by Emily Gale
I get up.
Dad’s standing over her. She must see him, but she doesn’t react. Mum, don’t ignore him, say something. She tilts her head his way. Her lips move.
Dad walks back to the fridge. He pulls out another carton.
I breathe out and sit down. It’s fine. Totally fine.
‘Here ya go, mate,’ he says, bringing two coffee cups. ‘I’d better get on. Same time tomorrow?’
‘Sure.’
He doesn’t move. His look sticks on me – I’ve forgotten something. ‘Thanks, Dad.’
I’m at the breakfast bar with my laptop, stuck on a thought: It’s not back to school, it’s back to hell. Between waking up and putting on my uniform, I feel like the holidays never happened. Time has concertinaed so the whole break was a single sleep. There’ll be a new routine and all the old problems. New faces and old noises. New voices and old smells. My fingers tap my thumbs in sequence – one two three four, one two three four – getting faster as the thought circles – one two three four, one two three four. It’s not back to school, it’s back to hell.
‘Cereal. Milk,’ says Mum. She plonks them in front of me, squeezes my shoulder and dashes off again. Mum makes everything look like part of a workout. But her touch has done the trick. I feel myself coming unstuck. My finger tapping slows and I shake out my hands.
Right. This is Monday.
I take four Weet-Bix and drown them slowly. With my back to the lounge room, I continue to work on the Minecraft replica of Fairfield High that I started in Year Nine. This sleek silver machine, which I paid for by fixing other people’s computer problems, is the only reason I’m at high school heading towards VCEs. It’s my shield. I’m different when it’s in front of me.
It’s hard to concentrate with Mum talking loudly to breakfast television while she irons Dad’s shirt. I know one of the voices is my mum and the other is the presenter, but they sound the same. Mum doesn’t like silences; I’ve always suspected she has an autocue. Sometimes my words take too long to hatch; hers are like paintballs. But, saying that, she also cuts the labels out of my clothes because labels set my skin on fire, she stockpiles the only socks I can wear, the food I like fills the pantry. In general, Mum tries to make this unsympathetic planet a better place for me.
‘Hey, champ,’ says Dad.
‘Hey, Dad.’
‘Talking to your imaginary friend again?’
‘No.’
Dad’s smiling, so he means that in a friendly way. But he means Dan, who I talk to online every day and is not a product of my imagination.
We’ve been best friends since we were nine, though we’ve only had one real-life conversation. We met in the waiting room of a speech therapist. Both of us had a midday appointment – the receptionist had messed up – and while my mum was arguing with Dan’s mum about why I should get to keep the appointment, we started talking. Within ten minutes we’d swapped Pokémon usernames. Dan moved to Queensland a week later and we’ve been friends ever since.
Imaginary … Dad doesn’t always make sense.
It’s funny because one of the reasons my mum started to take me to a whole bunch of therapists back then was because I couldn’t make a single friend at school. Then I made one when I wasn’t even trying and have kept him all this time. He’s autistic with ADHD and I’m plain autistic. Only, back when we were diagnosed we were both told we had Asperger’s. Then the overlords changed their minds and called it ‘autism’. I say I’m ‘autistic’ if I’m directly asked about it, or ‘aspie’ sometimes if I’m talking to Dan.
People like to tell me I’m ‘not really that autistic’. Other people like to tell me I’m ‘definitely not normal’. I have no opinion of them and wish they’d stop having one of me. I’m not here to justify the way my brain works or get into it with anyone. Dan’s more political. He says we should put the acronyms on our business cards the way people do if they have a PhD or an MBA. He reckons that, by the time we start our business, the world will have caught up with the fact that being on the spectrum is a human quality, not a mental illness like some people think.
Milo Witkin, ASD, & Daniel Makki, ASD/ADHD
Geospatial Consultants
I’m not convinced.
Sometimes I wish Dan lived closer so we could see each other, but mostly I prefer things the way they are. It’s like he lives in my bedroom but I can mute him. Dad doesn’t reckon that me and Dan have a proper friendship. I understand. Dad doesn’t get computers, he doesn’t trust them. All of his friendships were formed on a football field. To be fair, I don’t really get Dad either.
