Chapter Twelve September 3 Labor Day Weekend
Chapter Twelve
John kissed me.
I kissed John.
And not just a kiss. But a kiss.
A defining moment.
One that will stay with me for the rest of my life. It’s like the kiss opened a portal. Before, I didn’t know what I was missing out on. Now that I do? I’ve become a girl obsessed. Woman? There’s got to be a better word for the in-between stage.
“Lennon, you ready?” Dad calls from downstairs.
“One sec,” I shout, slamming my journal shut.
“Yalla,” he grumbles. This isn’t the first time he’s asked if I was ready to go. But Arabs run on different time. He should know that.
I’ve been writing a lot—random thoughts, poetry, song lyrics—and everything I write, even when I don’t mean it to, comes back to John.
My poetry tries to encapsulate the bridges between infatuation, lust, longing, and love.
My journal entries express all the truths I’m too afraid to say out loud.
And my song lyrics try to capture the best moments. The ones that are always so fleeting.
I miss John. I want to kiss him again. I think I might even…
“Lennon!”
Like I said. Obsessed!
I switch out my ratty T-shirt for a clean one and my leggings for jeans. Dad doesn’t like it when I wear tight pants outside the house. He doesn’t even have to say it. I just know. That’s the thing about my dad. His face speaks so his mouth doesn’t have to.
“Where are you going?” Georgie asks. She comes out of the kitchen as I reach the bottom step, where Dad is not so patiently waiting. She’s carrying Paulie, who’s dressed in a jumpsuit with little smiling suns.
“Back-to-school shopping. Do you need anything?” The question leaves my lips before I realize the weight of my words.
Georgie spent the entirety of her senior year online and growing a baby.
She did get to attend her graduation—we even brought Paulie—but we had to leave early because Georgie was breastfeeding.
Breastfeeding was a whole ordeal. My sister tried hard, and I think it put her into a low-key depression.
Her breasts were making the milk, but Paulie wouldn’t latch.
Eventually, our family doctor convinced Georgie that “fed is best” and she transitioned Paulie to formula.
I kind of like it because it means I get to help with Paulie’s feedings.
We all fight over who gets to give her the bottle.
Mom insists on being part of almost every bath time.
And Dad gets on the floor and plays with Paulie.
Well, as much as a five-month-old baby can play.
Even though we didn’t go on a family vacation this summer, we still spent a lot of time together.
And with Zach.
While Zach is starting university, locally, Georgie’s life remains on hold. Which doesn’t seem fair, but I guess this is part of the sacrifice she made when she decided…when she decided.
“What are you wearing?” Dad asks, examining my shirt.
I look down at the white tee I’m in. The same white tee I wore when I kissed John. The one that lands right around my navel. I didn’t even notice.
“I’ll go change,” I say. I turn to go back to my room, but Dad takes my wrist, stopping me from going up the stairs.
“Where did you get this from?” he asks, eyes narrowed.
“It’s just a pajama shirt I forgot to change out of,” I lie.
“I’ve never seen this shirt before. Georgie,” he says, turning to her. “Is this a pajama shirt?”
We exchange knowing glances. “Yeah. It probably just shrank in the wash. Cheap material.”
“Bring it down with you after you change,” Dad says.
“Why?” I ask.
“It doesn’t fit you anymore. Mommy will donate it.”
“I can still wear it around the house,” I say, indignant.
“No.” His tone is sharp now. “Not with Zach coming and going at all hours.”
“Zach? He’s like a brother,” I say, scrunching up my face in disgust.
“Do you think of every boy as a brother?” Dad asks.
“Do you think of every boy as a threat?” My words are biting, angry.
“Go change, and bring this cheap shirt back with you.”
I spent sixty dollars on this “cheap” shirt. Andie convinced me to buy it. It’s the shirt that made John see me differently than he had before. It’s a keepsake at this point, and my dad wants to take it away from me. It’s the one shirt that helps me blend in with my peers. The one shirt—
“Go,” he says, his thick black brows bunched together.
“Fine.”
I stomp up the steps and slam my door. This is such utter and complete bullshit.
I throw on an oversized shirt, with long sleeves to make him extra happy, even though it’s a million degrees outside.
When I come back down the stairs, he has his hand out, palm open, waiting for me to place the shirt in it.
“Good girl.” He says it like I’m a dog that followed its master’s orders. Except I don’t get a treat for behaving. I don’t get anything.
“The shirt wasn’t tight. It wasn’t see-through. It just didn’t drag all the way to my knees,” I say to Mom in the kitchen that evening. I’m cutting up veggies for the salad. Dad is out back grilling kebabs. “Dad went to high school in Canada. Why is he like this?”
Mom gives me a look, like the answer is right in front of me.
“Did he try to control what you wore?” I ask as she slides a cucumber to me.
“I was an adult, habibti.”
“Just barely,” I mutter. Mom was nineteen when she met Dad. He was twenty-four. I don’t tell people this because they’d think he groomed her or something.
“He never gave his opinion on what you wore?” I ask.
“It’s different. You’re his baby.”
“I’m not a baby. We have a baby in this house and it’s not me,” I say, sounding like a baby.
Dad comes in with the empty meat dish, raw juices and leftover marinade sloshing around. He washes his hands at the sink and quickly places a kiss on Mom’s cheek. He bends down and tries to kiss me where I’m seated at the kitchen island, but I lean away. I’m still mad at him, and he needs to know.
He goes back out, closing the sliding door behind him.
“We were raised with certain morals and values. And with you and Georgie being born here, we must try harder to make sure you…” She sighs, and I know exactly what the sigh means.
No matter how hard they tried with Georgie, she still messed up.
She had sex. She got pregnant. She committed the ultimate sin.
