Swimming carnival.
For a person with sensory processing issues, a swimming carnival is what hell would look like. The warm, wet claustrophobia of the building, the cheering and shouting, the garish team colours, the stench of chlorine. I’d composed several compelling arguments in order to persuade Mum to let me stay home, but Mum always declined. You need to show team spirit, Fern, she’d say. It’s important to support your peers.
On the first year, I’d steeled myself. I wasn’t required to participate, at least (one upside of attending a school with no mandatory sport). All that was required was that I stand on the side and cheer. I came prepared with earplugs, but it was the smell that did me in. It was something else. It wasn’t the mild fragrance of saltwater and chlorine like I’d smelled in backyard swimming pools. It was warm and wet; stale and dank. The moment I walked inside, I felt it permeate every pore. It felt like being underwater, but without the wonderful silence. On the contrary, it was the worst kind of loud. Inside loud.
Rose had taken my hand as we walked inside, which I knew was supposed to be a gesture of comfort, but it made my skin crawl. It felt like yet another thing coating me, begging for my attention. She led us to the top of the stadium, the second row from the back, and sat me on the floor. From there, with everyone standing in front, the teachers couldn’t see us and no-one could pester us to cheer. It wasn’t ideal, but it was the best I could hope for. I felt like I was drowning. The chlorine stuck to my skin, the back of my school dress, my feet. I tolerated it, just, until Rose went to do her races (Rose, for some unimaginable reason, had signed up for the fifty-metre freestyle and the relay). ‘Just keep your head down,’ Rose had said before she left. ‘I’ll be back as soon as I can.’
I passed the time by counting backward from a million in nines. But the time dragged on and on. Just when I thought I couldn’t take it another second, Mr McIntosh noticed me on the floor and shouted for me to stand up. (Mr McIntosh was the science teacher. He had yellow teeth and smelled of onions and breath mints.) At the same time as he pointed, my team must have won something because an almighty victorious roar erupted in the stadium. In the row in front of me, a boy I didn’t recognise, with long, white-blonde hair, picked me up and spun me around, jumping up and down and shouting ‘YAAAAAAAAASSSSSSS’. My senses exploded. It was as though I’d slipped into another dimension.
I didn’t mean to hurt him. It must have been a reflex. A well-executed reflex that started with an eye gouge and followed with a knee smash to the groin. I was starting to calm down when someone touched me from behind. A reverse elbow-strike later, Mr McIntosh had a broken nose.
During the follow-up meeting, our school principal, Ms Knight, had commented that ‘the greatest concern is the fact that she hasn’t even shown any remorse’. I told her that, on the contrary, all I felt was relief, because it could have been so much worse.
I knew that in that moment, I could have killed someone.
*
I arrive at the Botanic Gardens at quarter to twelve, fifteen minutes before my scheduled date with Wally. I’d planned to use the extra time to secure a spot in the shade, lay out the blanket I’d brought from home and unpack the sandwiches. I packed honey for myself, as usual, and one honey and one Vegemite for Wally, in case he doesn’t care for honey. But as I enter through the east gate, I am alarmed to find that Wally is already here, sitting on a blanket in the shade of a tree, his long legs stretched out in front of him.
‘You’re early!’ I exclaim.
‘I always try to arrive a quarter of an hour early, if I can.’
‘Really?’ I say, in wonder. ‘So do I.’
‘Who doesn’t value punctuality?’ he says, shrugging.
‘A lot of people, actually,’ I say. ‘I think you’d be surprised.’
I arrange myself comfortably on the blanket, which is adequately sized for the two of us and not at all scratchy, unlike so many other picnic blankets. Our date had been fairly straightforward to organise, once I’d explained to Wally what a date was.
‘You’re asking me on a date?’ he said, after I’d asked him. It was a surprise since he’d clearly heard, and I couldn’t see how he would need any further clarification.
‘Yes,’ I said, as slowly and clearly as I could.
Still, he looked bewildered. So much so that for the barest second, he looked me directly in the eyes. ‘A . . . date?’
At this point I was starting to doubt his professed IQ. Wally was silent for long enough that I started wondering if he’d had a medical episode. Had I made a social faux pas? The brief research I’d done on the computers had confirmed that girls did this sort of thing nowadays – asked boys on dates – and yet the poor boy seemed utterly perplexed. It occurred to me that it might be the word ‘date’ throwing him off.
‘According to Urban Dictionary, a date is where two people get together for an activity when the possibility of romance between them has been broached but not ruled out,’ I explained.
Wally’s face remained blank. I sighed. This was the exact reason I favoured planning over spontaneity. Normally, when I did something outside of the ordinary – like competing in a karate tournament, or attending a librarians’ convention at the state library – I spent a lot of time planning for it. Familiarising myself with the best route to take, checking the