‘We’re finishing up on a big place today,’ he says.
Dad builds houses. Well, Dad tells other people to build houses and they do it. Well, Dad’s boss, Dave, tells Dad to build houses, then Dad tells some other people to get building, and they do it. He goes to work in a suit and a hard hat. I watch him open his mouth like a drain and pour in the last of his coffee.
‘What you got planned, Milo?’
‘School.’
‘Yeah, right. Knock ’em dead, hey? Don’t take any bullshit this time. Milo. Milo, ya listening? Okay, mate? No bullshit.’
‘Got it.’
Dad grabs his keys and wallet in one hand, his hard hat in the other, and kisses the side of my head. He is very keen on the idea of me not taking any bullshit. There haven’t been any specific instructions for how not to take it. This is just our morning routine: he tells me not to take the bullshit, I say I won’t. Then I take it. But one day, Dad, you never know.
‘Hey, Jules, did I tell you that Dave’s boy’s on our old water polo team this year?’ he calls out to Mum. Dave Brearley is his boss and best friend since childhood. Dave’s son, Ben, is the biggest prick. What Dad doesn’t know is that it’s Ben who gives me the most bullshit of all.
‘Love ya, mate!’ Dad shouts as he walks down the hallway.
‘Thanks, Dad. Love you too.’
I finish brekkie and turn around. Mum’s putting a shirt on a hanger, roughly, as if it’s getting on her nerves. I head back to my room to sneak in more computer time with Dan. He’s homeschooled and pretty much lives on the internet. The dream: untouchable routines and not constantly checking up on yourself for signs of hand movements or rambling or your voice that ‘sounds like a GPS, Milo’ or your wrong kind of smile or your way of not knowing exactly what a person means in the first two seconds of them saying it.
Monday. Focus.
‘Don’t forget your checklists!’ yells Mum, which is unnecessary because I have the lists on my wall so that no one needs to yell. I use them to nudge me to do things step by step instead of thinking about them in one overwhelming lump that feels like a meteor heading for my face: pack schoolbag, put on shoes, actually make the decision to leave the house and go to school instead of getting sucked into something much more interesting. That kind of thing. My mind can get a bit mono. I get so focused on doing one thing that I forget to do everything else. But it’s a different kind of forgetting, I guess, considering I have a really good memory.
So I go through my lists and still have time left over to hang out with Dan. He’s giving me a pep talk.
D: Goals for today: don’t get your head kicked in, finally get with Wren, be prom king.
M: That seems ambitious for day one. Plus there’s no prom king. You’ve been watching too much American TV.
D: Okay, let’s focus on Lady Wren of Melbourneshire. You said she wants change, correct? Which could mean CHANGING your boring FRIENDSHIP into a HOT LOVE FEST.
M: Her exact words were ‘I want different crap’. And it’s not a boring friendship.
D: But she did seem keen on moving to Sweden with you …
M: She may have thought I was joking.
D: Okay, I’ve got a magazine article that’s going to change your life. 7 Steps to Make Her Want You. Ready? Step 1 is to walk slower.
M: Than what?
D: Usual, I guess.
M: Why would t
hat make her want me?
D: It says she’ll see it as a sign of confidence. It’s in Man’s World. Big grown adult men with abs are using these techniques.
M: Fine, I’ll walk slower.
D: But not too slow or she’ll think you have an injury.
M: Does it say the speed?
…
M: Dan, she’ll be here soon – does it say the speed?
D: No speed stated. Also says to walk with your thighs apart – that’s so she thinks you have massive balls.
M: Why would I want her to think that? You’re stressing me out.
D: Okay, just do the slowing down thing. Forget the big balls. REPEAT: FORGET THE BIG BALLS! I’m simply telling you what the successful guys are doing according to this magazine that my mum stole from the dental surgery.
M: I appreciate it.
I hear Wren’s boots on the front porch.
