One of them, though, is a no-show today. Joel. He doesn’t call or show up with coffee. When I ask Jet about it in the afternoon, he shrugs.
“Was it the kiss?” I ask him, a cold lump of dread settling in my stomach. “Crap, I shouldn’t have asked that of you, I shouldn’t have—”
“We wanted it, Candy sugar.” He pulls me in for a quick, one-armed hug and I melt against his side. “He wanted it. He’s just resisting.”
“Resistance is futile,” I say automatically.
“Right.”
Yet, despite his reassuring words, he looks stressed out, and I can tell it bothers him, too, that Joel vanished today.
To take his mind off this topic I brought up anyway, I turn the conversation elsewhere.
“Hey, about the GED you’re studying for. I talked to Donna, did I tell you? Convinced her to give you some time to find your diploma.”
He shivers, leans a little against me. “Thanks.”
“Do you know when you’re going to take the test?”
“Not ready yet.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Yeah, I do. I took the mock test online. Failed it. Spectacularly.” He huffs. “You saw how it is for me. Reading takes forever. Can’t concentrate. And writing is even worse.”
“Okay.” I frown as I try to put together all the pieces. “You’re not as bad as you think, you know. In reading, at least. And you concentrate enough to draw a comic, though, don’t you?”
“That’s different. I do it in pieces, whenever I feel like it. And it’s pictures. Not text.”
“So the problem is the words. And the time needed focusing on them?”
When he nods, another thought strikes me. “Do you have any other symptoms?”
“Symptoms?”
I frown, trying to remember. “Do you sometimes lose track of time? Forget things? Are you often late at appointments?”
“Heh, all the time. Just ask Joel, I drive him crazy.”
Check.
“What about the way you think. Do you think in images? Confuse letters? Get dizzy while trying to read?”
“I… yeah. Sometimes.” He’s staring at me, dark brows knit over his eyes. “What does it mean?”
“That could mean you’re dyslexic,” I say, my mind whirring because that can’t be all.
He gives a slow blink.
“Do you lose your stuff? Get easily distracted? Lose your temper easily? Can’t deal well with stress?”
“You know I can’t.” He makes a wry face.
That’s right. He can’t. And the way he’s tapping his foot, probably not even realizing, the way he’s always putting himself down…
“ADHD.”
“What?”