Mom tapped her horn three times behind me. I’d recognize that urgent tinny sound anywhere. “That’s my mom. I have to go.”
“Do you want to hang out later?” Naomi asked.
Grandma’s voice echoed across the lawn, calling my name. “We have ten minutes to get to your appointment!” Of course Mom had to bring her.
“What appointment?” Naomi asked.
I sighed. There was no way out. “Just seeing a doctor.”
Her eyes widened. “What for?”
“Um… stuff.”
She nodded like she understood. “Oh,
Roger chuckled. “Tell your mom you can get a ride from me and Naomi from now on, if you want.”
“Sure, okay. Bye.” I turned around and jogged to the car, ignoring whatever Naomi called after me.
Dr. Weber had about ninety different pictures of cats on her desk and a yellow rocking chair by the window. It was meant for kids, but I fit in it just fine. Mom sat cross-legged on the generic brown couch near the door.
“How are you today, Drea?” Dr. Weber asked.
I shrugged and stared at her shiny lips, wondering what kind of lipstick she used. Anything to ignore her squinty blue eyes and incessant writing. The lyrics to the Smashing Pumpkins song “Bullet with Butterfly Wings” roared through my mind every time I was in a doctor’s office.
Mom cleared her throat. “She always gets a little shy in these situations, but she’s adapted remarkably well over the years.”
The blond doctor flipped through my file and nodded. “She was diagnosed with ADHD?”
“Yes, in kindergarten,” Mom rambled on. “Her last doctor thought she had AS, but her symptoms are so mild… I mean, it’s not always obvious.”
The doctor nodded. “Right. It’s a difficult diagnosis. No two people with Asperger’s—or with autism, for that matter—are the same. And females do tend to have less obvious symptoms.”
“Do you have other patients with Asperger’s?” Mom asked.
“Of all ages—children to grandparents.” The doctor closed the file and looked in my direction again. She leaned back in her chair, folding her hands in her lap. “How’d your first day of school go, Drea?”
“It was school.” I never understood that question. Did they want a synopsis of my entire day? Most people gave short answers like “great” or “fine” or “crappy.” And telling someone I had a crappy day at school usually provoked the question “why?” But they didn’t really want to know why because they’d end up interrupting me and changing the subject.
“Did you make any new friends?”
“Yes.”
“There’s a girl across the street that has taken a liking to her,” Mom said. “It’s the first time in a while—she hasn’t had a friend in years.”
“Why do you have to tell my life story?” I asked her.
“You don’t like it when your mom speaks for you?”
“She has this need to tell everyone we meet that I have this
“I told you that in seventh grade, after what those girls did to you,” Mom argued. “But your last doctor suggested that I inform the school, family members, and friends. People need to know what you’re dealing with.”
“Why does every guy you date need to know?”
Mom opened her mouth to protest, but the doctor broke in. “Does your new friend know?”
“No, and I want to keep it that way.”
“She really has come a long way.” Mom repeated herself, as always. “When she was little, she had a lot of run- ins with other kids, and I had a hard time getting her to bathe or—”
“Mom!”
“But now”—Mom uncrossed her legs and sat up—“she’s doing better in school, and her, um, you know, grooming habits have improved, and—”
“You always got shampoo in my eyes. That’s why I didn’t like it.”
“Even when I got you the tear-free shampoo, you still resisted. But that’s not the poi—”
“No, it’s not the point. Because I was five then, and I’m sixteen now. I take showers every day, I brush my teeth every night, I wear deodorant—even shave my legs. Because you wouldn’t shut up about it. ‘Comb your hair, Drea. Wear some perfume, Drea. Spend ninety million hours staring in the mirror like I do, Drea.’”
Mom rolled her eyes and sighed.
“If I may break in here,” Dr. Weber said. “I think your mother is trying to tell you that she’s proud of your progress.”
“Exactly,” Mom said, bobbing her head.
