a way out. His body tenses. His other hand flexes at his side. He taps it against his thigh. Another loud smack. Then, quickly, in a split-second decision, he rearranges his blocks to match mine. As fast as he brought his hands up, he brings them back down to his lap, twisting and twirling them anxiously.
“Good job, Mason.”
He bounces his legs, jiggling the table. I quickly arrange the next design on my card, but he doesn’t even look at it. He keeps his hands tied in twisty, spinning knots and pushes himself back from the table.
“Just do what I do,” I repeat. Instructions he’s heard so many times before, but he does nothing. Doesn’t acknowledge I’ve spoken. The rhythm of his rock steadily increases, and I don’t want to push him. Besides, I’ve seen enough anyway.
“Okay, let’s do something else,” I say, picking up the blocks and putting them away in the kit. Normally, we’d go on to the next subtest on the WISC-V, but we’re not doing that today either. We’re only here for one thing.
I pull out the worksheets for the Trail Making Test. There are two worksheets that you can give based on difficulty—Trail Making A and Trail Making B. Trail Making A is ascending numbers that you have to connect in a certain time, whereas Trail Making B is numbers and letters that you have to connect in a similar fashion. He’s only ever done A. I slide B in front of him and hand him a newly sharpened pencil.