I stood on our lawn and looked at the beach. There was no sign of Jake or Lisa, and I wasn’t totally convinced they were coming either. Why would he want to come here and build a sandcastle with us? To be honest, a part of me hoped he wouldn’t come. I didn’t exactly have much experience when it came to hanging out with (straight) guys, let alone popular ones who probably talked about things I knew nothing about; our rugby world cup win, whey protein, and whatever else was on jockish conversational offer.
No. That was a lie. When I said I didn’t have much experience with (straight) guys, what I really meant to say was that I have zero experience. I am a total cliché: the fat girl who’s never been kissed. I can’t even pretend that it’s intentional, that I’m saving myself for the “right guy.” Because I’m not. I would literally kiss anyone at this stage, just to say I’d done it. Andile once offered up his lips as practice, and I was so desperate that I’d almost considered them, almost.
And the more I don’t do it, the more awkward it becomes and the less I think that it will ever happen. And the less it happens, the more afraid I become that when it finally does, I’ll be terrible at it. It’s a vicious cycle. And don’t even get me started on sex—I’ve totally written that activity off. I can’t stand naked in front of the mirror myself, how on earth am I meant to get naked in front of someone else? No, I was probably going to die a virgin, or worse, I would have to find someone on those creepy websites for men who fantasize about feeding cake to fat women while the women slap them with their stomach folds. It’s strange how fat is either reviled or fetishized. There’s no middle ground for it in our society, is there? A place where fat can just exist as it is. Where it isn’t one thing or the other.
“Let’s go, let’s go. Go!” Zac pushed me toward the steep, rocky path at the bottom of the garden that led to the beach.
“Okay. Let’s go.” I held my hand out for him and this time he took it. I was just about to prep him gently for the fact that Jake and Lisa might not be coming when two figures appeared on the beach. He’d said he was coming, but honestly, I hadn’t quite believed him. Luckily for me, the small part that had believed him had convinced the part that hadn’t to change into something a little nicer, splash on some mascara, and smudge on some bronzer so I didn’t look so pale. I’m not a big fan of makeup—you would think I’d be good at it because I’m an artist, but I’m not. I tried to contour once with a NikkieTutorial. Let’s just say it didn’t end well.
“Look!” Zac jumped and almost threw himself down the steep path.
“Wait!” I grabbed him by his shirt before he plunged to the ground. Sometimes he’s got zero impulse control.
We walked down the path together, Zac pulling against me like a horse on a bit, as Lisa and Jake made their way along the beach. And then, as if both parties had timed it perfectly, we all arrived at the same spot at the exact same time.
“Um, h-hi,” I murmured awkwardly, although that hadn’t been the intention at all. I’d actually been hoping for a cool, disinterested kind of “hi.” The kind of “hi” that would give Jake the impression I was a girl about town, who’d seen and done things, was totally cool, comfortable with hanging out with the guys, and down for whatevs! Instead, my “hi” kind of screamed insecure, virgin girl.
“Hey,” Jake said. Now that “hey” was cool. That “hey” was a hey about town, and that “hey” was defs down for whatevs! I was so jealous of his “hey.”
“I can’t wait to build a sandcastle!” Lisa jumped up and down as if she wasn’t bound by gravity. She never stopped moving, it seemed. Her movements and voice also had a certain punctuated urgency to them.
“With five turrets and a moat!” Zac raised his voice and flapped his fingers a little.
“Of course, those are the most important parts!” Jake said with a reassuring smile, which seemed to relax Zac somewhat.
Jake looked at me and gave me a tiny nod; I wasn’t used to nods, either, and my eyes widened in shock. When Zac raised his voice in public people usually shook their heads in blatant disapproval. On one occasion, a woman had actually walked up to us and reprimanded my mother for allowing her child to behave like that in public. My mother had been so apologetic, but I refuse to apologize for Zac’s behavior. My mother always does, though. As if his “mess” isn’t compatible with her projected perfection. I like my brother’s mess.
But Jake seemed completely nonjudgmental. And I couldn’t help it, I smiled at him. For a second, our eyes locked and wow, he did have rather nice eyes. Especially in this late-afternoon glow. What color were they? Cobalt, azure, no . . . cerulean blue! That’s it. A little bit dusty with the slightest hint of green. I looked away quickly when a fluttering feeling started deep in my belly.
“I brought a cooler with some drinks, a bucket with some spades, and a few towels to sit on,” Jake explained.
“You come prepared,” I said, not daring to make cerulean contact amid all the fluttering. I mentally scolded myself for allowing the flutter in the first place. Girls like me shouldn’t flutter for guys like Jake. But I was fluttering. And now I couldn’t stop saying fluttering in my head. I cleared my throat and shuffled my foot in the sand awkwardly. I looked down, utterly horrified to see sand particles sticking to the hairs on my toes. I quickly curled them under. I wasn’t used to this open-toed way of life. I needed to shave there!
