I hang the dress back up and then close my eyes. Reaching out blindly, I touch various pieces of clothing. I feel around for the softest thing I can find, which—surprise, surprise—is my favorite sweater, the fuzzy pink one. Then I dive back in for something for my bottom half.
Skirts and pants are never as satisfying as sweaters and blouses, so I pull out the least rough thing I can find. Whichturns out to be a dark green corduroy skirt. Laying it next to the pink sweater on my bed, I stand back and stare. I can’t decide if it’s an acceptable combination or if it’s awful. One thing is clear—it’s not the best.
I decide to put it on and see if it looks any better. Returning to the mirror I realize I look like a watermelon. But I like watermelon, so my immediate thought is that it’s okay. But what if Thomas doesn’t like watermelon? Could that be a deal breaker?
I’m driving myself crazy going back and forth about what to do when I glance at the clock and discover I only have ten minutes before he gets here. I rush to the bathroom and put on my makeup. Then I fluff my hair and spritz my wrists with my favorite perfume. It smells like grapefruit. I’m like a fruit salad which must be why I decide on earrings with cherries dangling from them. Apparently, I’m fully committed to this theme.
Looking out the front window, I see Thomas trying to parallel park between two cars. He’s doing an awful job, so I grab my raincoat and head out the door.
Once I reach the street, I see my dream car positioned at such an extreme angle there’s no way Thomas is ever going to park. I jump off the curb and knock on the passenger side window. He immediately unlocks the car for me to get in.
“Worried you’re going to get highjacked?” I ask, making fun of his locked doors.
“Always,” he assures me.
“This isn’t New York City,” I remind him.
“Maybe not, but you should never drive around with your doors unlocked. My grandmother did that once in North Carolina and a guy got in while she was waiting at a red light. He demanded she take him to the bank.”
“What did your grandmother do?” I ask in shock.
“She put the car into park, turned off the ignition, and then got out in the middle of traffic. Then she waved down a passing police car,” he tells me.
I redirect the heating vent so it’s blowing right on me before saying, “You’re making that up.”
Shaking his head, he assures me, “I am not. My grandmother was nothing if not sassy. That must be where my mom gets it.”
“What did the cop do with the guy?” I want to know.
“He ran his driver’s license number.” Thomas turns to me to give me a dramatic look. “He was wanted for bank robbery.”
“No!” I smack his arm before alerting him, “You’re about to hit a squirrel.”
Thomas slams on the brakes so hard I probably would have shot through the windshield had we been going any faster. But it turns out an abrupt stop at ten miles an hour isn’t that dangerous.
“Sorry about that,” he says before slowly letting up on the brake.
“Did you grandmother live in a big city?”
“She did not. That’s why you should always lock your doors when you’re driving.”
“I’ll remember that,” I tell him. “Although, I’m not convinced I’ll be driving any time soon. I can’t take drivers’ ed without my permit.”
“It’s amazing there are so many children getting licenses every day.” This sums up my own feelings quite accurately. Then he asks, “Did you even think about getting your license as a kid?”
I shake my head. “I’d just been diagnosed, and I thought that meant I wasn’t smart enough.”
“Did your parents encourage you?”
“They told me I could get it whenever I was ready, but they didn’t push me.” I explain, “Whatever confidence I’d had up to that point sort of vanished.”
Thomas turns onto the road leading to the lodge. “You know there’s nothing wrong with you, right?”
“I know that now,” I tell him. “I’m on the spectrum, not mentally handicapped.” Although perhaps I have seemed a little defensive about my diagnosis with him. I just really want Thomas to see me for me and not a label that’s been thrust upon me.
He turns left into the wooded entrance that leads to the lodge. “I’ve been thinking, what if people who are autistic are actually more evolved than everyone else?”
That’s an interesting theory, and not one I’ve entertained before. But it might also be flawed. “There are people on the spectrum who cannot stand any sound or touch,” I tell him. “They scream in agony when they’re overly stimulated and that can happen very easily. How do you think they might be more evolved than other people?”
