But, I didn't get caught

One of the more fascinating but lesser known characteristics of children with autism is their difficulty processing emotion. The nuances that pervade our speech and everyday expressions possess little meaning for the autistic child. I teach no autistic children yet several of my emotional support special education students exhibit similar behaviors. They possess average to above average intelligences but demonstrate little interest in understanding their own feelings or those of other people. Several are wholly incapable of introspection. I don’t think they’ll ever be able to examine their own behaviors. They are solitary and detached individuals. It’s the rest of the world pitted against them. When they do the wrong thing and get caught they don’t acknowledge they’ve done the wrong thing. They only know they shouldn’t have done what they did because a negative consequence immediately followed.

Take Caplan, she’s a rude, overweight, manic-depressive senior. Last year her dad went through her room and found coke. He took away her car, called some counselors at school and sought a rehab program. The kid broke some stuff then disappeared for a few days. “How dare he come into my room.” No adult would side with her.

Later dad came home from work to see his bedroom trashed. He thought she broke in to steal cash or jewelry but all that was missing was his porn. After dark sirens split the posh suburban night. The police blotter in the local newspaper reported:
Police and fire personnel reported to a criminal trash can fire in Manchester Park Wednesday night. When authorities arrived five-foot flames shot above the rim. The blaze was quickly extinguished. Investigators found an empty bottle of butane along with numerous smoldering pornographic magazines and melted videotapes inside the destroyed receptacle. Anyone with information is asked to contact the police department.

Although the taped police blotter on the inside of her binder and another inside her locker made her a prime suspect, no arrest followed and the case remains unsolved. In the months leading up to her summer in rehab, which was the ultimatum her father set for not going to the police, she believed herself a champion of women’s rights. She fought a lone battle against perverts and female exploitation that she believed should have been rewarded rather than castigated by weekly locker searches.

“Setting that fire was wrong and dangerous, Caplan.”
“I didn’t get caught did I?”

She still brags to anyone who will listen, which isn’t many people these days because not many will have much to do with an overweight rude girl who doesn’t do coke anymore. Before Christmas she was sad one day and asked to have lunch in my room. I thought she wanted to talk or at least have someone take notice of her usual litany of grievances. But she didn’t. She drank her soda and ate her bucket of fries on the opposite side of the room and thwarted my attempts to converse. Halfway through the period she moved to a computer and clicked around until the bell rang. She threw away her trash and walked toward the door. I said, “Goodbye, Caplan” but she never looked back. She never said a word.