POV: HELENA IVYRA.
That blessed list had been buzzing in my head all morning, but for now, I decided to ignore it.
I focused on soaking in that first day, you know, the first day is always fun, especially when it's the start of your last year of high school.
As we reached the third-year classroom, which was the first on the left in the middle corridor, quite close to the benches where lunch was usually served.
I stepped into the corridor that opened up to the patio separating the two main halls. I saw several garden beds centered in the gravel like islands in an ocean.
These beds had everything: small flowers, new trees planted during the holidays, and even some small plants from the school garden.
And right in the center, there was the most unusual object of all. A garden bed, separated by a green fence, with a rare and, honestly, beautiful tree at its heart.
A small Pau-Brasil tree. Something our ancestors literally died for. During the colonial period, this wood was heavily hunted and is now practically extinct.
Yet, my school had one right there on the patio, just like any other tree…
When I first found out, I thought it was a lie, until our history teacher, the classic and memorable Mrs. Maria, made us do a project to learn more about its history and of course… She delivered a monologue, telling us how that tree had ended up there.
'Just like her to do that'
As soon as I reached the classroom, I dropped my backpack on the chair I usually liked, next to the teacher's desk on the wall opposite the door, by the window.
I always preferred sitting at the front of the class; it helped me concentrate, and, of course, it was better for seeing the board and all.
Looking around, I noticed how the rooms had been slightly renovated. The walls had fresh green and white paint.
Scattered around were various green metal chairs, some rusty and chipped, others covered in doodles and humorous drawings, like signatures of past students or insults to rival teams, things like that.
Despite this characteristic school sight, there were some new additions too, like a new type of projector, which might seem simple but was actually very useful.
I briefly scanned the faces in the class; most were familiar from previous years, but there were new ones, as expected.
Time passed quickly, and before I knew it, I was heading towards the seating area to listen to the routine year-start announcement.
Principal Carlos, always kind and a bit of a character, would announce school changes and important points for new students, along with rules, standard notices, the usual.
Now, the question was: would he explain that list? I'd find out soon.
As I walked to the benches, I noticed the magic combat courts also looked new. In public schools, it was uncommon to find specific courts for combat training; usually, they were restricted to private schools or adapted from soccer fields.
The interesting thing was that my school had not just one, but two!
That was truly a rarity; if I wasn't mistaken, it was one of only fourteen in the entire state. So, seeing that this benefit was getting attention made me slightly excited. Especially for training!
Soon, all the students gathered around the patio, looking towards the stage in the center. And there he came, the unassuming Principal Carlos, in his late fifties, with dark brown hair and his characteristic cane, which reminded me a lot of Doctor House's walking style.
He climbed onto the stage with some difficulty, adjusted the microphone, and began his monologue, explaining some curriculum changes and lightly touching on the rules.
It was a calm speech, until he turned to the teachers and nodded, confirming something.
Among those he looked at were familiar faces like Professor Maria and Professor Francisco, along with many others I remembered from the previous year.
Principal Carlos, with a hesitant tone, began to explain that due to a new public policy, the school would undergo an important change, creating a… Special class?
Renata gave me a curious look, which I returned with a raised eyebrow. This seemed… different.
"The Sunflower Class will be composed of neurodivergent students, who will receive special support, adapted classes, and the assistance of a specialized tutor," the principal continued, sounding proud but hesitant.
At that moment, I confess, my eyes lit up. For a genuine moment, I thought they were looking out for us. Finally, a real acknowledgment of students who faced extra difficulties in class.
A breathing space amidst the overwhelming burden the school unceremoniously placed on us.
Renata leaned into me and whispered, "Sounds good, doesn't it?"
"It could be a real chance," I assented.
But the charm didn't last long. Soon after the announcement, a murmur spread through the audience.
Muffled giggles, venomous whispers. A girl in the front row muttered something I couldn't hear.
