“They did a better job with the autistic-coded character than the queer character, though,” Stellar says. “At least he gets laid.”
Popcorn falls out of my mouth. “The what?”
“The autistic-coded character,” she repeats. “A lot of books and movies have characters who aren’t labeled autisticper se,but we get hints they are from their mannerisms, clothes, speech, whatever. This guy I worked with pointed it out when we watchedDon’t Look Up. Funny dude; he joked that he disclosed his autism up front becausehiscommunication was fine, but non-autistic people needed help learning to say what they meant.” She laughs.
I stop paying attention to the movie. The character whose life reminds me so much of mine… is autistic-coded? Does that mean…?
No. Somebody would have picked it up, like with Eleanor. My teachers, or my parents, or my doctor. A decades-old movie is not a diagnostic test. I’m just exhausted from getting magic, and emotional from everything else, and that line of thinking needs to go away right now.
In the background, Elle Woods prepares to destroy everyone who’s ever underestimated her because of the way she presents herself. Although even Elle had to change herself to get taken seriously.
Stellar’s phone bursts into Darth Vader’s theme music. “Work, ugh,” she says, though her tight shoulders tell me it’s probably Jen. “Babe, I’m so sorry, but this will take a while. I’d better go.” She sets the popcorn bowl on the floor and shakes crumbs into it from her shirt.
“Ahhh, noooo. You just got here!”
“I know. Can we finish the movie tomorrow? I’ll make time for your presentation thingy, too.”
“Tomorrow I’m going to the driving range, then straight to improv. Saturday?”
Stellar’s face flattens in a blink. “The driving range? You hate golf. You said it’s an environmental disaster combined with a tax avoidance nightmare.”
“Yes, but I have to learn how. People won’t listen to my pitch unless I have the right business skills.”
And I have four weeks left. One week till the pre-pitch. Between improv, the driving range, extra practice with Tobin, and after-hours work events, I’m burning all my free time before even opening my pitch materials. The last two nights I’ve woken up sweating from Q&A session nightmares where I fail to answer the same basic question over and over.
“Liz…” Stellar’s mouth looks like she put bad milk on her cereal. “Are you sure you’re doing this for the right reasons? It’s fine if that’s whatyouwant to do,” she adds quickly. “I’m just worried you’re losing sight of what you believe in. And I love you the way you are.”
“Yeah,” I say, bitter. “You and exactly no one else.”
She makes a frustrated sound. “Why don’t you leave Waste by North? There are so many jobs where you’d shine—”
“Jobs where I couldn’t get past the interview, remember?”
“—without having to give yourself a creepy personality makeover so your square peg fits into a round corporate hole.”
“Iwanta personality makeover, Stellar! You’ve never been the square peg. You don’t know what it’s like not to get things because you’re the wrong shape.” I blink away tears. “I’m thirty. My career’s going nowhere. My marriage is in the toilet. I can’t waste this chance, Stel. I need some doors to open, even if I have to pick the lock.”
I think of what Sharon said at the Kraken. “I can do things differently and still be myself. Like when people who are afraid of spiders touch a bunch of spiders and then they get much better at, uh… touching spiders. I’m aware that doesn’t sound like a good prize, but you know what I mean.”
“Okay,” Stellar grumbles. “But I hope you’re all right, babe. I’m here if you need me.”
The house has a hollow quiet once Stellar’s gone. Eleanor’s asleep, contorted into one of those anatomically improbable kid positions, drooling into Yeti’s fur.
The cat complains when I extract him from his bestie’s embrace to lift Eleanor into my arms. He limps to the edge of the couch, readies himself to jump, and launches crookedly at Stellar’s bowl of buttery popcorn shrapnel.
Everything flips—the cat, the metal bowl that clashes across the hardwood, the greasy kernels flying in slow motion toward my parents’ dry-clean-only decor. Yeti leaps sideways in confusion and fear, scrambling up the back of the entertainment console.
“Yeti, no!” I whisper, as he bumps the DVD player out of its slot. It tilts, sliding off the shelf at first slowly, then all at once.
The level of noise is astounding: the cat yowling, expensive things smashing, and me hissing “fuck” on a loop.
Eleanor doesn’t twitch an eyelid.
I stand in the wreckage for a while before I’m able to make a list.
1.Put Eleanor to bed.
2.Make it so Amber can’t lecture me for breaking the machine that plays Eleanor’s shows.