The sandcastle building was going well. Jake took the lead, and Lisa and Zac did whatever he said. I couldn’t quite believe how diplomatic and calm Zac was being; it made me somewhat uneasy, though. The calm before a potential storm, perhaps? Sometimes it felt like I was balancing on a knife-edge with Zac, always holding my breath, never able to fully relax. Always waiting and watching for it to come crashing down around me. But as time went on, I began to exhale slightly. They melded into a perfect little team—shaping and digging and smoothing until, from those millions of tiny grains of sand, something castle-like started to emerge. Watching them, I felt like I was watching a pointillist paint. Small points of paint on a canvas coming together to form the bigger picture. There was something almost hypnotic about watching them work, and eventually I allowed myself to relax.
But trying to get comfortable on the sand was another story altogether. I’d already tried several sitting variations, but nothing was working.
1. Crouched on my haunches. At first, this seemed okay. That was until I looked down and realized how my upper thighs looked squished together. Everything sort of bulged out at the knee. This might have been vaguely all right if it hadn’t been for the fact that in this position, under the pressure, it really brought out the shape of my cellulite. And with the sun setting behind us, shadows were being cast from all the indentations.
2. Propped up on my knees. This also worked for a while, until the wind picked up and pulled at my skirt. I tried to push it between my thighs to hold it down, but this just made me look like I was wearing very tight cycling shorts.
3. Legs crossed. No! Not enough skirt to cover every upper-thigh area, not to mention another sort of area.
4. Sitting with legs to the side. Also not great, since the entire side of my white thigh was now fully on display. But at least in this position the cellulite was more minimal and the skirt didn’t flap, so I went with it. I pulled a towel onto my lap to help hide everything a little better. (Sometimes I carry an extra hoodie around with me, even on warm days, to drape over my lap if the need arises.)
I hated feeling like this, though—uncomfortable in my own skin. Constantly fiddling with my clothing, whether it was pants that needed pulling up at the waist because they’d rolled down due to the force of a rogue stomach bulge, or having to pull my boobs back into my bra after leaning over to pick something up off the floor.
But the more I watched Zac building the castle, the more I began to forget my physical discomfort. I hardly ever saw him play like this. He was so relaxed—not obsessive at all. In fact, after several unsuccessful attempts at a turret, he let the idea go. Do you know how huge that is? One of the characteristics of his autism is mentally getting stuck on something. He once talked about our new microwave for three full days. Every conversation was about the microwave: how it looked, how it sounded, where we should put it, what we should put in it. He had so many questions about it and the way it worked, I’d had to turn to Google for the answers to satisfy his insatiable curiosity. I like to think of it like this: his brain’s like a washing machine, and sometimes a thought gets stuck in the spin cycle. That’s the only way to describe it. Currently, he’s obsessed with snakes and the universe. Which means that he knows more about black holes and neurotoxic venom than most of the experts, which is kind of brilliant and amazing if you think about it.
After another half hour or so, Jake finally broke away from the two of them and crawled over to me. My body immediately stiffened, and once again, I was acutely aware of myself and all that work to get comfortable was gone in a puff of sand.
“Hey.” He sat next to me.
“Hey,” I replied, copying his tone because it just seemed so cool and smooth.
“They’re playing well together.”
“I know. I’m surprised. Playdates often end badly, especially if Zac becomes obsessed with doing something one way and the other person doesn’t want to.”
“Kids on the spectrum have a hard time reading other people’s emotions. It makes it hard to play with others.”
“How do you know he’s on the autism spectrum?” I knew I hadn’t told him this.
“It’s pretty obvious. To me, anyway.” He smiled.
“Of course. Yes! You coach them, the hula ball . . .” For some reason, I’d almost forgotten this part.
“Hoop ball,” he corrected with another small smile. “We’re trying to get it recognized as an official Olympic sport.”
“You are?”
Jake eyed me for a moment or two and then burst out laughing. “Joking.” He nudged me playfully on my arm and—
Wait. Hang on a moment here. Let’s pause. Have I, Lori Palmer, just been nudged playfully on the arm by a straight guy? This had never happened to me before. I’d never been nudged. Not even close. Not even a half nudge. And never by someone this hot, even though he wasn’t my type. Oh, who the hell was I kidding, Jake was everyone’s type, and now my arm felt like it was on fire, and then, because I was a totally inexperienced dork, I froze. Instead of nudging him back or coming up with a clever, funny comeback, I simply turned to a block of ice. An awkward silence engulfed us and my mind raced, thinking of something to say that would break it.
“So Lisa, is she . . . ?” I let the question hang in the air.
“ADHD,” he replied.
“Zac’s also dyslexic. He’s struggling with reading and writing.”
“Lisa’s also struggling academically. She has some unspecified learning difficulties too.”
