I remember the whispers of those teachers in fourth grade and feel ten all over again. I’ve been doing really well so far. I finish my homework and eat lunch with Well and Tucker and Jacob and Geneva. I even spoke during class discussion in Dan’s class, though I didn’t want to. But none of it matters. “Let me guess. I’m ‘on the spectrum,’ ” I say, using air quotes.

“You mean are you autistic? No, not necessarily.” Andrea puts her cup down and pauses to push up her glasses. “Lou, you can’t determine that from one test. You would need to meet with a pediatrician and therapist, be observed by your teachers and family, take some other, different kinds of tests in our learning center. All that would need to happen before any official diagnosis.”

I slump back in my chair. I am one part relieved and one part super confused. So what does this mean? Something’s wrong, but it’s not what they thought? Is this worse? Is it worse to have something nobody understands? I tug at the ends of my hair. They’re wet from the rain. I find a knot and yank.

“So, is there a name for it? Whatever your questionnaire was asking about?”

Andrea takes a second before she answers. I’ve noticed this about her. She’s never in a rush to fill in silences, unlike Mom, who can’t stand the quiet, even for one second.

“Well, there are different forms, and no two cases look the same, but yes, from what I’ve seen as an occupational therapist and what you’ve answered on the questionnaire, I’d say you have a sensory processing disorder. SPD. And if you give me your pediatrician’s contact information, I’d like to put a call in to him or her to work on getting you an appointment set up with a practicing occupational therapist. Then, if they agree that this is in fact SPD, we can start building a good learning plan.”

I yank at the knot in my hair again. Sensory. Processing. Disorder. SPD. SPD. SPD. SPDSPDSPDSPDSPD, I say over and over in my head until it stops making sense. Because it doesn’t make sense. I’ve been here a week, and they already want to “fix” me. Mom wouldn’t tolerate it.

“I don’t want a plan,” I say, and twist my skirt in my hands. It’s not as itchy now that I doused it in fabric softener and washed it ten times.

“Okay.” Andrea sips her tea. “Why not?”