Change of strategies, it is.
“It’s such a beautiful day today, the blue sky, no clouds. I love the sound of New York City. Can you hear the buzz? The honking?” I say to get her focus on something externally. It’s what works best when someone is struggling with internal sensation overload. “And do you smell the freshly mowed grass? It’s actually oxygenated hydrocarbons released as a chemical distress signal.”
Her shoulders relax slightly.
“Oxygenated hydrocarbons are so funny,” I continue. “Because they are responsible for many of the most distinct scents and aromas we know. And while they can create the most beautiful experience in the world, they can be so toxic, even deadly.”
She is completely confused.
“Walk with me,” I say and tilt my head sideways. She does indeed walk.
I don’t say another word. We just walk around the campus. I still have her phone in my hand.
We circle around the main quad for the third time when she speaks.
“How do you know all of it?” she asks.
“All of what?”
“How to deal—“ she says and hesitates before she adds, “with me.”
I chuckle.
“I don’t deal with you,” I say. “You’re not a problem to deal with. You process a world made for neurotypical people differently. That doesn’t make you a problem, but rather the construction, does it not?”
She stops in her tracks, and I do, too. At a little distance. Right now, she is a much different version from the bossy professor in the lecture. She is insecure. She believes she is a problem. Probably because of that dragon of a mother I just heard on the phone.
“But how do you know?” she asks in a different tone. Less clinical. And it might be the first time I see the person behind the image she created as a respected professor. One, she needs to be as young as she is in an environment with so many older men who are believed to be the wisest. At least that’s what my impression is from the other two classes I've had so far.
“Why is it important?” I ask her because I don’t want to tell another lie. I can’t. And I have to. Because I swore to never speak about it. It is all so messed up.
Why did I even do it?I question myself in my mind as the consequences of my stupid act follow me.
“Do not evade my questions,” she says, much harsher, and I see the behavioral expert resurfacing.
“A girl in my class was on the spectrum,” I say and lie directly in her face.
“Liar,” she says immediately, with authority that backs me into a corner. It’s like my past is suffocating me.
“Yeah, well, you wanted to be lied to,” I snap at her, and because I am not myself right now, but a walking, high as fuck, identity crisis, I throw her phone at her, and turn to leave without one more glance.
I need to get away. Out of here. Forget all this. Maybe burn it all and move somewhere else. Restart everything again somewhere else. New identity. New papers. New name. New life. It’s what I do best: burn bridges and never look back.
“Wait,” she calls after me. But I don’t listen.
Suddenly, a hand grasps my arm. An electric sensation runs through my body, freezing me to the spot.
She touched me. But I can’t. I am going to slip. And not just a bit, it’ll all blow up in my face.
So I remove myself from the touch.
I’m in my studio half an hour later, and without saying hi to El, I get more of the cocaine, drown my emotions in two lines and half a bottle of whiskey.
“What happened with you?” asks El as I sink to the floor, leaning against the kitchen counter.
“Don’t ask,” I say.
El comes over to me, takes a sip from the bottle in my hand, and then lies on the floor next to me, with her head on my outstretched thighs.