“I’m not Georgie. I can make my own decisions.
You raised me to make good decisions.” I say the last line extra clearly, so she’ll understand that all of their lessons weren’t for nothing.
Even if I don’t fully agree with them all, or even truly believe what I’m saying.
But in this moment, I believe it enough to say it because I’m desperate.
Desperate to break out and be my own person and experience life like the rest of the kids I go to school with.
“And just because you’re fourteen, you think we’re done raising you?” she asks. She nods at the cucumber, and I peel off the plastic wrap and pass it back to her to wash.
“Almost fifteen,” I remind her.
“This is when you need us the most,” she says. “Every day we send you to that public school, you’re surrounded by kids who have no religion, sometimes no good role models at home, who drink and do drugs. It’s more important than ever that we keep a watchful eye on you.”
“Look how well that worked for Georgie,” I say, dryly.
“Georgie was always only ever going to do what Georgie wanted. And now she’s paying for it.
” Mom passes the cucumber back to me and motions for me to cut it in half-moon slices.
“You and your sister are lucky. You have a mom and dad that love you very much and give you everything you need. You know how it was for Baba. His parents weren’t there for him, mentally, after Yousef passed.
And my parents are back home. I wish they were here to lecture me. One day you’ll miss it.”
It takes all my willpower not to respond with an eye roll.
My phone lights up in front of me. A text from Andie.
Andie: wyd
I finish slicing the cucumber and slide the cutting board back to Mom. “I’m done. Can I go watch TV for a bit?”
She shoos me away.
I pick up my phone and flop down on the couch in the family room. The TV was left on, but no one is watching it. On the other side of the window, where he’s outside barbecuing, Dad raises his chin in a greeting to me. I force a smile and message Andie back.
Me: Counting down the minutes until I can move out of this PRISON!
Andie: lol. you’re dramatic.
Me: Says the girl who has the freedom to wear what she wants and go out with boys.
Andie: yes and parents who work 24/7. Besides, all those things are overrated. I think I’ll try being single this year.
Andie: Or not.
Me: lol. speaking of guys…
Andie: what about HIM?
Andie knows all about my first kiss with John.
She slept over the night of Theo’s party.
In the morning, once she was sober, I shared every last detail with her.
Every. Last. Detail. When we sat at the kitchen table for breakfast, we couldn’t stop giggling.
At one point she kept talking about how blue the blueberries were.
I’m pretty sure my parents thought she was high.
Me: I’ve been thinking about asking him if he wants to hang out.
Andie: be more specific.
Me: OK. I’m not allowed to have a boyfriend. He doesn’t want to be tied down. But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t still explore the potential between us. KWIM?
Andie: Yeah. You’re thirsty for him.
Me: OMG. Do you think that’s how he’ll read it?
Andie: Yes!
Andie: But that’s not a bad thing. It is risky though.
Me: Risky in what way?
Andie: Don’t hate me for saying this but I’m your best friend and I have to look out for you.
Me:…
Andie: I’m just not sure you’re emotionally mature enough to handle what this kind of arrangement might lead to. Or not lead to.
Me: How so?
I pull my knees to my chest and rest my chin on them, waiting for Andie’s response.
“Emotionally mature” is a term I hear a lot as an autistic girl.
It’s what separates me from my peers, according to the psychologist who diagnosed me, the multiple books on girls and autism I read, and, of course, my parents.
What I want to yell to all those people and all those books is that maybe it isn’t about “girls” and autism.
Maybe it’s because we’ve been socialized to believe there’s a difference between autistic boys and autistic girls, and, as a result, we’re not only erasing the experiences of people who don’t fit into those groups, but the girls are also treated differently by teachers, doctors, our own family members, and peers.
These made-up marker points exist so that other people can try to make sense of our lived experiences and identities and plot us on some graph.
But I don’t buy it. I have felt more mature and in tune with my feelings than my peers since I can remember.
Just because I may not be able to articulate my thoughts as well as allistics do, verbally, that doesn’t mean I’m not fully aware of every single emotion that passes through me.
It just sometimes takes me longer to process them.
Andie: I don’t see a way where this situation ends without you getting emotionally invested in him. Especially considering you already are.
Me: You’re always able to move on after a breakup.
Andie: That’s because I’ve never loved any of the guys I’ve dated.
We usually break up before things go too far and maybe that’s part of why I haven’t gotten too emotionally attached, but I know you, Lennon.
John isn’t just some guy. And whether you want to admit this to yourself or not, I think you want him to be your boyfriend and this is your way to lure him into a relationship.
I don’t respond immediately. Andie’s words are harsh.
But they’re true. Everything she has said is true.
I don’t just want to hook up with John because I’m attracted to him.
I like him. A lot. I want him to be the person I run to with all my good news.
And bad news. I want to have long, deep conversations that last until two in the morning.
I want to wake up to texts from him and feel his strong arms around me in a hug when we see each other at school.
I want to be the girl on the receiving end of his gaze.
The fact is, Andie wasn’t there. She didn’t experience that kiss.
She doesn’t know what I do. No one does. Not even John.
Andie: the further twisted up you get in John, the harder it’s going to be for you to walk away from him. Kissing him (etc.) is only going to make you more attached to this guy who I’m not sure is worth it.
Me: You don’t like John?
Andie: I don’t even know John.
Andie: but I do know and love you and you deserve the best. tbh I’m not sure if John is it.
My parents being against the idea of John and me is one thing. That I’ve prepared myself for. But my best friend not being down?
As much as I value Andie’s opinion, at the end of the day this is my life. I don’t need anyone’s permission to make decisions regarding my body and heart. This is between me and John. What anyone else thinks doesn’t matter.