CHAPTER ONE #2
Someone at the back of the room laughed, while the teachers standing on the perimeter of the hall exchanged wary glances.
‘Hi.’ Raina beamed out at the sea of young faces. Some bored, some defensive and some curious. ‘My name is Raina Lewis. I’m self-employed, I live here in London and I’m autistic.’
A tentative hand was raised into the air.
‘Go ahead,’ Raina said brightly, nodding at the pupil.
‘Um, hi,’ the girl said, lowering her arm quickly and pulling her hair forward so it covered almost all of her face. She then tugged at the sleeves of her jumper, making sure they were concealing her hands. ‘I don’t have a question, I just wanted to say I listen to your podcast.’
‘Oh, nice.’ Raina felt a twinge of kinship with the girl and her shyness. Not unlike how Raina had been at fourteen. ‘Thank you so much.’
‘We’ll have questions and comments for both speakers at the end, Stephanie,’ Miss Lamb said curtly, eyeing the girl in the front row.
‘Okay, fine,’ Raina said, sharing a conspiratorial look of solidarity with Stephanie, who smiled.
‘So! A little more about me. I’m autistic.
I had an absolutely appalling time at school.
I failed everything but art and drama. Didn’t go to university.
I’ve been a cleaner, a nanny, a secretary and now a podcaster.
On The Disability Track, we talk about disability (obviously), love, loss, fashion, sex and basically anything that we want. It’s inclusive. It’s fun.’
She threw a pointed look at Mrs Horn.
‘I like to think I have a ton of empathy – I cry at the Christmas adverts. My best friend is my life. I wouldn’t change this funny little brain of mine for all the dull grey suits in the shop.
There are literally six million ways to be neurodivergent, every single case is different, but my God, don’t believe what these neurotypicals say about us – it’s so without imagination. ’
Laughter rippled across the crowd of girls.
‘I’d like you all to forget everything that you think you know about autistic women.
Statistically, some of you will be neurodivergent.
You may know it already, you may not. That may be ahead of you.
Maybe some of you know something inside is different.
I’m sorry you have to listen to people talk at length about how tragic and terrible it is to be us, or to be in our lives.
Or how we’re not real. Don’t listen to it.
It’s a crock of shit. There are nasty rumours out there about people like me and I don’t know who started them – male scientists maybe – but you should take us on a case-by-case basis. ’
Raina told some stories about podcast listeners who had written in with very specific romantic entanglements. The girls all grew from reticent to engaged. A renegade hand flew into the air, and before the teacher could dash the opportunity, Raina invited the girl to speak.
‘I have two questions,’ the girl said, her words rapid and a little breathless.
‘Firstly. Um, do you, like, does it . . . is it hard when people think you’re not, like, smart?
Or not like other people? Like, your show is about love and dating and stuff, but is it hard when guys find out you’re different? Also, where are your shoes from?’
Raina fought a smile and gave the somewhat garbled question a moment of reflection.
‘I mean, there’s a lot to say about that first part.
It’s hypocritical of me but I would beg for all of you to stop giving two shits – sorry, two figs – about what other people think.
Right now. Everything young women and girls like, according to those who decide what is worthy and smart, must be stupid and terrible. Apparently.’
She took a breath and considered another aspect of the question. ‘Is it hard when guys find out I’m different?’
Yes.
This was too complex a conversation to have onstage in front of young strangers. She could choose humour and say that women of all neurotypes were in the trenches when it came to modern dating. Not untrue.
She could lie and say it had never been a problem. That everyone was completely understanding of disabilities and that she’d never been forced to sit across from someone in a French restaurant in Soho and hear all about his bullshit theories on vaccines.
Kids, I think I want something that might be too hard to find. If it even exists at all.
‘Love is easy,’ she finally said. ‘But relationships with other people, beyond the physical, can be difficult. For anybody.’
Nice, Miss Great Britain.
A crisp silence followed her speech. They sensed her unease.
‘And the shoes are from Liberty. I forget which brand.’
Throughout the entirety of Raina’s speech, the teachers grew more and more openly concerned.
It was clear that no one had taken the time to fully interrogate Raina’s work and what she discussed on her podcast. When corresponding over email, Raina would always carefully link some samples of the podcast. They’d clearly decided not to listen to them.
She often included her episode about orgasms or how to combat negging and gaslighting.
Partly because the latter had completely derailed and become an illuminating conversation with a listener about the best parts of tantric sex.
It wasn’t uncommon for them to see the word ‘disability’ and then nothing else.
Miss Lamb moved to the podium, looking slightly affronted. ‘All right. Thank you. Now, girls. Does anyone have any questions for Mrs Horn? Lots of potential advice for any of you wanting to go into the charity sector.’
Tumbleweed.
‘Very well,’ Miss Lamb said, reluctantly spitting the next words out. ‘Any questions for Miss Lewis?’
Almost every hand shot into the air in one sharp snap.
Raina grinned and Miss Lamb exhaled nervously.
She returned to her seat and the younger woman replaced her on the platform, beaming out at her new disciples.
Some looked cautious but still kept their arms firmly raised, while others were almost airborne with desperation, needing their question or comment to be the first.
Amazing, thought Raina. I’m actually having a nice time in a school building. For once.
Her own schooldays had been far from rosy.
‘Thank you, all. Let’s start with . . . you.’ She pointed to an eager young face in the third row.
‘I heard your episode about how to handle sexist bosses,’ the girl said ardently. ‘Is it true you spelled out a resignation letter with your boss’s teabags?’
‘Oh, that story,’ Raina mused, nostalgia creeping into her voice. ‘Okay, yes, but here’s what you need to know!’
As teachers cast panicked expressions across the room, Raina Lewis happily answered the students’ questions. She stood in front of the sea of conservative uniforms in her audacious clothes, with her loud hair and even louder laugh.
She held court. A jester who had dared to clamber onto the throne.