Harmonic Feedback

Justin didn’t say much on the way home, but I was okay with that. I never got why people had issues with silence, especially with good music playing. He gave me a hug and said he’d see me tomorrow. And that I’d better be prepared to jam.

I was more than ready.

Mom shuffled away from the living room window when I walked in. “I thought you said you were out with Naomi.”

A lump formed in my throat. I wanted to tell her everything—what happened over the weekend, the things Justin said. How lost I felt. I wasn’t used to keeping things from her. “She had stuff to do with Roger.”

A smile flickered across her lips. “I see.”

“Why did you have to tell Justin about me?”

She sighed. “I’m happy that you’re making friends here, baby. But new friends bring new experiences, and I want them to understand you, why you may not always react how they expect.”

There she went again. Talking to me like I couldn’t handle anything on my own. “How can anyone really understand anyone? We aren’t in each other’s heads,” I said.

“Well, that’s true, but—”

“Why do I need a disclaimer? It’s not like I’m hurting people… or myself. And it’s not like I don’t try. I try really hard.”

Her dark eyes softened. “I know you do. And I am proud of you. I hope you know that.”

“Then why do you have to tell everyone that I have Asperger’s?”

“It’s not a dirty word, Drea. It just means that you have a unique mind, which is something you should embrace. The world needs more people like you.”

“Then why are you always trying to change me?”

Mom moved closer to me, shaking her head. “I’m not. I’m trying to teach you ways to cope—how to communicate with people who don’t think like you do. It’s a good skill for anyone to have, a necessary one.”

I looked away, clasping and unclasping my hands. She’d told me this before. It seemed rehearsed, like lines she’d memorized out of a book. “I wish you’d give me a real answer for once.”

She rubbed her temple, her mouth turning down at the corners. “Okay, Drea. What is it you’d like me to say or do? I’m only trying to—”

“Help. I know. But you aren’t helping by treating me like a baby, by telling people that something is wrong with me before they even get to know me. Let me decide if I want them to know or not.”

“I don’t use the term wrong. I just explain your diagnosis and how it affects you. But”—Mom held her hand up, giving me her stop sign before I could interrupt—“I won’t tell anyone else without your permission.”

“That’s all I wanted.”

She wrapped her arms around me, squeezing me tight. “I know you want to work a lot of this stuff out for yourself, but it’s hard for me to let go. Be patient with me, okay?”

I nodded and swallowed hard, thinking about Justin, wondering if his mom had said the same stuff to him. I couldn’t imagine Mom not always being around. “I love you,” I said.

Her chest shook. I couldn’t tell if it was from tears or laughter. Maybe it was both.

ON THURSDAY, Mr. Diaz showed his favorite example of a long shot—Godard’s Week End. This included a horrendous traffic jam and a continuous barrage of horns. Apparently, they thought honking made traffic move faster in 1960s France. This little black car managed to weave its way through, while the other cars sat in line.

Justin turned in his seat and whispered, “This has to be the most boring and interesting clip I’ve ever seen.”

I glanced at Mr. Diaz and leaned forward. “That made no sense.”

“It’s getting really repetitive, but I keep expecting Godzilla to show up.”

The last bit showed mangled bodies in the grass and some guy walking around them like they weren’t even there. I used to see people do that to the homeless in the city. Half the time they looked dead, but Mom said they were probably passed out drunk.

“Okay.” Mr. Diaz flipped the TV off. “What did you guys think?”

At least half the classroom was asleep, drawing, or otherwise preoccupied with something on their desks.

The dark-haired emo boy raised his hand. “I don’t get the point. If people were so pissed about the black car cutting through, why didn’t they slug the driver? They just stood there waving their arms like idiots.”

“Yeah,” another guy chimed in. “They kept getting out of their cars like they were gonna give him a beat-down and then nothing happened.”

“I thought it was obnoxious,” Casey said.

“All good points,” Mr. Diaz said. “Why do you think they held back?”

I raised my hand. “It’s a picture of society. How nobody tries to help each other—it’s everyone for themselves.”

“I think the black car is breaking free from the rat race in a sense,” Justin said. “All these people were lined up for the daily grind, and the driver of the black car said, Screw it, nobody is going to stop me.”