by Tom Perrotta
It has to be me, she thought.
She was older. She was the boss. But she didn’t feel confident at all. She felt lost and scared, like she was floating in space, completely untethered.
And then, almost as if she were reading Eve’s mind, Amanda stepped forward, opening her arms and tilting her chin at an inviting angle. Eve swooped in and kissed her on the mouth.
“Whoa!” Amanda stiffened and pulled away with a shocked expression, raising both hands in self-defense. “What are you doing?”
“I’m sorry.” Eve was mortified. “I just thought—”
“Wow.” Amanda laughed nervously, wiping her wrist across her mouth. The gesture seemed a little excessive—the kiss had only lasted a second, no tongue or saliva involved. “I just wanted to give you a hug.”
“Oh, God.” Eve hid her face in her hands. “I’m so stupid. I drank too much. I’m so so sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Amanda told her, still sounding a little shocked. “It’s no big deal.”
“Yes it is,” Eve muttered into her palm. “I shouldn’t have done that. It wasn’t right.”
“Really. It’s okay.”
Eve uncovered her face. “Are you sure?”
“Don’t worry.” Amanda touched her gently on the arm. “I won’t tell anyone. I promise.”
Eve felt a little sick. She hadn’t thought about the possibility of Amanda telling anyone.
“Thank you,” she said. “I would really appreciate that.”
*
She drove home in a fog of regret, wondering how she could have done something so irresponsible, so unlike herself. Was she that lonely, that desperate for sexual contact? It made no sense, taking a risk like that—jeopardizing her job, her home, her son’s college education—just to pretend for a night that she was living in a porn video.
You are so stupid, she told herself, trying not to think about the bitter disappointment she’d felt when Amanda’s lips had failed to open.
She was normally a careful person—careful to a fault—and now she’d gone and put her livelihood in the hands of a young woman she barely knew, a girl with a grenade tattooed on her chest, probably not the best decision-maker in the world. It was a terrible thing to hand someone that kind of power, even someone who claimed to be your friend.
She wanted to call Amanda and repeat her apology, let her know that it would never happen again, that their relationship would be cordial and professional for however long Amanda remained at the Senior Center. But maybe a call wasn’t the best idea, not so soon. Maybe that would only aggravate the situation, make it seem like a bigger deal than it already was. But she had to say something, for her own peace of mind, so she sent the blandest text she could think of:
You okay?
Yeah, Amanda replied, almost immediately. Fine.
Are we still friends?
Totally, Amanda replied, with a smiley face added for reassurance.
A moment later, another text arrived, a single word trapped in a separate bubble.
Ursula
Just the name, no exclamation mark. It looked sad like that, all alone, dead on arrival.
Parents Weekend
“This is Ellen.” The freckly redhead handed her phone to the hipster Asian dude sitting next to her. “She’s twenty-two and fairly high-functioning. She has a GED and works full time at CVS. She’s a really good cashier, as long as the customers don’t ask a lot of questions or try to use an expired coupon. She used to freak out when people made small talk, but she’s trained herself to handle the common stuff.”
The Asian guy took a quick glance at the screen, then passed the phone to Amber, who made a point of staring at it for a long time, because everybody’s autistic sibling was uniquely wonderful and important. It was easy to see why she’d been elected president of the club as a sophomore.
“She looks so serious,” Amber said. “I bet she’s really smart.” She passed the phone to her veep, a petite sorority girl named Cat who kept a jumbo dispenser of Purell in her purse and squirted it on her hands every five minutes. The whole room reeked of it. “What was it like for you, having a big sister like Ellen?”
The redhead’s smile wilted a little.