M: She’s about to ring the doorbell.
D: Kiss her as soon as she walks in. Especially if she’s in the middle of talking. In most movies, that’s the biggest romantic scene.
M: I’ve heard her rant for a full hour about how much she hates that exact movie trope.
D: Thank God. It seems so rude, but I assumed girls like it. Why do they put it in so many movies? Plus it’s a safety issue. I think the lips and/or face should be completely still before you move in for the kiss.
M: True, I don’t need a moving target on top of everything else. Anyway, it’s 8 am. No one has their first kiss at 8 am.
D: Why not? You’ve just cleaned your teeth. It seems ideal.
M: Name one film where someone has their first kiss before lunch.
D: Right. That’s what I’m doing today instead of my Economics essay. Get outta here.
I minimise Dan. Obviously I would like to kiss Wren one day. I’ve thought about it a lot and done my research – how to be a good kisser, what I could do to her that she’d like, and what she could do to me. I’m not a touchy-feely person as a rule, but Wren’s touch is always good.
‘Milo! Your friend is here!’ Mum’s runners squeak past.
Wren enters my room with a fierce look in her eye. Holy crap, is that high sexual desire? Nope, nope, I know that look. It’s her usual sarcastic rage, which is a relief because my brain has started cycling through kissing techniques and I don’t think I can handle that on top of first-day-back anxiety.
‘Don’t you love the way your mum always calls me your friend?’ says Wren. She closes the door with her whole self and leans against it.
‘Does she? Well, you are my friend.’
‘She says it every single time. Your friend. Never Wren. It’s a put-down.’
‘Friend is a put-down?’ I get why ‘imaginary friend’ is, or ‘internet friend’, but just ‘friend’ on its own?
‘Totally. Trust me.’
‘Okay.’ I do trust Wren. She’s people-smart. I’m more of a places-and-things guy, so between us we have all the nouns covered.
Wren has accessorised our uniform with a black lace choker, hair loosely hanging way past her waist, lots of eyeliner and heavy black boots.
‘If the teachers saw what you look like at the weekend, they’d know how much effort you make to look so normal for school.’
‘I know, right?’ She slumps on the bed like walking in those giant boots suddenly got too much.
‘Did you draw last night?’
‘Why?’
‘You were upset when we were at the fence, and it was about drawing Floyd.’
‘Didn’t think you’d noticed.’
‘I had.’
‘Huh. Well, I’m fine now. And I did draw, actually. I drew a girl.’
‘Who?’
‘No one; a random face. Took me hours.’ Wren lifts her hand to her mouth and yawns. The tips of her fingers are black. Art makes her happy. And kind of filthy.
I turn back to my desk to shut down Minecraft and pack up.
Left window fourth from the top in the Science block is not aligned with the others …
…
…
…
‘Milo? … Milo … Earth to Milo. Come in, Milo.’
‘Uh-huh?’
‘You’ve been ignoring me for five minutes. We can’t be late the first day back.’
‘Crap, sorry.’ This happens. I blank out to do something and have no idea that so much time has passed. I try to stop this from happening when Wren’s around, but it’s not always possible. And we all have our faults. Wren’s a chronic nail-biter. Which is complicated in my head by the fact that the tips of her fingers are almost constantly black with charcoal. If I thought about it too much I could definitely spiral into a state of not ever wanting to hold her hand, which is one of my Year Ten goals. So I don’t think about it. Except for right now, obviously.
Where were we again?
‘Milo, come on.’
Oh. Right. Monday.
Compared to my perfectly cooled bedroom, the hallway air gets thicker and hotter the closer we get to the front door.
‘Pretty sure there’s a fire on the other side,’ I tell Wren. ‘Emergency plan: block the gaps with wet towels, stay low and crawl back to bed.’
‘It’s not a fire, Milo, it’s just our lives.’
I’ve been assigned the worst room for English. I’ve never had a class in here before and I don’t like change. This is some big deal that I’m supposed to overcome. I don’t get why. Apparently, there’ll be a point in the future when I’ll get ‘Change is Brilliant’ tattooed on my arse. And they’ll think they’ve won.
