Page 10 of Role Model

Fizz and I are walking around Camden while Ilya keeps a respectful distance.

“Point to anything you want in the stalls,” Fizz tells me, forcing herself to sound cheerful, “and I’ll buy it for you.”

I eye her with suspicion. “You don’t have any money.”

“For you, I do.”

A few people have recognised me. Fizz gently moves me away when they approach but some have taken sneaky pictures on their phones. I wonder about where those photos will go. I’ll never see them, I’ll just know they exist somewhere.

Fizz has a new piercing in her ear and is looking at the jewellery on display in the market. I fidget while she browses. I feel on edge, too watched.

“You’ve got a dance coming up at school.”

78 I glance up at my sister. “How do you know?”

“I read the newsletter in your bag.”

“I don’t think I’m going.”

“Aeriel! Why not?”

I think of my friends who I don’t think are actually my friends but I’m too ashamed to tell anyone about that. “I don’t know. Don’t feel like being stared at all night.”

I expect her to debate me but she doesn’t. When I steal a glance at her, she looks angry. But it’s not with me.

“Mum is enjoying your press requests way too much,” she says stiffly. “Not to mention that awful Keren woman.”

“Mum never says anything to me,” I say quietly. “I hardly see her. She never tells me if I do well in the interviews or not.”

There have been a few interviews since the live one on the news.

More producers called after it went so well.

Most of them have been virtual conversations, with networks all over the world.

The American ones all ask about my meeting with Cassidy.

Keren says each one makes Mum’s approval rating higher.

This means, I’m somehow making her more popular, which is important for world leaders.

I wish she would schedule five minutes in her 79 calendar to talk to me. A meeting in between talking to Japan and Canada.

We reach a stall inside the covered market in Camden.

The crowd is packed in, everyone pushing and jostling.

Ilya swears softly, clearly agitated by the number of people.

Fizz is neurodivergent like me, but in a different way.

She likes frenzy and fray. She likes life to feel like a rollercoaster. I prefer it to be a steady train.

We’re at a stall that sells vinyl records. Fizz is always buying these. Her record player used to be Dad’s and it’s practically falling apart. She smiles at the girl working there, who looks to be in her early twenties like Fizz.

“You’re so pretty,” Fizz tells her.

The girl’s very serious face turns a deep shade of pink and she smiles in spite of herself. “Thanks. You, too.”

I roll my eyes. Fizz thinks everyone is pretty. I’m about to ask her if we can go somewhere else when I feel a tug on my elbow. I turn and jump in fright as a grown woman leans down into my face, smiling so intensely that it makes me feel on edge.

“You’re Aeriel Sharpe,” she says, her voice full of awe.

“Yes,” I mumble, as Ilya firmly removes the woman’s hand from my arm.

“Sorry,” she tells him before turning back to me. 80 She’s looking at me with such reverence, it makes me uncomfortable. “I have to ask you some questions, Aeriel. I’ve watched every single one of your interviews. You’re amazing.”

She moves closer to me, if that’s even possible. It makes me feel cornered.

“My daughter’s like you,” she says, and I notice her eyes filling with tears. “Only she’s not. She would never be able to do a live television interview.”

I want to tell her that I didn’t know I could do one until they tossed me into the deep end with my hands tied. No words come out.

“What can I do, as a mother?” she asks, her hands suddenly pawing at me.

I can’t breathe.

“How can I help her, Aeriel?”

They always do this. The neurotypicals. They think that we all come in the same size, colour and design.

They can never grasp that we’re as different from one another as they are.

One neurotypical person likes apples, another doesn’t.

One likes to skydive, the other doesn’t.

One can tap dance, the other has no rhythm.

It’s the same for autistics but they never believe us.

She grabs at me more forcefully and cries, “Please, Aeriel, just come outside and meet her!”

81 “That’s enough,” Ilya says, stepping between us. “Felicity, let’s go.”

