“That’s their problem.”
Erin knows that Mom thinks she’s helping, that Mom thinks this is the key to happiness—belonging, finding a way to fit in. But Erin already tried that. She spent her whole childhood studying people, trying to figure out how to be a “normal girl.” She became a mimic, an actor playing multiple parts—she had long hair, she wore clothes her mom said were cute, she even wore makeup for a short period in eighth grade. She sat on her hands to keep herself from rubbing them together when she got nervous. She bit her cheek until it bled to keep herself from rocking in public. Erin was a chameleon, changing herself to fit whatever group she happened to find herself in, constantly racing through the database in her head for appropriate things to wear, to not wear; to say, to not say; to feel, to not feel. But no matter how hard she tried, Erin was never quite appropriate. Her words were always either a little too early or a little too late, her voice always a little too loud or a little too quiet. The harder she tried to fit in, the worse she felt.
People know what boys with Asperger’s look like, or at least they think they do. Boys rage and thrash and scream. They fight and throw themselves around. They punish the world for making them hurt.
But girl Aspies are different. Invisible. Undiagnosed. Because unlike boys, girls turn inward. They hide. They adapt, even if it hurts. Because they are not screaming, people assume they do not suffer. The girl who cries herself to sleep every night doesn’t cause trouble.
Until she speaks. Until her pain gets so big it boils over. Until she has no choice but to emerge from her almost two weeks of silence to tell the truth about what she did with the boy named Casper Pennington—her final and most drastic attempt to do what she thought the other girls were doing. The event that led them here.
Erin shaved her head soon after. She vowed to never again care what anyone thought of her. She vowed to stop caring, period.
Mom sighs. “I just want to help make life easier for you.”
“My old shirts make life easier for me,” Erin says flatly. If she didn’t wear the same thing every day, she’d have to decide what to wear every single morning. How do people do that? How do they even leave the house?
“Fine,” Mom says. “You win.” As if it’s a war. As if it’s Erin against Mom and the Normal Police.
Mom serves Erin a lunch of avocado-and-grapefruit salad with a side of raw almond butter and celery. It looks more like art than food—weird vegan chipmunk art. She put Erin on a raw food diet last year because she read somewhere it’s supposed to help with mood stabilization and digestion issues for people on the spectrum. As much as Erin hates to admit it, it does actually seem to be working. But now, no matter how much she eats, she’s almost always hungry again in an hour.
Mom is standing at her usual station at the kitchen island behind her laptop. This is where she lives her online life in the world of Asperger’s parents—sending e-mails to the support group she leads, moderating her Facebook group, tweeting helpful tips and articles, posting raw, vegan, gluten-free recipes on her Pinterest page. She does all these things, is considered to be an expert on Asperger’s by a growing number of virtual friends, but she still doesn’t understand Erin at all.
Erin’s dog, Spot, is sitting in his usual station next to her under the table. He is named after Data’s pet cat, Spot, featured in several episodes of Star Trek: The Next Generation. Erin could not get a cat because she’s allergic. This Spot is her second Spot. Spot number one was a guinea pig. Spot does not have spots. He is a golden retriever. Data’s Spot didn’t have spots either, so Erin isn’t worried about these inconsistencies.
“Are you looking forward to your job in the school office?” Mom says. She has been trying to teach Erin small talk. They practice at mealtimes.
“It’s not a ‘job,’ Mom. They’re not paying me. It’s essentially slave labor. In some ways, you and Dad are paying them, since public schools are funded by tax dollars, and I assume you both pay taxes. Dad does at least. You don’t work.”
“I work, honey,” Mom says. “I just don’t get paid money for the work I do.”
“You could get advertisers for your blog,” Erin says. “You could get paid for speaking at conferences and stuff.”
“Thank you for your input,” Mom says. “But I’m happy where I am.”
“No, you’re not,” Erin says. Mom gives her the look that means she said exactly the wrong thing, but Erin keeps talking. “If you made money, you could become financially independent.”
“Why would I want to do that?”
She doesn’t say it. As mean as she can be to her mom, as many inappropriate things that come out of her mouth, there is one thing she never says: So you wouldn’t have to stay married to Dad.
Erin shrugs. “A monkey would be overqualified for my job in the office. They just needed to put me somewhere during PE.” Erin got a doctor’s note saying she has problems with group sports and touching people. The note does not specify her dislike of sweating, which is also a problem.
“The training went well this morning?”
“I have access to the whole school database. I can look up everyone’s grades if I want to.”
“But you wouldn’t do that, would you?”
“It’s against the rules.” Everyone knows how Erin feels about rules. That’s why they gave her the job, which includes access to sensitive information.
“What’s your plan for the rest of the day?” Mom says.
“I will read for one hour. Then I will pick up Spot’s poo in the backyard and dispose of it. Then I will wash my hands for a full minute. Then I will eat an apple and carrot sticks because this meal will only keep me satiated for approximately ninety minutes. After that, I will watch my episode because I have completed all my duties for the day.”
Erin’s old occupational therapist in Seattle taught her about delayed gratification, about how it’s the key to success. Erin has become very good at it. She does all the things she doesn’t want to do before she does the things she wants to do. That way she is always motivated to keep doing things and she always gets everything done. She always has at least one list going of what needs to be done, in a precise order based on a combination of importance, time sensitivity, and enjoyability (or lack of). Making these lists is sometimes as much work as the tasks themselves. But what people don’t understand is it’s necessary; it’s a matter of survival. Without Erin’s elaborate lists and schedules, tasks would have no hope of ever getting done. Erin would forget. Things would get jumbled around in her head until they crumbled into misplaced pieces, burying Erin in anxiety. Without her lists, without her obsessive organization, there are no rules, no order. The world makes no sense. It flies apart and threatens to fly Erin away with it.
“Sounds like a plan,” Mom says.
“I always have a plan.”