Mrs. Fletcher(15)

“Not at all,” he replied. “I certainly didn’t miss them.”

Then we just sat there for a few more seconds, staring at each other. I could hear singing out on the quad, an a cappella group doing a pretty cool version of “Livin’ on a Prayer.” Somebody had a great falsetto. I thought it might be fun to be in a group like that, if I could sing and it wasn’t so gay.

“Are we done?” I asked.

He nodded and I stood up. As I was heading for the door, he called after me.

“Brendan,” he said. “You know about consent, right?”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s a pretty simple concept. No means no. And an intoxicated person can’t consent to sexual activity. You understand that, right?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I’m not an idiot.”

“All right, then. Have a great semester.”

*

Zack was meeting with his own advisor, so I killed some time at the Activities Fair on my way back to the room. It was crowded, dozens and dozens of tables set up under a huge circus tent, a good chunk of the freshman class milling around. Apparently, anybody could start a club and get funding from the university. There were Beekeepers, Hula Hoopers, Paintballers, Vegans, Future Real Estate Professionals, Brothers and Sisters in Christ, Atheists United, Triathletes, Stroke Victims, Cancer Survivors, Bicycle Mechanics, Slavic Folk Dancers. You could ride horses, row crew, play rugby, boycott Israel, learn to juggle or knit. Some of the people behind the tables were in costume—the Quidditch Club officers carried brooms and sported fake Harry Potter glasses, and one of the volunteers for the Muslim Student Union wore a full burka, or whatever they called it—and others just looked exactly like what their names said they were: Queer People of Color, Dungeons and Dragons Enthusiasts, Cannabis Reform Coalition, League of Young Conservatives, Bearded Hipster Alliance. I guess I must have spaced out a little, because I didn’t even know where I was standing when the girl behind a table spoke to me.

“Hey,” she said. “What’s your name?”

“Excuse me?”

She laughed in a way that made me feel like she already knew me and liked me.

“It’s not a trick question.” She looked like a farm girl, freckles and a blond ponytail, and big shoulders, almost like a guy. “You know your name, right?”

“I used to,” I said. “But I had a bunch of concussions last year.”

She liked that, too, enough that she volunteered for a high five, which I delivered very gently, basically just pressing my palm against hers, earning a few more points in the process. I was a couple of inches taller than she was, but our hands were the same size.

“I’m Amber,” she said. “Nice to meet you.”

“Brendan.”

“Do you know someone on the spectrum, Brendan?”

That was when I looked at the sign on her table: Autism Awareness Network.

“No, I—”

I was about to tell her that I’d just stopped there at random when two things occurred to me. The first was that I did know someone on the spectrum, and the second was that this girl was really pretty. I hadn’t noticed at first, because I was so distracted by her shoulders.

“I mean, yeah,” I said. “My half brother.”

She nodded, as if she’d expected as much.

“My little brother, too.” She smiled at the thought of him. “He’s obsessed with Matchbox cars. It’s pretty much all he cares about. Yesterday he sent me a text with a picture of two of them. Nothing else. Just two little cars.”

She thought this was adorable, though it seemed kind of pathetic to me.

“Mine doesn’t talk much,” I said. “He just has these scary tantrums about nothing. We don’t even know what he’s screaming about.”

“What’s his name?”

“Jonathan. But we call him Jon-Jon.”

“That’s cute.”

I agreed, mostly because she seemed so nice and had such a positive attitude. The truth was, nothing about Jon-Jon was cute. It was awful to watch him get all red-faced with rage and frustration, and not know how to help him.

“Do you have a picture of him?” she asked.

I shook my head. It had never occurred to me to take a picture of Jon-Jon.

“This is Benjy.” She handed me her phone. The screensaver was a photo of Amber and her brother on the beach. I’d expected him to be a little kid, but he was a skinny teenager with an intense, almost angry expression, only a year or two younger than she was. She was wearing a navy blue one-piece bathing suit in the picture, the no-nonsense kind competitive swimmers wear. Her body was thick and strong-looking, not usually what I went for, but sexy in a way I hadn’t expected.

“You can give that back now,” she said, but not in a pissed-off way.

“You a swimmer?”

“In high school. But not anymore. Here I just play softball.”

“Cool,” I said. “What position?”

“Pitcher.”

She tried to look humble about it, but I could see she was proud.

“You know what?” I said. “You look like a pitcher.”

“Why?” She pretended to take offense. “Because of my massive shoulders?”