Joey was different. Not different like Tom who was tall, athletic, and captain of the rugby team. Not different like Cecile who was tall, slim, blonde and beautiful. Nor was he different like Arthur, who would have everyone rolling in stitches with his joking and playful antics, or like Caren with her sullen glances, and fiery outbursts. He was not different like Matthew, born blind, nor like Amy and Amanda, identical twins. There was nothing obviously different about his family, nor about where he lived – unlike Amos who lived on a boat anchored in the marina.
Joey was not different for the way he looked, nor the things he could or couldn’t do. He was different because he lived in a different world in which, sometimes he looked at this world through a microscope, and other times through binoculars. Being in this world was do-able but hard because to be in this world he had to pretend that he belonged to it, while knowing that he didn’t.
To Joey the world was like a gestalt drawing. sometimes he saw one image, and other times the other. More often he saw the two superimposing themselves, at all times both yet neither, while those around him were secure in seeing only one. Reading, for him, was not just seeing black print on white pages; it was seeing the multitudes of intricate patterns as white wrapped around black. Oh, he could read all right. Some would say, better than most. Reading allowed him to step away from living in the world in an inconspicuous manner. More than that, it gave him reason to believe that there had been others in this world who hadn’t belonged to it either. He might never get to meet one, but there was some comfort in knowing the path had been trodden before. It even gave him a faint hope – barely a glimmer most days – that his being in this world served some greater purpose. But mostly he just felt awkward and out of place.
