Be the Girl(6)

I help myself to the double chocolate. “So, Cassie’s different.”

“Yes, she has autism,” Mom says, dusting crumbs off her shirt.

My eyes trail after the girl, who climbs the porch steps of their house with the caution of an elderly woman. “She seems so social though.” There were a few kids with autism at my last school. I don’t remember ever saying much to any of them. One boy named Michael spoke in a stilted voice and moved in slow motion and never made eye contact with anyone, but he won races on the school’s swim team. Another boy named Robbie couldn’t talk at all and had a service dog to keep him from running off school property.

And then there was that guy who showed up halfway through the year. I can’t even remember his name. I overheard a teacher talking about how his parents were in denial, refusing to have him tested because they didn’t want him labeled, even though there was definitely something off about him. He made people nervous with what he might blurt out. Apparently, one day in class, he wouldn’t stop frowning and pointing out a giant zit on Sue Collins’s forehead that she had tried in vain to cover with concealer. Finally, she ran out of the classroom in tears and he was suspended for bullying. And then there was the story about how he hated the sound of toilets flushing—like, pacing-screaming-hitting-himself-in-the-head hated. He’d tell anyone in the bathroom with him that they couldn’t flush until after he’d left. Of course, that didn’t go over well with a bunch of teenaged boys.

After a few weeks, he stopped coming to school.

“Yes, she’s always been overly friendly, according to Aunt Connie. She used to spend a lot of time visiting. Almost every day, after school. It made Aunt Connie happy, having a little girl around to dote on again.” Mom hands the cookies back to me and closes the trailer. “She seems like a lovely girl and I’m guessing she could use a friend. And you don’t know anyone around here. It’d be great if you got to know her.” Mom looks expectantly at me.

“I’m sure I will.”

“Good.” Mom throws her arm over my shoulder, pulling me into her as she smoothly snatches the bag of cookies from my grip again.





3





Dear Julia,

I’ve survived the first few days living in Eastmonte. I finished painting my room last night and my new mattress was delivered this afternoon. Plus, Mom took me shopping for bedding and lights, and cushions for the window seat. My room’s actually cozy. Still hot as hell, though. Uncle Merv promises I’ll be complaining that it’s too cold come winter. Can’t wait.

Uncle Merv is okay, for an old guy. He says “damn” a lot, and groans even more than he says “damn.” And I think he might have a drinking problem. Mom says it’s because he’s been so lonely. She’s been rationing his whiskey and making him drink tea after dinner, which has made him grumpy. Grumpier. He complains a lot, too. He saw all the salad in the fridge and started mumbling about rabbit food. But he could stand to eat some rabbit food. His stomach is big enough to be carrying quadruplets. It can’t be healthy.

Mom’s had a parade of cleaning ladies and servicemen marching through here. The Bell guy tried to sell Uncle Merv a PVR. He told him to go to hell. That was kind of funny, in a totally mortifying way. Still waiting on the plumber. The toilet in our bathroom doesn’t work properly. We have to jiggle the chain to get the tank to fill so we can flush it.

Let’s see … what else can I tell you about? Oh, I boiled and peeled, like, ten thousand tomatoes so Mom could can them for the winter, for sauce. And all that work for, like, FIVE jars. And then I had to help her put them in the cold cellar—a scary, spider-infested room in the basement that I’m never going back into. I don’t even like tomatoes.

Cassie’s been around a lot. She shows up in the morning and hangs out, following me around and blurting out whatever pops into her head. Usually it’s something about a neighborhood dog or her brother or her brother’s girlfriend, whose name is Holly—and is apparently really nice and really pretty and Cassie’s best friend. That or she drills me with questions about dogs and brothers. She asked me if I had a brother. I lied and said no, because I don’t feel like answering a thousand MORE questions about my dad’s new family. Something tells me she’d have a hard time grasping the details of that mess.

It’s Labor Day weekend. School starts in two days and I’m nervous. Cassie said I can go in with her and Emmett, whose plane is landing tonight at 6:32 p.m., by the way. She’s kind of obsessed with her brother, in case you couldn’t tell.

Anyway, that’s about all that’s going on. Told you this would be boring.

~Aria Jones still practicing





“That pot roast was damn near as good as Connie’s.” Uncle Merv leans back in the kitchen chair, rubbing his swollen belly.

I eye the chair’s frail legs as it groans in protest under his weight. If it breaks and he goes down, I doubt my mother and I together could haul him off the floor.

“It was her recipe. I haven’t made it in forever.” Mom’s lips curve in a small, tight smile. It’s the one she gives when she’s proud, but doesn’t want to appear smug.

“You know, when your mother was here during the summers, she’d spend all day puttering around the kitchen with Connie,” he muses.