The children who returned to the classroom last week at the Illinois Center for Autism in Fairview Heights found many of the same back-to-school decorations seen in mainstream schools. Bulletin boards covered with construction paper handprints and bright red apples reading "Welcome back."

At first glance, the rambling brick building and its hallways lined with classrooms looks much like any other school. It's the sounds that give away the fact that the students, who range in age from 3 to 21, are autistic. Sometimes there's shrieking, sometimes there's groaning, and sometimes, there's a loud buzzer that means a teacher needs help.

When the alarm sounds, a light also flashes above the door to the classroom. Davis, who is the development coordinator for the center, said any available teacher or assistant will respond to the buzzer.

"It might be a child throwing things or out of control in some way. You never know what might set them off," she said. "Every day is very different from every other day."

During a two-hour visit last week, the buzzer sounded at least six times. The students' behavior was worse than usual, Davis said, because they had just returned to classes after a two-week break. For the most part, school is year-round at the center.

Kids need the structure of school, and autistic kids need more structure than most. They crave routine and schedules, Davis said, so a long summer break would mean losing ground for most of the students.

Even if you know one person with autism, it can't prepare you for a second person with autism. No two cases are alike. One autistic boy might be able to carry on a conversation and hold down a job. A second won't talk and can't perform a simple task without help.

"We have one man who if you tell him your birth date, he can tell you what day it will be on in 10 years," Davis said. "But if you ask him how many quarters are in a dollar, he's clueless."

In the 17 years since Davis quit her banking job to work at the center, she said, autism has become a much more common diagnosis. When she started work there in 1989, the incidence was thought to be four or five cases in every 10,000 children. Now it's one out of 166. No one knows whether there are more cases of autism occurring, or whether there's just more awareness coupled with earlier diagnosis.

In Davis' role as development coordinator, she often speaks publicly about autism and the center. Years ago, she would see eyes in the audience glaze over because no one had heard of autism. Now, she said, she seldom gives a talk without being approached afterward by at least two or three people who tell her they have a child, a cousin or a neighbor with autism. The disorder is marked by inappropriate behavior, communication problems and inadequate social skills.

The center serves children until they turn 21. When that birthday arrives, the student is phased out. It happened to 11 students last year, which Davis said was the most ever to leave at one time. Because the center is funded primarily through school districts, there's no budget to serve adults. Like many schools, she said, the center constantly looks for ways to raise money.

It holds three fundraisers every year and gets help from agencies such as the United Way. Often, such agencies want to see the center firsthand. (Almost 40 students are taught in auxiliary classes in Caseyville, Granite City, Grafton and Bethalto.) Davis shows visitors around the Fairview Heights school and into observation rooms where they can watch teachers in action through one-way mirrors.

Each class typically includes four to six children, a teacher, a teaching assistant and often a teacher's aide. All 28 teachers at the center hold degrees in special education. In a computer classroom, three boys worked at monitors while a fourth ignored the computers to lie down on his stomach. The teacher followed the school's all-encompassing philosophy -- ignore the bad and reward the good. In an art classroom, children strung beads onto cords.

So often, Davis said, she'll warn visitors of the hitting, running and biting they might see "and they'll watch these classrooms and the kids are sitting there like perfect angels."

Peaceful scenes can end abruptly at the center. Davis recalled eating lunch at her desk one day when a student ran in -- with a staff member in hot pursuit -- grabbed Davis' lunch tray and threw it. "I had coleslaw on my computer," she said. The child was escorted back to her classroom, and that was that. Just another very different day at the center.

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