"Giselle, what are you drawing?"

The girl looked up from her art; the back of a piece of scrap paper that had a spiral printed on it, handed out by the teacher during the lesson.

"A ship."

She was fourteen. Her brother had just sent her to a new school in the city they had moved into. After...

After that.

"Ooh! It looks amazing. How do you draw so well? Even I can't do that."

She could tell from her voice that the person talking to her was a female. Perhaps not too much older than her—an assistant, perhaps?

"Imagine," Giselle felt for the edges of the paper, as though she was trying to cover its content with her hands.

"Is there a story?"

"Story?"

"There are many ships. Oh, and those look like planets. And puffy smoke coming out of them," The assistant sounded a little silly to herself, and Giselle almost laughed.

"It's a war."

"Oh...so those are bombs?"

"Yeah."

"Then...the planets?"

"That's the moon."

"Woah...where did you learn to draw all this?"

Giselle shrugged.

She really didn't know.

She didn't know how someone could learn from imagination—it wasn't really learning, was it? Learning...she supposed would be what they were doing now, in this boring art class that she had bugged her brother to sign her up for ever since she entered the school.

She didn't know that it would be so boring.

The class was tasked to draw small boats—exactly like the ones on the whiteboard—around this printed spiral on paper.

Giselle could tell that someone had poked holes on hers just to ensure that she followed the spiral correctly.

They showed her how to draw the boat. It was a sailboat.

One big triangle at the top, a line in the middle, and a rectangle for the part humans sat in.

It was easy.

Simple.

Why were fourteen-year-olds doing this?

"Giselle, what is that?" She heard a voice.

It was masculine. Mr. Lee, then?

The one who went on, really, like a broken recorder—don't be naughty, don't be bad. Be good; are you a good girl? Behave yourself.

The assistant seemed a little speechless. She must have seen his face. Was he angry?

"Um, sir..."

He ignored her.

"Giselle, I asked you a question. What is that?"

"A ship," She repeated, just like she had said before.

"Giselle, did you listen to the instructions? Or did you not?"

Giselle didn't answer.

She heard them, yes.

But so what if she said yes?

Will he stop repeating himself? Ever?

"Giselle, why did you draw all this when the instructions were to draw the boat on the board? Why are you not listening to instructions?"

She felt the piece of paper—her art—slip from underneath her hands.

Giselle screamed.

She panicked—she could not feel her paper in her hands.

"Sir—wait!" The assistant tried to reason; but she was at a loss when she looked at the adult who had snatched the treasure of a child.

He did not understand what it meant to her.

What a stupid piece of scrap paper could mean to any human at all when they had their imagination, their thoughts—drawn; written on that insignificant medium.

She continued screaming.

Her bandages were a little wet.

She wished Xander was here to change them.

"Giselle, behave yourself. What did I tell you yesterday? Do you want me to send you to the naughty stairs again?"

No, no she didn't want to go to the naughty stairs it was boring it was lonely it was a waste of her precious time—

The man took her piece of paper, and he took her by the arm.

Giselle rooted herself to the seat, arms planted on the table as she hid her face—curling up. "NO!"

"Giselle, you are disturbing the rest of the class," He used her name, again. Of course. "Be quiet. Behave yourself—now, come with me."

"Uh, um...Sir, where are you—"

"Can you look after the rest of the table? I'm going to talk to her," Mr. Lee said to the assistant, and she swallowed. Unsure. What was he going to talk to her about?

What was there to say?

Mr. Lee brought Giselle out of her seat and out of the door, into the next empty classroom.

The assistant couldn't see her. The last thing she saw was Giselle shaking her head.

Just shaking it. Again, and again.

The rest of the art class was quiet.

Perhaps they knew that if they spoke—said something wrong...

The naughty stairs would await them.

Boredom.

Loneliness;

The lack of feeling human.

_________________________________

Hello dear Baker.

In this story above, I am the assistant.

Just last year, during the summer holidays when I was 16, I volunteered at a school for autistic children.

I signed up to help the arts enrichment class for a mere three days. It was an extra program for the students to learn more about different aspects of education—not just math and science and language—they had the chance to try out various sports and art.

It sounded like a great opportunity for them.

I was happy for them.

So I signed up to share the joy.

Little did I know that what I had expected was, perhaps, a naïve idealistic view of what I thought my country's education could provide.

It's not very nice to point fingers here.

It's also not very nice to generalize that the autistic schools in my school are all like that, so I'm just doing my best to give my account of what happened.

In the story above, Giselle is actually one of the boys from a senior class. He's between 14 to 19. He was part of the art class that I was to assist. Assist being handing pencils out to them and telling them the instructions and ensuring that they were all happy and enjoying the lesson.

I think I failed terribly, actually.

What happened to Giselle is exactly what happened to this boy. He isn't blind though.

He drew the most beautiful moon I've ever seen, and the most detailed, accurate battleships and nuclear bombs that I could ever imagine.

Our conversation went exactly as how I portrayed it above.

The teacher isn't called Mr. Lee, of course.

