FINLEY
I have not been able to get Thomas Culpepper out of my head since Constance Brucker called to read me the riot act. I could not feel like a bigger idiot than I currently do. The woman hired me to take headshots of Thomas.Headshots.No wonder he was freaked out when I tried to take his shirt off. Not to mention the baby oil. He probably thought I was a predator.I can’t believe I have to see him again tomorrow.
Plopping down on the Regency-styled coverlet I have draped across the chaise lounge that Margaret and Bob are going to use this afternoon, I think back to the day Constance booked the photoshoot. There were likely cues galore she wasn’t looking for sexy pirate shots. Starting with the obvious. She was referred by Margaret Clinton, not Margaret Rogers. I looked up the file I have on Margaret Clinton, and all I can say is the images were so unremarkable it’s no wonder I forgot about them.
I should have trusted my instinct that Constance was a super cold fish and not someone who liked to steam things up in her relationship. That would have probably been somethingmost people would have felt safe assuming. But I question my perception of others all the time. At least, I have since being diagnosed. There’s no identity crisis quite like finding out everything you thought was real, wasn’t.
Back when we learned of my “specialness,” I begged my parents not to tell anyone. My adolescent notion of what it meant to be autistic made me want to keep that newly discovered part of myself hidden.
My parents, on the other hand, felt the best way to proceed was to be forthcoming. My father thought the school would be better able to help me with math, and my mom wanted to rub their faces in the fact that I wasn’t stupid. I wasspecial. I was sure they would start treating me like I was special needs, but my mom disagreed. As the parent, she won the battle, but not the war.
Even though I had gotten mostly A’s and B’s since the first grade, once the school found out I was autistic, they did treat me differently. Suddenly, they were talking about taking me out of the mainstream and putting me in honest-to-God special ed classes. Which are great if you need them, but all I needed was a little extra help in math. And perhaps a tip or two on how to understand sarcasm. I’m still working on that one, although I have learned to watch for the telltale eye-rolling, often accompanied by dramatic sighing.
The long and short of it is that my last year and a half of high school bit the big one. I started second-guessing everything and everyone.What did they mean by that? Was there a hidden message? Do they really like me or are they making fun of me?
It was so awful, I purposely neglected to mention my autism on my college applications. In retrospect, I wonder if they might have made an earplug concession for me in basketball had they known, but I still didn’t want to be thought of as thespecialkid. Imagine the kind of press it would have attracted to be the firstopenly autistic college basketball player at the U of I. No, thank you.
“Finley, we’re here!” I hear Margaret’s voice before I see her. Margaret and Bob are an old school preppy kind of couple. Seriously, they look like a country club duo if I’ve ever seen one. There is nothing about their outward appearance that suggests they like to have boudoir photos taken.
“I’m in the back,” I shout before jumping up from the chaise. I don’t want it to look like I’m loafing around.
The vision of my clients walking through the door makes me smile. They’re parent-like in their conservative clothes and demeanors. “I’m happy to see you,” I tell them. “Did you bring the book cover you want to recreate?”
Margaret waves it about her head with her black leather glove-clad hand. My grandmother used to have the exact same pair. “It’s calledSheathed!” she says excitedly. “It’s about the young daughter of a viscount who falls for her tutor, who’s really a spy in disguise.”
“Exciting,” I tell her, appreciating her obvious enthusiasm. I don’t read bodice rippers myself, but Margaret’s passion for them has almost gotten me to try it.Almost.
“I brought along an eye-patch,” Bob says. “I know the man on the cover isn’t wearing one, but I think the idea of it adds a little more mystery, don’t you?”
“Sure,” I tell him. I have no real opinion on the topic. I figure, whatever makes them happy. I briefly wonder why I wasn’t thinking that the day I took pictures of Thomas. He clearly wasn’t happy.
“Why don’t you two get ready,” I say. “I’ll run next door and pick up coffees. You want your usual?”
“Two decaf, low-fat Americanos with one raw sugar each,” Bob confirms. Even their coffee order suggests they’re a boring middle-aged couple.
I hurry out the front door of Happy Snaps and stride down the street to Rosemary’s. The bakery has been part of Elk Lake’s history for more than thirty years. Their gingersnaps alone make the trip worthwhile, but I have yet to try anything mediocre.
Faith Helms, the owner, and my realtor’s best friend, greets me. “Good morning, Finley.”
“Hey, Faith,” I say, offering her a big smile. There are some people in this world that are so genuinely kind they make you feel like the sun is shining even at night. Faith is one of those people.
After I give her my order, she says, “I see you’ve got Allie’s parents again, huh?” She must know everyone in town by their coffee orders. After I nod my head in confirmation, she adds, “I’d love to see some of the stuff they do.”
“I’m sure they’d show you if you asked,” I tell her. Margaret and Bob are unexpected exhibitionists. Not only do they like to have their picture taken, but they also let me use some of them to advertise with. That’s how Allie and I met. I had a sandwich board of her parents in front of my shop, and she nearly ran her car off the road. She came in and demanded to know what was going on.
“I was thinking it might be fun for Teddy and me to do something like that for our anniversary,” Faith says. “I’m just worried he’ll be hesitant because he’d never want the press to find out.” Her husband, Teddy, is an honest-to-goodness Hollywood movie star who’s best known for his portrayal of Alpha Dog in the Wonder pictures.
“I can’t imagine how the press would ever know,” I tell her. “We could do it all hush-hush. I’d even sign a non-disclosure agreement if you’d like.”
Her eyes sparkle with anticipation. “Let me talk to him and I’ll get back to you.”
Faith puts three large gingersnaps in a bag and hands it to me. With a wink, she says, “A little added spice for the spicy couple you’re shooting.”
“That’s very nice, thank you.” I remind myself that this town is filled with the loveliest people. Even if Constance does bad-mouth me, I’m guessing most won’t believe her. At least I hope not.
For me, the worst part of being on the spectrum has been that I don’t really trust how others perceive me. I’ve learned that just because they act like they like me doesn’t necessarily make it so, which goes to the trouble I have reading tone.
I’ve gotten better at it in recent years, but in college, there was a girl who lived on my floor who I thought I was friendly with. She was a little odd, but I’ve always been very accepting of people’s differences. One day, I mentioned her to my roommate and Lilly told me I needed to stand up for myself and quit letting Felicia make fun of me right to my face.
