Allie brushes her long auburn hair from her face. “I didn’t mean any offense. I think you’re delightful.”
She sounds sincere, but I still want to know. “How else, Allie?” Not that I’m going to change my ways, but it’s good to get feedback now and again.
She hems and haws for a minute before saying, “You’ve got that texture thing going on.”
“What texture thing?” I silently order my fingers to stop petting my fuzzy pink sweater. They’re resisting. It is my furriest one, after all.
“You’re very touch-oriented,” she tells me. “You like soft things.”
“Most people like soft things.” I know I sound defensive but I can’t help it. “You like soft things, don’t you?”
Allie’s eyes take on an unreadable expression. “I do, but I don’t normally go up and touch people on the street.”
I shrug my shoulders. “Once, maybe twice. But only to compliment them.”And cop a feel of luxurious fabric while I’m there.
“Fourteen times that I’ve noticed,” Allie tells me.Oh, my god, she’s been counting.
“Fourteen?” That sounds like an awful lot, even to me.
“It’s cute,” she says. “People don’t seem to mind at all. In fact, I’m sure they’re flattered.”
Three times is cute, fourteen might be construed as a compulsion. “I didn’t think I did it that often.”
“Artistic people are known to appreciate texture.”
Did she say artistic or autistic?Staring at my tea, I pick up my spoon, stir it three times and tap the rim twice.Shoot, I’ve done it again!For some reason unbeknownst to me, I decide to distract my friend from my habitual stirring and tapping by blurting out, “I’m on the spectrum.” While I’m no longer embarrassed about my neurodivergence, I don’t exactly broadcast it. Most people see it as a stigma.
Allie sits up straight and her mouth drops open in what I hope is surprise.
“I’m not mentally challenged,” I assure her. At least not in the way she might assume.
“Of course you’re not.” She sounds like she believes me, which is good.
“But I’m not super smart like inYoung Sheldon, either,” I add. How I’ve wished that was the case. If I could multiply seven-digit numbers in my head or invent a new kind of physics, I’d probably be a lot more comfortable broadcasting my condition.
“Finley, I don’t think any less of you now that I know you’re autistic. Heck, life is a spectrum. We’re all on it somewhere, right?”
“In theory,” I tell her. “In reality, most of you fit nicely into the box society has decreed acceptable. Meanwhile, I’m often outside of that box, wondering how to get in.” With a pointed frown, I add, “But it’s covered in barbed wire and tracker jackers.” Nod toThe Hunger Games, my most favorite post-apocalyptic form of entertainment.
Allie releases a snort at my description. “Why in the world would you want to be like everyone else?” If I didn’t know better, I’d be inclined to believe my friend admires me. Yet there’s just too much social stereotyping for that to be true.
“It’s not that I want to be like everyone else; I just don’t want to be so different as to stand out.”
“Why?” she wants to know.
I lift one finger and announce, “There’s the stirring. I don’t particularly want to do it, but I have to. Routine is very reassuring to me.” Another digit goes up. “Then there’s my love of certain textures—which is pure satisfaction. But along with that goes my revulsion of other surfaces.” Before she can ask, I tell her, “Aluminum foil makes me very nervous. I also hate the feeling of sand anywhere on my body.”
“What else?” she wants to know.
“I have a number fixation.” Allie’s gaze narrows in confusion. “I love the numbers three, five, seven, fifteen, and twenty,” I tell her.
“How is that a problem?”
I inhale deeply before explaining, “I like to breathe in slowly to the count of seven, but I feel lightheaded if I exhale the same amount. I can usually only make it to five, then I have to inhale to the count of two and force myself to exhale five, so the numbers work out.”
At this point I’m fully expecting Allie to stand up and tell me it’s been nice knowing me before she runs for the exit, never tobe seen again. Instead of doing that, she says, “That has to be a lot of work.”
“It is,” I assure her.