But it was enough for the unease to begin to take shape. And then, someone, loud enough to break the bubble of respectful silence, scoffed:
"Oh, sure… The unicorns get VIP classes now!"
Laughter spread like wildfire.
'Unicorns?'
The word brought back a complicated memory, one that seemed good on the surface but left a bad taste inside. Like a Trojan horse.
As the laughter died down, Carlos continued to explain how the supposed class would work.
It would be an extra class for advanced studies, intended to supplement studies and aid in the development of students with ADHD, autism, and high abilities. The proposal seemed good on paper, but why was there something unusual about this approach?
'Perhaps… because this school never cared about these kinds of students before–'
Interrupting my thought, Principal Carlos continued.
"The Sunflower Class is a new initiative the school has prepared in partnership with the city council! Specifically with Councilman Francisco da Silva"
Bingo! Now something clicked. Right in an election year. In other words, it was trouble, just cheap publicity masquerading as inclusion.
"Is that edible?" someone among the students asked, lost. Everyone burst into laughter once again.
'There always has to be a clown in the show…'
Principal Carlos quickly turned to the side and took a list handed to him by a nearby teacher. He continued, ignoring the comment.
"Those students who were on the list at the entrance will be called here for instruction"
The principal listed a long series of names, including Renata and me. We moved closer to the stage, where we saw ourselves with about a dozen other students.
We stood there while the director read more about what the project would entail. It was nothing more than a school initiative to promote diversity and respect for people with disabilities, and blah, blah, blah.
A common school speech. However, the speech changed when a student at the edge, closest to the stage, approached the step.
"I'm not participating in that, are you crazy?" the girl said with the classic regional mannerism.
As she said that, a murmur spread among several students in both groups: those who would participate in the class and those who were still in the crowd. Carlos, noticing this with a concerned expression, just looked at the teachers quickly;
I couldn't discern whom he was looking at, but he just nodded and replied to the girl:
"Actually… for the students who were called here, if you don't want to participate, you can return to your places as usual"
As soon as the director finished speaking, several grumbles started here and there, and it was only a matter of time before the students made their decision.
Many began to return to the student crowd, either due to pressure, fear of being teased, or not believing it was appropriate.
But… I stood there, wondering whether to go back or not. The proposal was probably an excuse in an election year, but having classes with an ITA professor, especially now that several students had left, would be too useful…
But, would it be worth the headache? Honestly, I had no idea.
I hesitated. I turned discreetly to Renata and, in a low voice, asked:
"Are you up for staying in the class?"
She raised an eyebrow, thoughtful, before answering,
"I think the proposal is bad. But having the experience of a professor like that might be worth it… mainly for you, who wants to study Physics"
I nodded, somewhat relieved, and murmured, "Thanks for agreeing to this craziness with me"
Just like that, we ended up alone. It was strange to see everyone leaving while the two of us remained there, standing before that dispersing crowd like a receding wave.
As soon as everyone left, I realized the extent of the trouble: Renata and I would be the only ones in that new class. I could already imagine the headache it would bring.
Director Carlos, noticing the situation, quickly ended his announcement and sent the students back to their classrooms, hastening the start of classes.
At that moment, I thought my headache was over. Little did I know. In the second class, the situation worsened.
Several students began to question the teachers about the "special treatment" of the Sunflower Class students. Most feigned curiosity, but their tone was laden with irony.
"Will they have less homework?" a boy asked, his voice loud and confident, but his eyes malicious.
"Will they have separate tests?" another girl said, with an almost amused smile on her lips.
The entire room seemed to spin. Renata and I remained firm in our decision to stay in the class, even with the provocations that followed during the lesson.
During the break, when I returned to class, I found a note on my desk that simply read:
"Sunflowers wilt fast". I laughed. A dry, humorless laugh. I'd been through worse.
But teenage cruelty was creative. Of that, I could not doubt it.