I’m suddenly being corralled out of the market, Ilya on my left and Fizz on my right.

“Why didn’t you keep them from touching her?” Fizz demands, speaking over my head.

“You might have noticed her sooner if you weren’t so busy,” Ilya snaps back at her.

“Oh, you jealous, comrade?”

“I want to go home,” I tell the air, because neither of them are listening.

Ilya has called for the car to come and as we wait for it to pull up by the kerb, I hear a man loudly ask, “Where do I know her from?”

I get into the car and my vision starts to spot.

“God, Aeriel,” Fizz says, sounding worried for me. “You really are famous.”

Famous. I’ve had problems with being labelled my whole life, but I think I may hate that particular label the most.

*

I can’t sleep. I’m bad at sleep. It’s never been one of those natural relationships.

I lie there in the dark 82 and think about every single thing I’ve done wrong during the day.

I try to think about how I could have prevented it.

I let myself become fixated on the time.

I count how many hours it will be until I have to be up again in the morning.

When my brain fixates on something, it can sometimes be hard to make it stop.

It’s called rumination. I spiral and I fall down mental wells with foul-smelling water.

I can’t always pull myself out. Like when one of Fizz’s records gets stuck and the same part of the song plays over and over again.

I just can’t break free of the negative thoughts.

I finally get out of bed and go to see if Mum is still up. Sometimes she sits on the sofa in the living room with a laptop and a big file full of papers.

She’s there now. She’s wearing her reading glasses, which is usually her version of a do-not-bother sign. She glances up as I step into the dimly lit room.

“Aeriel,” she says, and she sounds exhausted. “You should be asleep.”

So should you, I want to say. “I can’t.”

I expect her to tell me that my insomnia is psychosomatic, like she always does. It’s a massive word which means that she thinks it’s all in my head. The doctor did tell her that being autistic sometimes comes with difficulty sleeping, but she 83 thinks I can power through it.

But she doesn’t say it this time.

“Well,” she says softly. “Come and be useful then.”

Being useful is the most important thing to Mum. She doesn’t understand being funny or being clever. Or at least, she doesn’t have time for those things in the same way. Being useful is always the most valuable thing a person can be, according to her.

She’s called me useless a few times, usually when I don’t do something as quickly as she would like me to. I know that’s her version of saying that she hates me.

I sit next to her, a little gingerly. She’s wearing a fluffy white dressing gown and her feet are on the coffee table. She hands me a sheet of paper.

“Check that for spelling errors, please,” she says.

I take the paper, plus the red marker pen that she’s offering me. “Is this part of being Prime Minister?”

“Only when the press office insists on forgetting how to spell certain important words,” she says. “If you’re not sure about how something is spelled, look it up, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Good.”

We both read in silence for a good five minutes. I find no mistakes. If Mum knows they’re there, I can’t 84 see them. I add an unnecessary comma just to feel that I’ve corrected at least one thing.

“I got ninety-seven percent on a history essay,” I tell her.

She doesn’t speak for a moment. Maybe she didn’t hear me.

Then!

“Was that the best mark in the class?” she asks softly, still glued to her papers.

I grimace. “No. Jaya was higher.”

“Well, it’s what I always say, Aeriel. Second is the first loser. Where did those other points run off to?”

I just want you to say that I did a good job. I just want you to tell me I’m not bad. I know I’m not what you ordered but you can’t send me back. “What is it you’re doing?” I finally ask her.

“Studying,” she says, not looking at me. “Sort of.Prepping for interviews tomorrow.”

“Is this job hard?”

“Yes. Hardest job I’ve ever done.”

I pause. Then, “Do you wish you had chosen to do something else?”

“No,” she says, without hesitation. “Things that are easy are never as rewarding as things that are difficult.”

I want to tell her that I’m finding all of the attention 85 very difficult. That the rewarding parts are keeping themselves hidden.

But I know she would just give me that face; the one that’s a cross between confusion and irritation.

So, I say nothing at all.