When the teacher came back with the boy, he had calmed down.

But HE WAS GIVEN AN ENTIRELY NEW SHEET OF PAPER.

There was nothing on that paper, except the printed spiral that they were meant to draw stupid boats on.

Yes, stupid boats because 14 to 19 year olds can do better than that.

Another boy from my table said with a laugh: "What? Seriously? Waste of my time..."

Me, surprised, laughed along too, and nodded my head. "OMG. I know how you feel..."

We laughed together.

Back to the boy with beautiful drawing—I was utterly speechless by that point of time.

When the boy sat down and began drawing those stupid boats that were absolutely incompetent and did ZERO justice to his abilities, I seriously wanted to dig the previous paper out of wherever that teacher chucked it to and worship it.

What was this? I had thought.

A restriction of creativity?

Did they think that because these amazing children were autistic, they wouldn't be actively creative?

Did they seriously think that the children were just being rebellious?

Why did they reduce these teenagers to the mental age of—what, four?

They had enough of instructions already, why couldn't they just GET THAT?

"Don't you think they are like a broken recorder?" The boy had said after coming back from the teacher's talk.

I blinked. "S-Sorry?"

"Like, they repeat over, and over, and over again—how do they not get bored?" The boy rolled his head around to emphasize how it was like a vicious cycle.

Over and over again.

"You...you think so?" I asked tentatively, handing him a colored pencil. He filled in the sails easily.

"Yeah."

We stopped there.

I still remember it so clearly.

"Do you think autism is caused by incest?"

"W-What??" I swear I thought my eyes were going to come out of their sockets. I had to smile awkwardly, looking around for Mr. Lee to see if he was anywhere in sight. Fortunately, he hadn't heard.

The boy repeated his question. "Do you think autism is caused by incest?"

I was clearly dumb.

I couldn't speak.

"Where...why...why do you say that?"

He shrugged.

"Haha, was it through the internet?" I asked again, a little awkward. Cuz I'm hopeless, really. I'm useless.

He shrugged once more. He continued coloring.

In all truth, I had assumed then, that someone had said so before—not thinking he'd understand, or he'd hear—but he heard it. And he understood.

They probably repeated it many times before;

Like a broken recorder, as he said.

But I didn't know. And of course, I didn't ask. 

_____________________________

That was my encounter with the senior group.

They were quiet, and when they talked, they were nice and polite. Er, except one guy who was really tall and after class he went up to me while I was waving goodbye to them to shout in my face: "Are you a good boy?! Huh? Are you a good boy? Are you?"

I felt like I was stabbed, seriously—one, because I knew someone was repeating that to him maybe every day to force him to behave, and two because I was really actually scared because he was really tall.

I nodded and said yes, I was a good. He walked off.

I waved goodbye.

There was also another boy with a very nice watch. I complimented him, and he smiled and said that it was a birthday present.

I was happy for him.

________________________________

In the junior group, there was a boy called Ken.

I loved him very much.

I felt that if Giselle was real, this would be how I would feel towards her.

I made friends with Ken on the first day of the art class.

I sat beside him and said that his colors were very nice, and pointed out that the green was a very bright shade.

"Yes, just like Percy," He replied (very adorably).

Is this what I think it is??? A THOMAS AND FRIENDS FAN?? :DDD –I thought to myself.

"And this blue," I pointed to the blue coloring on his seahorse. "It's just like Thomas!"

He turned to me with the most beautiful smile in the world. I can still remember it. "Yes!! Just like Thomas!"

I was overjoyed. I wanted to ask if he watched other TV shows too. I also didn't think that Thomas and Friends still existed because I mean, I'm old and there's a generation gap LOL.

"Ken, everything good?"

Great, it's Mr. Lee—thought Cuppie. I know, I'm a little mean on this inside.

I turned to Ken, anticipating his response.

But he stayed quiet.

Like, he zipped his mouth completely.

He didn't even respond.

"Ken, Mr. Lee is talking to you," Mr. Lee used that thing again—whoever/whoever is talking to you blahhhh.

Ken refused to look at him, but he just nodded.

Another boy was getting up from his seat and bringing his cloth (we were doing batik painting) to the door. He was the boy who was best friends with the other girl from the next class—Desiree. 'I'm going to show this to Desiree later' I remember him saying. They were cute. They always held hands.

So Mr. Lee had to go and stop him and put him back in his seat.

Zzzzz

Well I know it's for his safety, so...I didn't say anything.

I mean, I couldn't. Also.

Mr. Lee was the adult in charge of the school activities. He was a professional. In terms of status and education and position—I was nothing compared to him.

I was just a 16-year-old volunteer. A stupid student.

But the interaction made me realize that Ken was a little scared of adults.

He was also scared of the art teacher.

Of course, I can never know what's going on in his mind.

But it was obvious why he couldn't bring himself to talk in front of adults.

They probably scolded him a lot of times. Punished him. Made him feel like he couldn't express what he wanted to. Wasn't allowed to talk freely. Worried he might say the wrong thing.