After the second class, we were called to the principal's office. A formal invitation, but the kind that carries that invisible weight of bureaucracy disguised as cordiality. We were greeted by the coordinator, Flávia.
"Here are your student cards," she said, handing us two white IDs, with a sunflower stamped on the bottom corner.
I stared at the card for a few seconds. It was white, with sunflowers around the edges. It was almost too ornate.
Renata bit her lip. "It's… cute".
"It is," I replied, but my tone didn't match the word.
Something there was wrong. Not with the proposal itself, but with the way it was being implemented. And, especially, with the way everyone was reacting.
The other students' complaints didn't sound like fair criticism, or sincere discomfort. It seemed like a rivalry.
A dispute or annoyance with the simple fact that someone like me, Renata, others, were receiving attention for something they didn't understand.
We walked back through the corridors.
The sound of our footsteps on the characteristic ceramic… I felt the stares. And then I heard, coming from somewhere behind me: "Look there… The unicorns are passing"
The laughter followed the remark, like a routine ironic trail.
My hand squeezed the card tightly.
'I hope this so-called capable professor is really worth it…'
Yes. I needed him to be.
As I walked, the memory returned, vivid like a film projected behind my eyelids. I remembered why that word caused such a strange chill down my spine. Remembering how I got my diagnosis wasn't easy.
It was like pulling a barbed wire from my skin. My mother, Miss Eduarda, at first, didn't believe I actually had autism or could have it. It wasn't out of malice.
Part of her was stubborn. Another part, ignorant. But the sum of both things suffocated me.
She would say things like: "Helena, you're just distracted. All teenagers are like this".
Or, "Everyone these days wants a diagnosis to justify laziness"
And I… I believed it, for a while. I doubted myself; however, for a long time I felt that something inside me was never quite right, I was always different in my own way.
I learned faster, I was always praised for my maturity at my age, sometimes I even heard that cursed word "genius" used next to my name.
Which was absurd, honestly. But the point never quite fit.
I tried several psychologists… When I say several, it's because there really were many.
Private. Public. At different stages of my life. All were qualified.
All with diplomas hanging on beautiful walls. But none saw what I seemed to see alone.
They confused everything. They spoke of anxiety. ADHD. Hormones. Age.
"You're just too sensitive."
"It's just a phase."
"Girls are just different."
More times than I can count, after much persistence, and with the help of the school coordinator, who was perhaps the first adult to truly listen to me, I got a referral to a psychologist specializing in neurodivergent young people.
I remember the consultation as if it were yesterday.
The room smelled of chamomile tea and old books.
The psychologist, a woman with short hair and attentive eyes, looked at me for long minutes before saying:
"It doesn't surprise me that you had difficulty getting the diagnosis. You are young, a woman… You are practically the unicorn of diagnosis"
She picked up a book and handed it to me, showing it was a book she wrote about autism in women.
"Most professionals still have difficulty recognizing autism in girls," she said, as she jotted something in her notebook.
"Symptoms present differently; they can be confused with other issues. That's why diagnostic rates among girls are much lower"
I remained silent at that moment. And now that word made even more sense… Unicorn.
The same word that today dripped from the lips of cruel classmates. Before, a symbol of invisibility. Now, used as an insult. And to think I fought so hard to finally be seen…
The corridor felt colder when I returned to the classroom. As if the air had become dense.
Dense with judgment. Dense with muffled laughter. Dense with a type of rejection that isn't spoken aloud but felt in your gut.
Renata walked beside me. Her shoulders were tense.
"They don't know," she said, softly.
"They don't understand what this is".
"They don't want to know, that's different," I replied.
In an era with knowledge in the palm of your hand, there was a difference between not knowing and not wanting to know.
I glanced at her out of the corner of my eye. I saw a look that said: "We're in this together."
I smiled, faintly. School life wasn't easy for someone who saw the world differently.
However, at least, I wasn't alone.
And I… I wasn't going to give up. If they want to call me a unicorn, so be it.