Page 21 of Tilly in Technicolor
“Good work today, Oliver,” Amina says, patting my shoulder as she, Mona, and Tilly start walking in the opposite direction I need to head.
“Yes. Excellent job,” Mona says, scrolling through her phone. “We’ll see you tomorrow morning at Heathrow? You got the itinerary, right?”
“Yup,” I say, holding up my phone and giving it a shake. “See you then.” Turning, I start down the block.
“Wow,” I hear Tilly say. “Bye to you, too, I guess.”
I whip around, stumbling over my feet and almost crashing into the storefront next to me.
Shit, was I rude? Was the conversation not done? Cubby,Marcus, and I have a running joke about my frequent notorious “autistic exits” where I either mentally check out or fall so far into my own world that I walk away from a conversation before it’s finished. We’ve always laughed about it, but I know that people generally see it as rude and something I need to be hyperaware of. As if the list of social niceties isn’t long enough.
The three women are walking away from me, and Tilly doesn’t turn back around so I can try to read if she was serious or not. In all likelihood, it wouldn’t have done me much good; I’m not great at rectifying situations, either.
My shoulders slump as I continue my walk, deflated.
Today was exhausting.
For the most part, I’ve gotten better about not masking my autism—my mums have always encouraged me to express myself in whatever way feels most authentic—but sometimes the mask slips on unintentionally. Especially in professional or academic environments.
Primary school wasn’t exactly a breeze socially, and I’d started tamping down stims and rehearsing conversations, mirroring my peers, to avoid bullying and feeling like an outsider. But an experience of autistic burnout at way too young of an age had me, Cubby, and our mums in therapy with Dr. Shakil. I’m very lucky that my family created a safety net around me to encourage me to stop hiding the things that made me more comfortable, but I still catch myself mirroring others’ behaviors or monitoring my own reactions to make people feel more comfortable.
Today was one of those days.
It’s not that Mona and Amina aren’t welcoming and understanding new bosses, but I don’t know them well. It’s hard to trust new people to accept you as yourself when the world at large doesn’t tend to accommodate you.
And then there’s Tilly.
Thinking on it, I haven’t really masked around her, but I spend an enormous amount of mental energy trying to figure her out. She doesn’t seem to follow the normal social scripts I’ve observed in others, and some weird part of me finds that fascinating.
Which is rather ridiculous.
But replaying the day and trying to unravel the anomaly that is Tilly Twomley is the mental equivalent of driving a car uphill when you’re out of petrol—lots of gear-grinding and minimal progress. I redirect my thoughts to something far more comfortable: colors.
Pulling out my camera, I scroll through today’s pictures as I walk, each step taking me further into my own happy bubble.
Halfway to the tube station, the immediate need to edit the photos overwhelms me, inspiration tugging at me to stop what I’m doing and follow its path.
This happens rather frequently. When the wisp of an idea taps me on the shoulder, I simply have to chase after it; letting it get away isn’t an option.
Mãe always smiles when it happens—even if I leave her midsentence—telling me I’m “listening to my muses.” She’s an artist, so she knows how impossible it is to resist the pull.
I duck into a pub and find a quiet table in a dark corner.
After waking up my laptop, I plug in my camera and launch my editing tool. I cross-reference the master color sheet Amina gave me, making sure I have the color’s formula just right as I use Photoshop to paint it over Tilly’s beige nails. I toy with the value and vibrancy for a minute or two, making sure it’s just right.
It’s a brilliant red, deep and poignant, demanding attention. Its vivacity is complemented by the golden glow of Big Ben and Parliament in the background. My eyes wander over the effect, tracing the natural circuit from the dazzling red tothe comfort of gold. That red is an anchor. It grounds you in the photo, gives you a starting point before your eyes wander, a safe spot to return to if you get overwhelmed.
My hands itch to post it immediately, to share this moment with the world, so they can bask in the colors, too. Unfortunately, social media is based on algorithms and timing and all kinds of other minutiae that does not bode well for a brain fairly desperate for instant gratification. I generally wouldn’t care, much more inclined to follow my whim than cater to social media barriers, but the whole reason I run my account is to bring people joy. Connect with them.
Plus, this is for Ruhe’s success, not my own fun, so I force my keen brain into submission with the promise it will reach more people if I wait. Rather annoying, to tell the truth.
When I’m done editing the image, I scroll through other shots from the day. The photos from Shoreditch are remarkable with their bright and delicious colors, and I’m excited to tweak them to perfection. I’m about to decide on the next image to work on when a candid shot makes my excited thoughts screech to a halt, and I get the odd feeling of my heart slamming against my chest.
It’s a picture of Tilly, head tilted back and eyes screwed shut while she laughs. The wind is whipping and tangling her hair from every angle, while a stray sunbeam strikes right on her scrunched-up nose. The picture has a subtle blur to it, like her enjoyment of the moment was too dynamic and full to be captured in a still image. I don’t remember taking it, or what was causing her to laugh, but her smile is so vivid I can hear the echo of her amusement.
She laughed a lot today, I realize. At herself, mainly. She’d make a goofy move or crack some joke, then cackle like a banshee.
I make the image larger, tilting my head and studying itfrom different angles. There are those three freckles again, right below the crinkles of her eye. I zoom in even more.
