. . .
lark
Growing up in the Homewood North neighborhood of Pittsburgh, being autistic was something only White kids did. On TV.
But as the internet is fond of saying—there were signs.
I couldn’t stand tight hairstyles or hair accessories. That included everything from headbands and scrunchies to cornrows and box braids.
I considered commercial surround sound my natural enemy. My mom and sister got used to finding me waiting in the lobby whenever a movie got too loud.
And the worst on mymaybe we should’ve caught that ASD diagnosis earlierlist? Something I calledFire Legs.
Or as the University Counseling Center psychologist who diagnosed me put it in her written report—after I brought my Psych 101 class to a grinding halt with a meltdown over a pop quiz that wasn’t listed in the syllabus:
“History of elopement tendencies in response to social and emotional stressors.”
Which is the clinical way of saying: When presented with a tough, unexpected, people-based problem, I cried and ran.
Like panicked, involuntary, heart-in-throat ran. The same way someone might if they were literally fleeing danger. Or had actually caught on fire.
When I was eight, I rushed headfirst into the street after my parents announced they were getting a divorce and almost got hit by a car.
When I was nine, ten, and eleven, I bolted off school grounds after getting teased so many times that my exhausted mom got me a monthly bus pass—so she wouldn’t have to leave her own classroom to come get me.
By junior high, I’d learned tomask. But Fire Legs still managed to find me at least once a year due to gym class bullies, unfair teachers, and my forever archnemesis, pop quizzes (evil incarnate, and I will never understand how they’re still allowed in education).
In high school, like many undiagnosed female auties, I started carefully curating my life to avoid anything that might trigger a meltdown. Orchestra instead of sports. Newspaper instead of chess (or any other game where flipping the board in rage was a possibility).
I became that student who raised her hand on the first day of class—not to ask about assignments, but to clarify that the syllabus wouldn’t change.
Even after diagnosis, a year of DBT therapy, and a move to Canada to follow my twin, the Fire Legs issue never completely stopped getting me in trouble, and I still occasionally found myself taking an unintended bus trip.
After Robin beat me at Connect Fourandcrowed about it at Vikram’s parents’ game night.
After I walked out halfway through my first post-college date when the guy said I’d be “a lot cuter” if I dialed down the know-it-all talk.
After Mr. Good Time, the guy who dumped me on Christmas, turned out to be roommates with the only two men who’d ever made me come (besides him).
“Hello? Hello? We’re here.”
A woman’s voice snapped me out of my haze.
I looked up to find the bus driver turned all the way around in her seat, frowning.
“We’re at Barrington’s. You getting off here? Maybe want to grab yourself something else to wear?”
I glanced down at Callum’s Bear Mountain Bar & Grill T-shirt. Adjusted my glasses. Once. Twice.
“You okay?” she asked, concern softening her voice. “You want me to call someone? Maybe one of the Red Outsider Twins?”
The Red Outsider Twins… Oh. Right.That was what people called Callum and Gideon.
My heart clenched at the memory of how seen and sexy they made me feel last night. But I shook my head quickly. “No. I’m getting off.”
I couldn’t go back to Bear Mountain. Just the thought of it sent my legs into motion.
That refusal carried me down the bus steps and away from the driver’s worried stare. But the moment the thin soles of the slip-ons I put on to pad around on the den’s cold stone floors hit the concrete, I knew I was in trouble.