“It was hard,” she said. “For a long time I didn’t understand that everybody’s big sister wasn’t like mine. But then I started to realize something was wrong. When I was in first grade this girl named Tierney came to my house to play Barbies. It was her first visit. Ellen barged into my room and asked Tierney what her birthday was, and then she asked about Tierney’s mother’s birthday, and her father’s birthday, and the birthdays of her siblings. And then she said, What about your dog? What’s your dog’s birthday? And Tierney—I’ll never forget it—she just looked at me, totally matter-of-fact, and said, Why’s she so stupid? I didn’t know how to answer that, so I threw my Barbie at Ellen and screamed, Leave us alone, stupid!”
The redhead took a moment to collect herself.
“This is a safe space,” Amber said. “No one’s judging you. It’s a challenge to have a sibling on the spectrum. That’s why we’re here. To listen and support each other.”
The redhead looked relieved. “The weird thing was, Ellen didn’t even care that I called her stupid. I’m not sure she even heard it. She just kept talking in this robot voice she uses sometimes: I know three people who were born on March 10th who aren’t triplets and two people who were born on March 2nd who aren’t twins. I’ve never met anyone who was born on November 8th, not even a dog or a cat. I was just sitting there, dying inside. I looked at Tierney and I said, She can’t help it, she was born that way, and Tierney said, I feel sorry for you.”
“That Tierney sounds like an ice-cold bitch,” said the veep, going to town with the Purell.
“She’s actually my best friend,” said the redhead. “She’s really nice to Ellen now. She just didn’t know any better.”
By that point the phone had made its way to me. The photo on the screen had been taken at the redhead’s high school graduation. She was wearing a cap and gown, and Ellen was standing next to her in a shiny green dress, holding her arms way out from her body, like maybe the material bothered her skin.
“That’s great to hear,” Amber said, and for some reason she was staring straight at me. “That’s how we change the world. One person at a time.”
*
We were about an hour into the meeting at that point, and already I was itching for it to be over. There are only so many stories you can listen to about somebody’s autistic brother or sister.
I was only there for Amber, who I hadn’t seen since the night we protested in the library. I’d texted her a bunch of times in the past week, trying to get her to meet me for coffee or pizza or whatever, but she kept putting me off, saying that she’d see me at the October meeting of the Autism Awareness Network and we could make a plan then. She was so insistent about the meeting that I started to wonder if she saw me more as a new recruit than as a guy she might want to hook up with, but I liked her enough that it was worth a couple hours of my time to figure out which it was.
So far things were looking pretty good on the hookup side of the equation. She had let out a happy little squeal when I walked through the door, and then led me around the room, introducing me to her friends like I was some kind of VIP.
“This is Brendan,” she told the veep. “He’s the first year I was telling you about. Brendan, this is Cat.”
“Hey, Brendan.” Cat looked me up and down, like she was thinking about buying me. “Amber was hoping you’d come.”
“Shut up!” Amber told her, her cheeks a shade pinker than normal. Instead of her usual sweats and hoodie, she was wearing skinny jeans and a tight top and sexy platform sandals, the kind of clothes you’d wear to a party, or on a date. She had nice small boobs—I hadn’t really gotten a good look at them before—that went really well with her athletic build.
“All I meant is that we need more men in the group,” Cat said with
a smirk, reaching into her purse for the Purell. “I wasn’t trying to insinuate anything.”
“It’s true.” Amber glanced at the Asian hipster, who was standing in a circle of girls, basking in the attention. “Usually it’s just Kwan. I’m sure he’ll be happy to have a bro.”
“I don’t know,” I said, because Kwan was giving me the stink eye, like I’d crashed his party. “Looks like he’s doing fine without me.”
Cat headed over to the refreshment table, leaving me alone with Amber.
“I’m so glad you came,” she said, placing her hand on my forearm, super-casual, like she didn’t even know she was doing it. But I knew. I felt it way down in my balls, a warm surge of power, like someone had just turned a key and started the engine.
