Page 32 of Role Model
“She’s not got a special skill though. What’s your special skill?”
I don’t have the patience or the energy for this. “I don’t have one either.”
Her smile slips, as if the concept of autistic people being just that–people–is incomprehensible to her. “Oh.”
“Bye.”
I stumble on the pink carpet as I make my way to the end of the landing. I fall into the bathroom and lock it after me. I crawl to the sink and splash my face with cold water.
And I start to cry.
Because deep down, deep in the cold of my bones, I know this is what happens when you pretend to121be normal. When you put the true, honest parts of yourself into a blender in order to make them some beige, boring but safe, palatable liquid for people. You crawl. You end up on your knees.
122
Chapter Fifteen
I give myself five minutes to calm down, but I can still hear the music; the pounding of the bass starts to thump in tandem with the pounding in my head. It hurts, like I haven’t drunk water in days. I feel salt on my face and I know what I have to do, despite how humiliating it will end up being.
I call Fizz.
I expect it will take a couple of tries. Whenever I call Dad, he usually has to call me back. Calling Mum is impossible, I need to call Keren or someone else who works for her to get her to answer.
So when Fizz answers after the first ring, I’m too surprised to say anything.
“Aeriel, what is it?”
She sounds panicked. Worried about me. It’s so strange. No one has sounded worried for me in so long.
123“Fizz,” I breathe into the phone. “The party… it’s too much.”
“Party?”
I wince. I’m going to be in so much trouble for lying. “Yes. It’s–it’s a party, not a study group. But–but they promised it wouldn’t be like this.”
“Aeriel!”
“I can’t calm down, Fizz,” I say, and my voice sounds like a plead. “I can’t stop pan–panicking.”
Usually when this happens, I’m told to get a grip. Not in so many words, but it’s because people think I’m still in control. I am not. I am falling under. I’m disappearing into myself and I won’t be able to climb out unless I get somewhere still and quiet for a while.
But Fizz doesn’t tell me to get it together.
“I’m coming, Ilya’s driving me.”
I’m too close to a shutdown to wonder why she is with Ilya. “Okay.”
“Don’t go under, kid, I’m coming.”
The words are like a lighthouse. I’m not in total darkness anymore. I can wait. Help is coming.
I hang up and feel enraged at myself for always pushing Fizz away, for treating her like a burden. I lay my head on the bathroom carpet and wonder briefly how people can bear to stand on something soft and124wet after showering. I miss the cool tile of our house in Scotland.
I miss Scotland. I miss me in it. I don’t know why I’ve let myself became this strange little puppet since coming down here. I’ve let people treat me badly and I’ve spoken nonsense all over the news just so they’ll smile at me.
I don’t know how long I lay there, but the music just seems to grow louder. Then I hear raised voices and thundering footsteps on the stairs. It’s Fizz, and she knows better than to bang on the door with her fists. I hear her knees hit the hall carpet on the other side of the bathroom and then her voice.
“Aeriel? I’m here.”
