Mrs. Felder shrugged. "Lots of autistic children have eating and sleeping problems," she told me. "Susan is one of them." I nodded. "All right. Well, I'll try to get Susan outdoors. And if she'll eat something, is that okay? Or would you rather she waited until dinner?" "No, a snack would be fine. Try a cookie, anything. I want some food in her." Mrs. Felder left then, as if she couldn't escape fast enough.

I watched Susan at the piano for awhile. She played intently, her head cocked to the side, staring into space. She never looked at the keys. And of course, no music was in front of her, since she memorized everything.

"Susan," I said after awhile.

No response. Not even a flicker of her eyes.

"Susan! Susan . . . SUSAN!" The music continued. I didn't know what she was playing, because it was something classical, and what I know about classical music could fit on a mosquito's nose.

"Susan!" I called again. I walked to the piano and stood next to her. I actually waved my hand in front of her face, as if she were a sleepwalker.

Nothing.

Then ever so carefully and gently I laid my hands on Susan's. She tried to keep playing. I tightened my grip. Susan couldn't move her fingers anymore. She had to stop playing. And you know what? For a second, or maybe even just a fraction of a second, she looked at me. I mean, she looked right into my eyes with those big brown eyes of hers. Then she lost herself in her world again. Where does her mind go? I wondered.

With my hands still on Susan's, I tried to pull her away from the piano. She wouldn't budge. I pulled harder. I could see what Mrs.

Felder meant about passive resistance. But I wasn't about to give up. I've learned plenty from my younger brothers and sisters.