Page 9 of Role Model
UKPrimeMinister’sdaughterlabelled“inspiration”, assheproudlyclaimsherautismwon’tholdherback.
“That’s a horrendous headline,” I tell Mr Archer, my headteacher. “I didn’t say that!”
I’m with Dad and Ilya in his office at school; we were invited in for an emergency parent-teacher meeting. Mum is still on her way; she was delayed because her phone call with Australia went on longer34than she expected it to.
Mr Archer has a number of different newspapers laid out on his desk. He seems excited by all of the press, while Dad is surprised.
Mum finally appears and Mr Archer almost falls over as he hurries to stand up and shake her hand. She sits in the empty chair next to mine and gives my headteacher a tight smile.
“It seems the press really loves Aeriel,” Mum says.
“As do we, here at St Catherine’s,” Mr Archer says. “We want to do everything we can to make sure Aeriel feels safe in school. Her form tutor will be meeting with her friends to make sure that they keep a close eye on her.”
I lift up my head and stare at him. “What friends?”
He blinks at me. “The girls you go to lunch with, Aeriel. The ones in your form.”
I wonder whether or not to tell him that I don’t think they want to be my friends.
“We have a number of activities within the school that we think Aeriel will also really excel in,” he goes on, always looking at my parents and never at me. If there was a handbook on being autistic (there isn’t, but if there were), it would tell you to prepare for lots of grownups talking about you but nevertoyou.
35“We’re announcing a school-wide essay-writing contest,” Mr Archer babbles. “The theme will be ‘Role Model’ and we expect lots of students will choose Aeriel after today’s splash.”
“Sounds sweet,” Mum says, her voice flat and her eyes darting to the clock on the wall.
“I think we know who you’ll choose for your essay, Aeriel,” Mr Archer says, his eyes dancing as he glances between Mum and me. “I can’t wait to read it.”
“Can I go?” I ask, which earns me a sharp elbow from both Mum and Dad.
“There is just one more thing,” Mr Archer says, staring at Mum as though she’s the most important person in the world. “Dr Mars, our school SEN Coordinator, would like Aeriel to attend a daily workshop with some of her other neurodivergent classmates.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Mum says, a look of distaste crossing her face. “We’ve always been very clear with our children, that any diagnosis they may have is not an excuse. We don’t want any special treatment, any additional attention.”
My eyes naturally fall on the collection of newspapers. Mr Archer makes a small noise of surprise. “It wouldn’t be special treatment, Prime Minister. It’s appropriate for children with…”
36I watch him struggle for the right word. Grownups are all so terrified of the word ‘disability’.
“Children with different special abilities,” he eventually settles on.
“You had a million choices and you picked that?” I say.
“Quiet,” Mum says, doing that thing where she clenches her jaw and speaks without moving her lips. “That’s enough.”
“Dr Mars is excellent,” Mr Archer assures us. “I think it will be good for Aeriel, especially with all of this change.”
Mum and Dad exchange a look.
“Maybe on a trial basis,” Dad says.
Thus, the meeting draws to a close. Mr Archer walks Mum out, saying something about how headteachers are now expected to be like politicians so he understands the stresses in her life.
I wait to see if Mum or Dad look back at me as they walk towards reception.
They don’t.
I walk to Miss Leslie’s form room, as other students start to file into the school building. Ana is already there when I arrive. She’s sitting on the floor by the radiator, scrolling on her phone.
37I wonder if it’s too late to leave the room.