And perhaps that was why the senior class was so quiet.

The thing is, punishment isn't exactly the wrong method to make autistic children behave. In fact, it's quite effective.

But is it the best?

Is that the best solution they can come up with?

When is it necessary to use such means?

God I despise my country's education system. Well, not just because of this but because of many other things...I'm not sure what your country does @.@ but I SURE AS HELL HOPE ITS NOT LIKE THIS.

_________________________________

So, what's my point?

I mean, I know each and every one of you care for these amazing people as much as I do :) I'm sure of that. I also know that all of you love Giselle :> (Who doesn't??? OMG fight me if you don't! jkjk I'll lose)

Actually, I'm going to start raising funds for organizing more regulated and exciting activities for these kids, teens, and hopefully, adults.

It's a pity that the lesson only lasted for three days, and it's also a pity that they didn't exactly have such a good time @.@

I mean, art can be boring for some of them (ESPECIALLY IF YOU FORCE THEM TO DRAW STUPID BOATS FOR 2 HOURS WTF) and I think the programs are really undermining their abilities at times.

I really want to do something for these amazing people. My friends agree :D And we will be embarking on a project sometime at the end of this year.

I'm going to be writing Ace and Blake's story on a site called Radish Fiction.

It's an app for iOS

It's free on the app store ^^

Half of what I receive will go into our project for helping autistic children.

The purchase is made by chapter, so if you're really supportive you can buy a chapter that comes out weekly ;_; Well I hope. Since Ace and Blake's story is kinda new and I have to juggle three stories at the same time ;_; (but I think Ace is really funny so I enjoy writing him a lot hahaha I can really relate to him because he's so unlucky I swearrr) 

And emotions and feelings are what you guys feel from reading. I shouldn't be selling tears or smiles, should I?

But you know what, I'm going to make more with them.

I really want to make these amazing children smile.

___________________________________

I will try to answer your questions in the comment section, so please feel free to ask any queries about this Radish Fiction thing ^^ Most likely, I'll be moving Brave Love in the next two weeks. My inbox is also always open~

Now, I will leave you with the story of how Ken and I became friends.

The boy who has the smile of sunshine;

And the heart of gold.

____________________________________

"Um, teacher, what's your name?" Ken pulled gently on my sleeve just as I was about to go get some more ink.

I laughed, shy. It was strange to be called a teacher.

"Olivia."

"Miss. Olivia?"

My chest felt really tight.

"Yup!"

"My name is Ken," He smiled, still holding onto my sleeve.

"Ooh, that's a very nice name," I thought. It was quite rare, that name. He had a name tag though, so I was already aware of his name.

But there was something magical about first introductions.

It was the start of something new.

"Miss. Olivia, will you be coming the next lesson?" Ken asked as the art teacher reminded everyone to clear their table and take their water bottles.

I nodded happily. "Yes, of course! I'll see you next week, Ken."

________________________________

"Um, excuse me. Sorry. I forgot your name..." Ken said. Really softly, because Mr. Lee was around.

I laughed, helping him squeeze the paint onto the plastic plate. It was a substitute for a paint palette. "Don't worry Ken. It's Olivia!"

"Oh," He smiled quietly. To himself. "I remember."

I smiled, too.

He looked at the colors of the paint that I had squeezed out from a tube.

"Those are the primary colors!" Ken exclaimed, getting up from his seat. He was excited.

I shared his excitement.

"Yeah! That's really smart of you. How old are you, Ken?"

"I'm nine."

"Woah. I didn't know what primary colors were at nine," I blinked, doubting my existence for a moment like all 16-year-olds do.

Ken laughed. "Really? But it's so simple!"

"Hm, you're right. I wasn't very smart when I was younger," I admitted whilst sticking out my tongue. "I wonder what we're painting today."

"I hope it's Thomas."

I looked at him.

And in this child, I saw a light.

It was beautiful.

"I hope so too, Ken."

________________________________

"Aren't you going to show it to your friends, Ken?"

He glanced up at me.

"Um..."

"How about Daniel over there?"

Ken looked over at Daniel.

"He's busy with his friends."

"Oh...I see," I didn't want to push it, so I sat with him quietly. The other kids were noisy—but it was a good kind of noise.

It was a happy noise.

"Do you know that Thomas and Percy are best friends?" Ken asked.

I nodded, excited. "Yes! They get along very well."

"Percy would come to help Thomas whenever he was in need. And Thomas would help Percy whenever he was in need."

He spoke really well. I felt really proud—and it was a strange feeling.

"Yes, Ken! That's what best friends are for, right?" I smiled, turning to face him.

He was quiet.

"I don't know."

I waited.

"I don't have a best friend."

It was hard not to cry.

But I managed.

Somehow.

"Then I'll be your best friend."

Ken looked into my eyes.

He really was looking at me.

"Really?"

"Of course."

____________________________

-Cuppiecake.

P.S Lydia is my pen name. I don't think Ken actually remembers my name. For some reason he keeps forgetting everyday. But it doesn't matter, really. We're best friends.