Hugo and I were fourteen years old and he’d been struggling with something the rest of us took for granted – the simple act of living - his whole life. We started primary school together, that’s how we’d met, and for the last ten years I’d watched him break down and recover more times than I could remember. Some days, I felt too young to know so much about disabilities and mental illness, but I’d had no choice. In those ten years, no one else seemed to notice how much pain he was in. Teachers labelled him disruptive and unwilling. His parents punished his ‘naughty’ outbursts and refusal to follow orders. Only I noticed the patterns, saw his triggers, accepted them.
As a young kid, I didn’t really understand, didn’t know why other kids making a racket would make him throw his chair across the classroom, or why he’d scream if someone touched him. But even I, as a tiny kid, realised if I didn’t do those things around him, he wouldn’t react that way. And Hugo, as an equally small child, noticed the efforts I made. He’d thank me with smiles from his desk to mine. Then, he started standing closer and closer to me at playtime to see what I was doing. Finally, he didn’t run away when I spoke to him, and from that day on, we’d been inseparable. Also, from that day, I’d been the only one who’d made the effort to get to know him, understand him, to help him in the best way a kid could…
Until we reached high school. I supposed I’d never know what had drawn Mrs Armstrong’s attention to him, I was only glad it had. I knew from Hugo that Miss had started having regular contact with his mum regarding her concerns, and I also knew from Hugo that his mum hadn’t been very cooperative. Mrs Armstrong had wanted Hugo to be assessed for autism, told him she thought he met the criteria, which Hugo had felt really embarrassed about ever since. I didn’t know why. There were a few autistic kids in our year and some of them were wicked smart, just like Hugo. She also wanted to refer Hugo for talking therapy for his anxiety and, in recent months, they’d had discussions about the possibility of him being depressed. I wasn’t there, of course, but Hugo told me everything.
So that’s where we were now. Mrs Hayes might have thought more of the vodka bottle than she did her own son, but she at least had the decency to sign the forms that Mrs Armstrong put together. We had help now. Real help. Grown-up help. People listened to grown-ups. Mrs Armstrong had been fighting Hugo’s corner for over three years now, battling knock backs, appeals, and massive waiting lists.
“Of course you can do it,” I told him, snaking my arm around Hugo’s waist and cuddling into his chest. “You’ll have me. We can do anything together.”
I felt his chin land on top of my head. He kissed my hair. “Yeah,” was all he said.
“And you know what, even if you are a fruitcake, you’re the best fucking fruitcake. You’re my fruitcake, and I need you. I’m too fat for everyone else, so you have to keep going.”
Hugo tutted, shoved my body with his. “Stop it. You know I won’t have you talking like that about yourself. You’re one of the prettiest girls in school.”
“As if.”
“Well, you’re the only girl my eyes like to look at.”
I smiled at that. He could say the sweetest things.
“She took the guitar. My mum. This morning, I lost my shit over the TV being too loud and she took my fucking guitar. I’ll probably get it back eventually, but I need it now.”
“Oh, Hugo…” That instrument meant everything to him. It’d barely left his hands since my mum had told him he could keep it a few years ago. It had been passed down from my grandad, who I’d never had a chance to meet. Hugo was an amazing player and completely self-taught. Whenever he felt down or embarrassed about his autism diagnosis, I’d remind him that it’d also given him a wonderful talent. I didn’t know anyone else with as much focus and drive, with such painstaking attention to detail. Hugo’s autism made him a perfectionist, possibly to the point of being obsessive about stuff, but it was what had made him excel on that guitar, the guitar which brought him a lot of joy.
“She doesn’t get it. She said if I can’t stand the racket coming from the telly, I won’t be needing the racket from the guitar. It’s not the same though, Heli. It’s not the same.”
“I know,” was all I could think of to say. “I know it isn’t.” Hugo had told me he wasn’t averse to noise in general, but that he needed to be in control. He had to know when to expect it, and what it would sound like. Otherwise, it felt like nails scraping inside his ears, and it got louder and louder until he couldn’t hear his own thoughts anymore. Music took him to another world, he’d said. He could hear notes in almost everything, and remember them as if his brain had taken a photograph on the spot.