So while I’ve spent many hours studying autism, to the point of feeling like an expert, I still can’t always hide the fact that I am, in fact, on that fucking spectrum. I mean … you don’t have to tell someone you’re a diabetic. You can keep that a secret until you pass out from low blood sugar. Then it’s like, “Oh, yeah … sorry I passed out on you. Did I forget to mention I’m diabetic?”
My “disorder” doesn’t cause me to pass out. It just contributes to really poor social etiquette choices and occasional meltdowns over things like spaghetti dinner invitations. But unlike the diabetic, I never say, “Oh, did I forget to mention that I’m autistic?”
“Just tell him you’re a vegetarian.” Mom smiles her see-I-just-solved-your-problem smile.
“So, I’m supposed to call him just to tell him I’m a vegetarian? What about the spice level and the chunkiness? He’s not going to ask me to watch Roman. He’s going to think I’m crazy. Especially since his mom is a talk doctor. You guys are no help.”
I march out. Why? Why did I think they could help? I give them too much credit for understanding things they clearly don’t understand.
CHAPTER SIX
Dr. Hawkins doesn’t work every weekend. And the one weekend I need him to work … he isn’t scheduled. That means I have one day, one chance to talk to him about the spaghetti dinner. Friday is my day—my only day.
I type out texts, but delete every single one. It isn’t something that can easily be discussed with a text no matter how many emojis I use to convey my feelings. And my feelings are strong. I want him to invite me to dinner.
Thanks for the dinner invitation. (high-five emoji)
I don’t eat meat. Cheese is my drug of choice. (living cow emoji, cheese emoji, smiley face emoji)
If you and Roman like meat, maybe consider balls instead of a meat sauce. (eggplant emoji) LOL. (wink emoji)
My humor isn’t everyone’s taste, but I feel a connection to Dr. Hawkins, like maybe he might appreciate it.
I’m not great at picking out wine, but I could bring the sauce. (spaghetti emoji, tomato emoji, high-five emoji)
Something not too spicy—for Roman. (high-five emoji)
JK about the wine. Ice water is great. (water emoji, high-five emoji)
It’s a lot of high-five emojis, which is great if he likes that emoji. But what if he doesn’t? Then I’m the girl obsessed with high-five emojis. And while I know it isn’t a date, I like him enough to care what he thinks of me.
Which is why I need to handle the spaghetti situation in the most neurotypical way possible.
Face-to-face.
Forcing eye contact.
Reciting my words just as I’ve practiced them.
I want to help him out with Roman. I just don’t want to seem ungrateful for his efforts if the meal involves a meaty, chunky, spicy sauce.
“Dr. Hawkins!” I chase him out the door just before 7:00 p.m. He gets off an hour before me. Lucky.
He turns, a grin immediately finding his lips. It plunges into a flat line as he looks over my shoulder. “Is she your patient?”
I know who has his attention—Layne Gibson and her possible concussion from a gymnastics accident. We were on our way back to her room when I saw Dr. Hawkins leaving for the day.
“No. I don’t have patients. She’s Dr. Freeman’s patient.”
“Waiting in the atrium for you. Did you abandon her? I think that’s a big rule. Don’t ever leave a patient unattended in a wheelchair.”
“Gary’s watching her. If she looks like she’s about to puke, he’ll give me a heads-up.”
“Who’s Gary?” Dr. Hawkins cocks his head to the side.
“Security guard.”
“Why don’t you get Dr. Freeman’s patient where she’s supposed to be and call me when you get off work?”
“I can’t. That’s why I ran after you. If what I have to say could be said over the phone, then of course I would have just called you. Not really. I would have texted you.”
His focus stays glued to Layne. “Make it quick.”
“I’m a vegetarian.” By some miracle, I manage to hold back the full vomit—my love of cheese, meatballs verses meat sauce, and tomato chunks.
His attention shifts to me, and the smile returns. “That’s what you couldn’t say over the phone or in a text?”
I nod. “See … I’m smiling.” I point to my face. “I still want to come to dinner. I’ll bring my own sauce if it makes things easier. Or even plain spaghetti is great. If you have parmesan cheese, I’ll put that on it. I love cheese. God … I love it so much. All dairy really. I just didn’t want you to mistake me for a vegan.”
He blinks so many times, I start counting them. By ten, he slides his key fob from his pocket. “Get back to work, Dorothy. I won’t feed you the hog.”