*
After the break, a girl named Nellie told us about her brother, who was really smart but flapped his hands and grunted a lot, which made it hard to take him anywhere. Three girls in a row said they had siblings with Asperger’s. This other girl, Dora, said she was the only normal kid out of four siblings. The other three were all diagnosed PDD-NOS, and one of them was totally nonverbal. Amber suggested that Dora stop using the word normal and substitute neurotypical instead.
“It’s less hurtful that way,” she explained. “And besides—in your family, it actually seems like autism is the norm, right?”
Dora shrugged. “My mom always calls me her normal one. That’s how she introduces me to strangers. This is Dora. She’s my normal one.”
The hipster, Kwan, had a brother named Zhang who acted out too much to go to a regular school. He was totally hyper and would run around in circles whenever he got worked up. The only thing that calmed him down was playing the piano. When he was seven years old, he sat down and played “The Entertainer,” from that old movie The Sting. It came out of nowhere. No one in the family had seen the movie, and Kwan’s parents were first-generation immigrants who only listened to European classical music. But Zhang totally nailed it.
“My parents were so happy that day,” Kwan said. “It was like, Oh my God, our son’s a genius! They were really proud of Zhang, which was amazing to see, because they were usually pretty ashamed of his condition, and didn’t know how to help him. They hired a piano teacher who specialized in kids with special needs, and did everything they could to encourage his gift.”
Kwan stopped talking and looked around, in case anyone had any questions. He was wearing cuffed jeans, a tight plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his biceps, and a beige fedora, but I liked him anyway.
“That’s so cool,” Cat said. “Does he play classical or jazz?”
Kwan shrugged. “He plays ‘The Entertainer.’ Over and over and over. Every fucking day of his life. Every time I call home I hear him in the background, banging it out: dada dada DA DA da DA DA! I hate that song.”
*
My little half brother was autistic, but I hadn’t grown up with him. I was already in high school when he was born, and I wasn’t getting along with my father at the time, or with my stepmother, Bethany, who I liked to think of as The Evil Bitch Who Ruined My Life. I realize now that it was stupid to blame her for the divorce; it wasn’t like she brainwashed my dad and kidnapped him from my mom and me. Whatever my dad did, he did because he chose to do it. Because he wanted to. I still remember the day he explained that to me. He took me out for ice cream, put his arm around my shoulders, and said, Look, Brendan, if you have to hate somebody for what happened, hate me, okay? Don’t take it out on Bethany. She’s an innocent bystander, just like you.
The custody agreement said he’d get me two weekends a month, but he didn’t complain if I blew him off for a sleepover at a friend’s house, or even if I just needed to stay home and catch up on my schoolwork. I was playing three sports at the time—football, basketball, and lacrosse—so mostly he just came to my weekend games and took me out to dinner afterward. That was pretty much our relationship right after the divorce—my dad and me at Wild Willie’s or Haddington Burrito Works, talking about whatever game I’d just played, acting like everything was perfectly normal, like this was how it was supposed to be.
I saw him even less right after Jon-Jon was born. There wasn’t one specific day when he sat me down and said, There’s something seriously wrong with your brother. It was more like a steady drip of bad news. They didn’t know why he wasn’t talking, why he ignored his toys, why he wouldn’t look his father in the eye or smile at his mother. The doctors had concerns about the severity of his tantrums.
By the time they were openly using the word autistic, I was getting along better with my dad, and even with Bethany, who had turned out to be a nicer person than I’d given her credit for. She was a lot younger than my mom and had been pretty hot when my dad married her, but she’d aged a lot in the past few years. You could see in her eyes how hard it was, having a kid like Jon-Jon, and you couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for her.
There was a brief period during my junior year when we tried to be a two-weekend-a-month family. I’d pack my bag, and my dad would pick me up on the way home from work and bring me to his new house.
