Chapter 12
Aiden
Eggo lies shirtless on the bed near the window, nursing his food-baby and chatting to his six-year-old son via video call.
“Okay, Spider-Man, it’s gone nine. Pretty sure you should be asleep right now,” he says.
“I can’t sleep. My brain is too noisy,” Logan says through the phone. He has that adorable gap-toothed lisp of a primary-schooler.
I’m sitting on the other bed. I can’t see Logan, but Eggo’s face is illuminated by the blue light from the screen. One arm is tucked behind his head, and his post-shower armpit hair looks particularly fluffy.
“Why, what’s your brain saying now?” he asks.
“Six seven, and also what would happen if there was no gravity?”
Eggo answers without missing a beat, obviously used to having left-of-field questions thrown at him. “Well, I reckon we’d all be floating around and bumping into each other.”
“Can you drink hot chocolate in space?” Logan asks.
“I expect so. They’ve got these special cups on the space station that you can drink coffee and stuff from, and it doesn’t all float off.”
“No, not in the spaceships. In space, like in Wallace and Gromit. Can you have a picnic on the moon?”
“No, Logan. I don’t think you can drink hot chocolate in space, then.”
“Okay, but what if the world was just France? Like one big France. Would we have croissants for breakfast every day? I don’t even like croissants, though. Well, I do, but I’d probably get bored. Are croissants vegetarian? I don’t eat mammals any more.”
Eggo lets out a long sigh, unhooks his hand from behind his head, and rubs it down his face. “Is Mummy there?”
“I’m here,” a woman’s voice says. It’s quieter than Logan’s, so she must be farther away from the phone. “I’ve tried telling him about twenty times already, but he won’t stay in bed.”
“It’s a sleepover night,” Logan explains. I don’t know their inside terms for things and I’m not sure what he means by this. Possibly that it’s a Saturday.
“Have you brushed your teeth?” Eggo asks.
“Yes.”
“Have you read one of your sleepy books? Not Dogman or Captain Underpants, those are too ADHD for bedtime.”
“Yes, I read a whole chapter of Matilda.”
“Do you have your moon light on?”
“Yes.”
“And you still can’t sleep?”
“No. I’ve tried really, really hard.”
“He hasn’t even tried,” Jody says. “He just keeps talking about how Uranus is a gas giant.”
I snort with laughter. As something of a nerd myself, it’s pretty funny.
“Is that Uncle Ross?” Logan asks, referring to Eggo’s usual roommate, Snatch.
“No, not Rossy this time. I’m sharing my room with a different guy called Aiden. Wanna say hello?” And before I even have a second to process this, Eggo throws his weight off his bed and comes to sit next to me on mine until we’re both visible in the tiny panel at the bottom of the screen.
“Hi, Uncle Aiden,” Logan says, smiling this enormous, cherubic, missing-toothed smile. He’s freaking adorable, with rosy cheeks and white-blonde curls circling his crown. In the background, I can make out a poster of the Saja Boys from KPop Demon Hunters, and a bed full of Pokémon cuddly toys.
“He calls all the Cents boys uncle because it’s just easier that way,” Eggo explains in a whisper.
“Hi, Logan,” I say, smiling and waving. “I’ve heard a lot about you. It’s so nice to finally meet you. I understand you like Pokémon. Who’s your favourite?”
Logan doesn’t answer my question. “You talk funny. ‘I understand you like Pokémon,’” he repeats in an almost exact replication of my accent, including the intonations.
“Aiden’s from Australia,” Eggo says before I can react.
“What did we say about making fun of the way people talk?” Jody says. I can’t see her, but Logan looks off to the right.
“I’m not making fun of him.”
“He has echolalia,” Eggo explains to me, whispering again.
“What’s that?” I ask, but Jody’s talking now.
“Right, Logan, babes, you said five minutes, and it’s been way longer than that. So wish Daddy and Uncle Aiden good luck for their match tomorrow, and we’ll call him afterwards, okay?”
“Good night, Dad. I love you. Good night, Uncle Aiden. Wait, are there black widows in Australia? How many times have you been bitten by one?”
“Yes, there are. They’re called redbacks, but they don’t bite people very often, and there are antivenoms in case you actually get bitten and are allergic to the venom,” I say.
“How many people do they kill every day? A hundred thousand? Two hundred thousand?” Logan squeaks.
“Good night, Spider-Man,” Eggo says, loud enough to let his son know the conversation is over. “Night, Jo, speak later.”
The screen flashes and a very pretty blonde woman now fills the space. “Night, Finn. Good luck tomorrow. Nice to meet you, Aiden. You were great against Bristol last week.”
“Thank you,” I say. Because other than, “You’re a lot prettier than I imagined you’d be,” there’s nothing else in my brain. “What’s echolalia?” I ask Eggo as soon as he hangs up.
He moves back to his own bed. “It’s when they repeat sounds or words or sentences.
When Logan was younger, he would literally copy everything you said.
You couldn’t ask him if he wanted a drink.
He’d just say, ‘Logan, do you want a drink?’ back to you.
So you’d have to phrase it like a statement, like ‘I’m thirsty,’ or ‘I would like a milkshake,’ so that he’d learn how to ask for one.
He’s a lot better now. Actually, you can’t shut him up sometimes.
He doesn’t repeat so much these days, only things that sound weird to him. ”
“Oh, so I sound weird?”
Eggo barks out a laugh. Any other person would take it back, apologise, explain they didn’t mean it to cause offense. Not Eggs, he simply shrugs instead, then puts on a bogan Australian accent. “Come on guys, we’re not here to fuck spiders.”
“So . . . is echolalia a common trait of autism?” I ask.
“Probably, but I’m not too sure to be honest. Like, I think it was one of Logan’s key indicators. His nursery picked up on it and told us to get him tested, but I’m not sure if it’s a universal thing. Why?”
“No reason.”
But my mind is racing. I’d always just thought of it as an earworm. You hear an out-of-place sound or something said in an usual way, or with an interesting accent, and you repeat it over and over in your thoughts and sometimes out loud until it drives you screwy.
Names are a big one. People’s names, actors’ names, news presenters’ names, the botanical names of plants, or constellations, or medicines.
Was that echolalia?
Was it echolalia when I spent a solid month parroting the words “Saxifraga stolonifera” inside my mind? Was that the same thing? Or was it simply another one of those quirks that solely belonged to Aiden Campbell’s brain?
“We don’t have to do anything tonight,” Eggo says, observing me. “Like kissing or . . . hand stuff.” He wags his eyebrows. “We could just watch telly?”
Before I can even begin to formulate an answer, he’s flicked the TV on, switched it to Channel 4, and lined up an old episode of Taskmaster.
Even though I want to make out with him until my face goes numb, I have an almost overwhelming sense of relief and gratitude. I realise I’m nervous.
I want this, but I’m terrified.
My phone buzzes on the bed next to me. I check the screen and it’s a text message from Abs.
Okay, tell me now. What has Gadget done that had you gossiping in the dark with Eggo? Do you hate him as much as I do yet?