When My Heart Joins the Thousand(75)

I stare at it for a few minutes. Then I turn and walk away, back toward the main building.

Inside, on the counter up front, is a stack of applications. I start to reach out, but something stops me, and I pull my hand back.

The receptionist looks up, arching her eyebrows. She’s an older woman, shoulder-length graying hair, small spectacles. “Looking for something?”

My mouth opens, then closes. I clutch one arm. “Those.” I point at the applications. “You’re hiring.” My voice comes out stiff and jerky.

“We’re always looking for help. Though I should tell you now, we only hire people who have hands-on experience working with animals.”

Before I can lose my nerve, I grab an application and sit down in one of the plastic lobby chairs. The application is one page, double-sided. Sections for basic information, education, and experience. No long, intrusive, nonsensical personality questionnaires.

I quickly fill out the application, then shuffle to the front desk and hand it to the receptionist without looking at her. She could chuck it into the trash as soon as I leave, but I can at least say I’ve tried.

I expect her to give me a polite smile and say they’ll keep me on file. Instead, she adjusts her glasses and says, “Well, you’ve got the experience. Why don’t you come in for an interview on Friday?”

I sit at the table in Stanley’s kitchen, poking at a crab Rangoon with a single chopstick. We ordered some Chinese takeout after I picked him up from class.

“You’ve been quiet,” he says. “Is everything okay?”

I roll a bit of sweet-and-sour chicken around on my plate. “I have an interview. At the wildlife rehabilitation center.”

“That’s great!” He smiles broadly. “It sounds like the perfect place for you.”

“It would be.” He’s right. I should be excited.

His smile fades. “What’s wrong?”

“I probably won’t get past the interview.” My fingers tighten on the chopstick. “Interviews don’t go well for me.”

“We can practice, if you want. I’ll ask questions and you answer.”

Still, I don’t look up from my plate. No matter how much I practice, I don’t know if I’ll ever come across as normal. During interviews, people always ask about my interests, but if I talk about my real interests, they think it’s weird. And if I start pulling my braid or rocking back and forth, they’ll immediately dismiss me.

“Alvie?”

“I just wish I didn’t have to hide who I am.”

“You know, it might help if you tell them.”

The chopstick snaps in my hand. “What.”

“I mean . . . it’s worth a try, at least.”

I drop the broken halves onto my plate and push it away. “How am I even supposed to say it. ‘Oh, by the way, I have Asperger’s.’”

“That sounds okay to me.”

“I shouldn’t have to tell them. Other people aren’t expected to disclose personal medical information in an interview. Would someone say, ‘Oh, before you hire me, I should mention I have a terrible case of hemorrhoids.’”

“It’s not like that. This isn’t something you need to be embarrassed about.”

I stare at the mostly untouched food on my plate. My throat feels swollen. How can he say that, after everything I’ve done? How can he still insist there’s nothing wrong with me?

“You know,” he says, “I wouldn’t be pushing you like this if you didn’t want the job. There’s no rush. You can stay here as long as you need to.”

“But . . .” The words catch in my throat. Is he saying that because he wants me around? Or because he feels obligated?

I’m afraid to ask, but I don’t know which answer would scare me more.

It doesn’t matter, I decide. I do want this job. I want it more than I can remember wanting anything for a long time. So far, trying to hide my condition hasn’t worked out so well for me, so maybe I need to switch tactics.

I unwrap my fortune cookie and break it open. Careless risk brings grave misfortune, reads the tiny strip of paper. I crumple it in my fist.

My interview is at noon. I try to eat breakfast, but I can’t force anything down. Not only would getting this job mean gainful employment, it would mean a reunion with Chance. The prospect turns my stomach into a tangled knot. I sit in the lobby of the wildlife rehabilitation center, rocking lightly back and forth in my chair, waiting to be called. My hand keeps drifting up to tug my braid, despite my efforts to stop it. The receptionist—a college-aged girl with shiny pink lipstick—stares at me. When she notices me noticing, she looks quickly back at the computer screen in front of her. But her eyes stray back to me. People can never seem to stop themselves from looking.

Stanley’s sitting next to me in his wheelchair. Sometimes when I was in public with Mama, she would take my hand in hers to keep me from tugging, or else she’d smile nervously at the people around her, as if she was afraid that they would suddenly converge on us and start beating us to death with their fists.

Remembering this just makes me rock and tug harder.

When the receptionist starts staring again, Stanley—to my astonishment—reaches up and starts tugging a lock of his own hair. Her mouth falls open, then she quickly jerks her gaze back to the screen.