The only problem was that Jon-Jon freaked out whenever I showed up. He didn’t just get upset—he totally fucking lost it. Bethany would be all fake cheerful when I got there, like, Hey, Jon-Jon, look who’s here. It’s your big brother! Can you say hi to Brendan? Jon-Jon wouldn’t even look at me. He just waved his arms around and screamed like I was a monster who was coming to eat him. Sometimes he’d throw himself on the ground or start punching himself in the head, which was a terrible thing to see, because he wasn’t fooling around. Once he got going on a meltdown like that, he could keep it up for hours. When he finally wore himself out and fell asleep, the rest of us would have a little time to hang out in peace, except it wasn’t really peace, because we were all so rattled by what had just happened. We’d play a game or two of Yahtzee and then Bethany would head up to bed, and my dad and I would watch an episode of Scrubs, which we both loved. Those were some of the best father-and-son times I can remember, the two of us sitting on the couch, cracking up about something completely ridiculous that J.D. said to Turk. It felt really good, just being in the same place, enjoying the same thing. When the show was over, he’d kiss me good night—something he never used to do before the divorce—and we’d both go up to bed. Then I’d wake up the next morning, head downstairs for breakfast, and Jon-Jon would start screaming all over again.
It was hard on everybody, so we eventually gave up and went back to the old way—me and my dad getting together for the occasional dinner, talking about sports and TV shows and college and girls. He was easy to talk to, a lot easier than my mom, though that was probably just because he was a guy, and because he never gave me the feeling that he was judging me, or wishing I was a different person than I actually am. I always made sure to ask him about Jon-Jon, and he always said something positive, like He’s getting big, or, He really likes his new teacher, but I never pressed for details. Jon-Jon’s life was a mystery to me. I had no idea what he did all day, what he thought about, or why he hated me so much. Mostly I just lived my own life without thinking about him at all.
*
I wasn’t planning on going into my whole family history at the meeting, but Amber just sort of coaxed it out of me. After a while I forgot about the other people in the room. It was just me talking and Amber listening.
I told her how my father had invited himself to Parents Weekend, catching me totally off-guard. I thought that was a great idea—I hadn’t seen him since the week before I left for school—but said he’d have to work it out with my mom, because she was planning on coming, too, and they didn’t usually do stuff like that together.
I’ll talk to the boss, he said. Throw myself on the mercy of the court.
I have no idea how he managed it, but he called a week later and said he’d gotten the thumbs-up. The plan was for my dad to come on his own, because it didn’t make any sense to bring Jon-Jon to
an event like Parents Weekend. He hated long car rides, responded badly to new environments, and was often freaked out by unfamiliar faces. It would be easier for everybody if he stayed home with his mom and followed the usual routine. Easier for everybody except Bethany, I guess.
It’ll just be us guys, my dad said. Maybe we can go to the football game. If Zack wants to join us, he’s more than welcome.
Zack was totally up for that. He and my dad had talked on the phone a few times, and Zack told everybody what a chill guy he was, way chiller than his own parents, who, he was happy to report, were staying home in Boxborough for the weekend. His little sister was competing in an Irish step dance competition, and that was a big deal in his house.
You ever see that shit, bro? It’s like these girls are all dancing with a stick up their ass, and smiling like it’s the best feeling in the world.
We had the whole day planned. Commandos game in the afternoon, barbecue on the quad for dinner, and then this student talent show that people raved about. They did it like American Idol, with these smart-ass professors acting as judges. Apparently, one of them was a total dick, just like Simon Cowell, and everybody loved him.
Who knows? Zack said. Maybe your dad’ll get drunk with us.
Yeah, right.
I’m serious, bro. You think he still smokes weed?
Dude, he’s not gonna smoke weed with us. Trust me.
We should take him to a party, Zack said. Maybe we could get him laid.
Don’t even go there, I said.
For the whole week leading up to Parents Weekend, that was the big joke in our room, all the wild shit we were gonna do with my dad. I knew none of it would happen, but it was fun to think about, and put us both in this goofy, stoked-up mood, like something big was about to happen.
And then, the day before Parents Weekend, I got the phone call.