I sit in silence, trying to process what Olivia has said. The disgust and disapproval that was right there, waiting to strike, stings like hell. I also cannot believe she does not see the neurodivergent forest for the trees when it comes to this family. It was my mistake to assume that someone supportive of my own journey would view autism as neutral overall. Perhaps I am only supported because she viewed me as less than to begin with. My breathing regulates as I watch Olivia trying to show Maeve how to make the animals fight one another, the lion roaring at the zebra and the giraffe running scared. It takes all my effort not to read intothatscenario any more than I need to, so instead I bounce the word ‘yikes’ around in my head like a rubber ball. It is acid yellow and tingles in an unpleasant way, which is probably why I am letting it go up and down, side to side, every which way.
‘Where’s Mum?’ I eventually ask, when I can feel that Olivia has moved on from her spring-loaded revulsion.
‘Having a lie-down before we go to the Masons’.’
‘Why are we going to the Masons’?’
‘The gingerbread houses, remember?’
‘Are we building them or eating them?’
‘Both, I imagine.’
‘But I’m allergic to gluten and terrible at construction.’
‘I’m sure you can stay home if you like. I certainly would if I could.’
‘I’ll come.’
‘It’s probably a good idea,’ she agrees.
I leave them to go and get myself ready, more confused than ever about why anyone does anything.
From the quagmire of my congealing family dysfunction, I cannot help but linger on painful memories, pressing them like bruises because I deserve to feel the ache of them again. I lost control of myself a little after Fran turned me down, heading into my final year of school with the kind of self-destruction that could not be maintained. If I ran fast enough, he would not be able to reach me. Nights out became more frequent; I barely recovered from one before throwing myself into whatever horror was offered to me next. I was in emotional freefall, too overcome by a need to numb myself to face any of the consequences of what happened when I was. Mara’s brother started selling us pills to wash down with our vodka, and we took them with little regard, as though they were just a bit of light-hearted fun. We were the girls people invited to their parties if they wanted to make sure it was a night to remember; the drunkest, messiest guests at any gathering. Poppy began raiding the bedrooms of the mothers and sisters of party hosts for jewellery, justifying this by explaining how these people should not have a party if they did not expect a few things to go missing. I think she kept the best of what she found, and sold the rest online. I, meanwhile, made it my mission to have sex with someone that meant nothing to me as quickly as possible, in avoidance of the fact that I could not be with the person who meant the most.
On one particular night, Noah from my home class started paying me the right amount of attention at just the right convergence of intoxication and euphoria.
‘You look so good in those shorts,’ he whispered, and I knew what I had to do.
‘Do you want to come back to mine?’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah, why not? Could be a bit of fun. I’m not looking for anything serious,’ I replied, as if that was not obvious with my asking him to come back to my house after one singular compliment.
We left just as the pill was hitting its crescendo, and walked the few streets from the party back to my house without saying much. I noticed the lights at my place were off, my parents usually asleep by 10 p.m., but Fran’s bedroom light was on. Putting that out of my mind, I held my finger up to my mouth to make sure Noah knew the deal, and we crept silently through the door to my room. ‘Mid, but weird enough she could be freaky in bed.’ I wondered if Noah had been the one to write that, and if he was only here hoping to confirm suspicions.
His shirt was off before I had even removed my shoes, and when I turned to face him, he pushed me back onto my bed. I knew I needed to be the one in charge so as not to view this as a mistake, so I pulled him down next to me and climbed across his lap. We took off our clothes, which took longer than the actual act, and Noah was rough in a way that felt as though he was emulating something he had seen before. It was fine. It was fine. It was probably not fine, but I made sure I told myself it was fine. The physical pain was momentary, stinging, and I did not allow myself to take anything in, because if I did, the emotional damage would have been much worse.
‘I’m going to head out,’ he said, as soon as he was dressed.
I was still in my bed, wearing nothing, feeling nothing.
‘No worries. You heading home?’ I asked.
‘Back to the party, probably,’ he replied.
I wondered whether he would find another willing participant tonight, and knew his friends would think him legendary if he did. Two girls in a night, that was the kind of thing they would talk about for months. At least I had been the first. Or, I think I was. When he had gone, I stood at the door and noticed Fran’s bedroom light was no longer on. I also noticed a pink camelia, freshly picked, on the pavers outside my window. Had that been there before? Maybe. I could hear Ranger barking and tried not to consider what both of those things together meant, hushing my pattern-seeking mind. There were insects dancing around my patio light. Fran and I would often rate their performances, with extra points for those with the most flair. There was one small moth giving it a solid ten, but the rest were barely twos and threes. Best to jump into the shower and wash my bad decisions away. I did not have to worry about making that first time special, because I was not special and I deserved for it to be the regrettable memory it was. It was done, at least.
17
Unlike the window-decorating competition, the gingerbread-house thing is a new tradition that the neighbours are desperately trying to make happen. This is apparently the second year. There is a fine line between close-knit community and weird cult that makes up rituals to stop its members from ever looking to the outside world, and I think the gingerbread-house competition might be on the wrong side of that line.
Mum strolls into the living room, her arms stacked high with what I assume are supplies. There are plastic bags full of packets of lollies, and trays that must contain pre-baked gingerbread. She huffs and puffs until Olivia gets out of her seat.
‘Can I give you a hand?’ I ask.
‘Well someone should,’ Mum replies, offloading a couple of items.