Tally stares at the bowl in front of her and tries to stay calm.
“But I don’t understand,” says Dad, his voice exasperated. “You used to love tomato soup. What’s wrong with it?”
The simple answer to his question is everything, but Tally knows that he won’t get it. And she wants him to understand, she really does. She needs him to know that she isn’t being naughty or difficult or fussy. She needs him to know that she can’t help how the bowl in front of her is making her feel.
“Is it the colour?” asks Mum, trying to be helpful.
Tally nods. The colour is one of the problems. Red is the colour of anger and explosion and STOP, and she doesn’t want to put any of that in her mouth.
“Is it the texture?” continues Mum. She and Dad have been on a course for parents of autistic children, and Tally can always tell when she’s trying out one of the strategies that they have suggested. It makes her feel cross – they keep on telling her how unique she is, but then try to use tactics that work with other kids. Sometimes when Mum uses this stuff, Tally pretends that it doesn’t work, even when the ideas are quite good. She isn’t other kids and she can’t just be put into a special “autistic” box.
She ignores Mum but the texture is a problem. It’s smooth and silky and the thought that there could be a rogue tomato lump lurking in the murky depths makes her stomach turn.
“Has anyone thought that it might just be the taste?” Nell rolls her eyes at Tally. “Because I don’t know about you, but I think it tastes like wet cardboard.”
Tally feels a giggle bubble up inside her, but it is quickly squashed when Dad sighs heavily and puts his spoon down loudly on the table.
“I’ve had quite enough of this,” he says. “I’ve cooked us all a delicious lunch and everyone just needs to stop talking and eat up.”
Tally’s head starts to fizz. Mum and Dad have learnt a ton of stuff on their course, but they still don’t seem to understand how it makes her feel when they order her about.
So tell them.
She glances around, but Dad is picking up his spoon and Mum has a mouthful of soup and Nell is busy cutting a piece of toast into small strips. None of them are looking at her and none of them are talking.
Be brave, Tally. Try to tell them.
She swallows hard and takes a deep breath. How can she tell them when her throat is closed up and her stomach is whirling? How can she tell them when the words won’t come out of her mouth?
She picks up the bowl and holds it in her hands, careful not to spill a single drop. She might not have the words to tell them, but she can show them and then they might understand that no matter what they say, she cannot eat this soup.
“Tally.” Mum’s voice is quiet and calm.
She looks up and sees Mum and Nell looking at her while Dad’s eyes dart frantically between her and the pristine kitchen wall that he spent all of last Sunday painting.
“Talk to me, lovely girl.” Mum keeps on trying, but it doesn’t matter how gently she says it, Tally can’t get the words out of her mouth. Maybe if she was sitting on top of the shed roof then they’d be able to fly free but here, in the house, they’re imprisoned in her head.
She takes aim. The red soup is going to look kind of amazing dripping down the white wall.
“Maybe you can write down how you’re feeling.” Mum’s words push through the buzzing in Tally’s head. “If you can’t tell us, maybe you can write it down. Some people find that writing in a journal can really help them figure out their thoughts, so I got you this.”
Tally blinks away the red and looks at Mum, who is getting up and walking across to open one of the kitchen drawers. She pulls out a book and then brings it back to the table, holding it in front of Tally.
“It’s a diary,” she tells her. “And it’s just for you. You can write in it – but only if you want to, and it’s not for anyone else to read.”
“Why?” Tally lowers the bowl of soup and pretends not to hear Dad’s sigh of relief. “What am I supposed to write?”
Mum looks at her. “You can write whatever you want to write. How you’re feeling or what you’ve been doing or your hopes and dreams for the future.” She laughs. “It’s the book of you.”
“So the whole thing is about me?” asks Tally, taking the diary from Mum and turning it over in her hands. “And I can write anything in it? Anything at all?”
“Yes,” confirms Mum, picking up her spoon.
“Can I write about what it’s like to be autistic?” Tally opens the first page and sees a clean, blank page. “Can I write about who I really am?”
“You can.” Mum smiles, a little secret smile, like she’s feeling warm inside. “So, do you think you might like to use it?”
Tally pushes the bowl away and picks up a piece of toast. Later on she can tell her new diary all about how it makes her feel when people try to make her do things that upset her or scare her or make her feel worried, but right now her stomach is growling and she wants to eat her lunch.
“I might,” she says, putting the diary carefully on to the table. “Maybe. If I feel like it.”
Mum nods and starts talking to Nell about her plans for the afternoon. Dad keeps eating his soup, pausing now and then to join in with their conversation. And Tally munches her toast and gazes at her diary. She has big plans for this journal and she likes the idea of having her own way to figure out who she really is and helping other people to see her too.
She’s going to write the book of her.
And it’s going to be wild and fierce and real, and all the amazing, wonderful things that she is. Because if she knows only one thing, it’s that there are lots of ways to be her and every single one of them is special.