At least Wren is here. This room is a fishbowl with bright lights. People tap on the glass as they go by. My head is swimming. There are twenty bodies and the smell is overwhelming. My senses can easily slip into overdrive, so I strategise. That’s what years of OT have done for me. I have a simple trick: a handkerchief laced with sandalwood, tucked discreetly in my hand and held over my nose. One good smell to rule against fifty bad ones. Wren has saved me my favourite spot – the edge of the middle row, nearest the door. I haven’t left a class in years, but it used to happen a lot in primary school, so now I guess I’m an emergency-exit guy for life.
Juliet walks past us, heading for the back as usual.
‘Hey,’ Wren says to her.
I’m not sure if Juliet says ‘hey’ or ‘huh’ in reply because it’s whisper-quiet.
‘Not much of a talker, is she?’ Wren says in my ear.
‘I’ve known her ten years. “Hey” is a high point.’
A boy called Christian walks in and punches my arm as he walks by. Wren tosses a biro at the side of his face and gets him in the eye.
‘Jesus! You witch!’ he yells at her.
‘Don’t hit my friend,’ she says.
I’m about to panic when Mr Witheridge – impressively tall and dressed in a tweed jacket with patches on the elbows (he’s British) – enters the room. Christian takes a seat, glaring at Wren. Mr Witheridge clears his throat and shuffles paper. He’s gruff but nervy, and mostly speaks to us by quoting authors.
‘Has everyone got their copy of The Man Who Loved Children?’
‘Sounds perverted,’ says Christian.
Mr Witheridge looks at Christian over the rim of his glasses and opens and closes his mouth a few times, like a fish. Then he holds his copy of the book up and looks around at the rest of us.
There’s a chorus of ‘I forgot mine’ and ‘I’ll bring it tomorrow’.
Mr Witheridge drops the book back on his desk. ‘Tomorrow, and tomorrow and tomorrow, creeps in this petty pace from day to day.’
He says that every single time he hears the word.
I do a quick scan of the room. Juliet in the back corner; Billy, who’s really smart and a fellow gamer; Hari, distant but benevolent; Matt, who looks a lot like Tintin (I read all the comics as a kid, so Matt gets points without even trying); then Tom over the far side at the front. Together with Wren, they decrease the percentage of arsehole in
the room, the dominant minority at this school. Tom’s over six foot (he was called Big Tom in primary school) and autistic, but, unlike me, he’s the type these people are scared of. He has a laminated card to hold up when things get rough inside his head. If he shows it to the teachers, they let him go to the Quiet Room. That’s when you’ll hear the others take the piss – once Tom is well out of earshot – or complain that they don’t have a special room.
I’m not seen as a threat the way Tom is. I’m the easy target, so they say everything to my face: gay, queer, weirdo, freak, emo, retard. This is the bullshit, and I take it. I can’t switch off Single-player Survival Mode and go Multi-Player Creative at school the way I can in Minecraft. I stick to the game plan. Dan would tell me to fight back, but he’s not here on the front line.
‘Right,’ Mr Witheridge says, ‘as half of you forgot to screw on your heads this morning, you’ll all write a fifty-word creative piece to blow out the cobwebs. It can be about anything. You have ten minutes. Commence.’
Torture.
For the first minute, I stare at my screen and think, Why?
For the next five, each tick of the clock seems to crawl underneath my shirtsleeves, irritating my skin.
I wonder what kind of story Mr Witheridge would write if he ever made himself do the stupid tasks he sets for us. Then I have an idea about a boy who sees a girl’s face in a map: the outline of her face is made up of streets he knows. Her hair twisting away is the river. But when he goes for a walk to find her, she gets eaten up by the traffic and people and he can’t see her any more. What’s the ending?
The time is up and I’ve got no story. Instead of what I think is going to happen next – Mr Witheridge bailing me out for having nothing to show for the last ten minutes – this happens instead: the door opens, someone tall walks in and there’s a searing pain in my arm.