“Don’t you hate that word unspecified.” I threw some air quotes around. “I mean, if the experts don’t know what it is, then what are we supposed to do about it? It’s such a cop-out . . . unspecified!”
“Totally,” Jake agreed. “Or what about when they first think it’s auditory processing issues, and then it’s ADHD, inattentive type, but then, no, it’s actually ADHD, hyperactive, impulsive type.”
“I know! Zac went to a million doctors. He even went for an EEG and an MRI before someone finally diagnosed him correctly.” I paused, a stab in my side. Familiar stab. “I—I was relieved when he was diagnosed. Before that I just thought he was . . . irritating.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean.” Jake turned to me, his voice getting softer. “I thought Lisa was just badly behaved. I was a bit of a dick to her sometimes.”
We fell into a silence for a while, letting the gravity of our words wash over us.
“How are your mom and dad with it?” he asked.
I shrugged. “They’re divorced. Not because of that. My mom works a lot.” It was all I could manage to say about the matter, and I could see Jake was waiting for more, but honestly, I didn’t really know what else to say.
Jake nodded, though, as if he’d understood what I’d meant with that vague statement, even if I hadn’t understood it myself.
“My mom got really depressed when Lisa was diagnosed. She had to go to therapy and take antidepressants for a while. She blamed herself.” He looked down at the sand when he said it.
“That must have been hard.” My voice softened to match the sudden mood shift.
“She’s fine now, though.” He looked up at me briefly, and in that moment, I felt inexplicably close to him.
“My mom throws money at Zac’s autism. Best schools, best occupational therapists, equine therapy, speech therapy, cognitive behavioral therapy. But I think she does it not just because it’s good for him—which it is—but because she doesn’t know how to deal with it. Sometimes I think I know more about it, and how to deal with it, than her.”
A smile broke out across his face. “It’s so good to talk to someone my age who gets this stuff,” he said on a long, loud exhale. As if he’d been holding his breath this entire conversation, waiting to let it out, and now he had.
“Yeah!” I reiterated, and also breathed out. I hadn’t realized I was also holding my breath. “I’ve never spoken to anyone like this before. Well, not to anyone who wasn’t secretly judging.”
“Me neither. It’s really, really good.” Jake paused, and I could sense there was something heavy weighing his pause down. “Sometimes I feel lonely,” he said. I sat up straight; this was the last thing I’d expected a guy like him to say. “There’re support groups and therapists for parents, but what about us? Who do we talk to about this stuff?”
My chest contracted. “I know what you mean. I have these amazing friends, Guy and Andile, and they’re so understanding and supportive, but they just don’t understand it. Really understand. Sometimes I want to tell them things, but don’t.”
He looked me straight in the eyes, as if he’d deliberately sought them out. I tried to hold on to his gaze, but let it go when the flutter reared its head again.
“Tell you what,” he said. “Let’s start a kind of support group.”
“With who?”
“Just us.” He smiled.
“I don’t think you can call two people a group.”
“A support coupling then?” His perfectly imperfect lopsided smile grew even more.
“What will we do? Meet in some recreational hall and drink bad coffee while we share our feelings?”
“I think you’re confused, that’s an AA meeting. My dad goes to them, they also serve stale doughnuts.”
“Oh. Sorry, I didn’t mean to make fun of, uh, sorry . . .”
“It’s cool. He’s been sober for twenty-five years. I’ve never even seen him drink.”
“That’s amazing.”
“Yeah, I’m proud of the dude,” he said playfully.
I waited for him to speak again. But he didn’t, so I changed the subject, still worried that I might have offended him. “So, back to our support coupling. How would it work?”
“Well, we have each other’s numbers, so we can message each other when we feel we need to talk to someone.”
“That might be often. I always feel like I need to talk to someone,” I chirped.
“We can also just message each other when we feel like it too.” A softer, huskier version of his voice made my cheeks warm up, and I quickly looked out to sea. I didn’t want him to see my face in case he got the wrong idea, like I was swooning over him. Which I was!
Thankfully, Lisa came over and broke the awkward moment. “I need to pee!” She was crossing her legs tightly. “Now!”
Jake jumped up. “Okay, we’ll leave.”
“Can’t hold it. I’m going to exploooooooode.” She bent over at the waist, contorting her face into a painful-looking grimace.
“You can come to our house.”
Jake looked relieved. “Thanks!”
“Are we going now?” Zac asked and my heart dropped. Getting Zac to leave a place if he was enjoying himself was usually difficult.
“We can come back later,” I offered quickly, but couldn’t believe my eyes when he shrugged and started walking toward the house.
“I’m going to be honest,” Jake said as we all hurried up the steps, “I’ve always wanted to see this place. Hope you’re up for a guided tour.”
“Sure.” I pulled the massive sliding door open and stepped inside. I was struggling to take this all in, though. Hot, popular guy, who had nudged my shoulder and told me we were starting a support coupling, was in my house with his sister.
Could this day get any more bizarre?