Page 2 of Say You Will

“My mom is sending me to live at a school in Vermont because I love Nanny who changed my diapers when I was a baby, and she loves me, so she got fired because I’m not supposed to love employees, only my mom. And my father liked Nanny too much too, so my parents are getting a divorce because my mom is a narstick bitch, and my father is a filannering asshole.”

“Philandering.”

She blinks at me, and I explain, “Your mom is narcissistic, and your father is philandering.”

She heaves another gusty sigh. “That’s what I said.”

She looks back at the ceiling. “I wanted to be away from noise and pretend my heart doesn’t hurt.”

“You should talk to a therapist. They can help you feel better.”

“Does a therapist teach you not to care when it hurts?”

I frown. “No.” Mine teaches me to understand what people mean when they say things that don’t make sense and how to avoid overstimulation. “Lately, he tries to convince me not to blame myself for making mistakes.”

“Everybody makes mistakes. Nanny says, ‘mistakes are for learning.’” She lapses into a sad silence.

“Not all mistakes are about math problems.”Some mistakes cause people to die.

She shrugs and makes no move to get up to leave.

“Slide over a little,” I say.

She frowns but doesn’t move, so I indicate the partially covered design. “You’re on Orion’s Belt.”

Her smile is sweet as she slides over. Then it falls away as she resumes looking at the white ceiling.

“Want something to look at while you forget it hurts?”

“Maybe.”

I stride to the light switch and flip it off. When darkness descends, she laughs, the sound a twinkle. Like Christmas jingle bells. “Funny joke. Now it’s black and there’snothingto look at.”

“Give it a minute. Let your eyes adjust. It won’t be quite so stygian in a moment.” I fumble to find the basketball-sized dome on my bedside table.

“You’re smart. You talk like a grown-up.”

Warmth blooms inside my chest at her praise, but I have to admit the truth. “I like vocabulary words. I memorize them and learn new ones every day, but sometimes I forget which words are normal ones and which ones aren’t. I’m good at math and spatial relations too. I’ve already taken a couple college classes.”

“That means your brain is so big and full of smart things you don’t have room to be small anymore.”

For safety reasons, I don’t usually talk to anyone outside of our family’s inner circle about being neurodivergent. I don’t understand why I want to tell this girl. Maybe it’s because she radiates uncomplicated acceptance.

“Some people think autism makes you stupid. It doesn’t. Then there are people who think being autistic automatically makes someone a savant…a special kind of genius. That’s equally as annoying. There are things I’m good at and things that are hard. Everyone is different, like having blue eyes and brown hair.”

“Or being short or tall,” she says. “I have a short leg.”

I glance down at her feet. The difference is slight. I’d never have noticed if she hadn’t mentioned it, but her heels don’t line up. “Yes. I like studying the stars. That’s what I want to do for a job when I’m an adult. I’ll work for NASA. Or teach people about space. I love everything about it. The real, scientific things, not science fiction likeStar Wars.”

“That’s cool. I like stars. You can’t see them in real life here in New York. But I saw them on TV.”

“That’s because of light pollution. But there are a couple of places like the High Line and Brooklyn Bridge Park where they’re visible on a clear night.”

“Jonny won’t take me to Brooklyn Bridge Park.”

“Who’s Jonny? Your driver?”

“My dad.”

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