Page 5 of Role Model

My video wasn’t just on the news. It was everywhere.

I thought the first one had gone too far but that was a birthday candle compared to this new wildfire.

It made international news, with people in other languages talking about me and calling me a hero for being autistic on camera for a minute and twenty seconds.

UK Prime Minister’s daughter labelled “inspiration”, as she proudly claims her autism won’t hold her back.

“That’s a horrendous headline,” I tell Mr Archer, my headteacher. “I didn’t say that!”

Mr Archer has a number of different newspapers laid out on his desk. He seems excited by all of the press, while Dad is surprised.

Mum finally appears and Mr Archer almost falls over as he hurries to stand up and shake her hand. She sits in the empty chair next to mine and gives my headteacher a tight smile.

“It seems the press really loves Aeriel,” Mum says.

“As do we, here at St Catherine’s,” Mr Archer says. “We want to do everything we can to make sure Aeriel feels safe in school. Her form tutor will be meeting with her friends to make sure that they keep a close eye on her.”

I lift up my head and stare at him. “What friends?”

He blinks at me. “The girls you go to lunch with, Aeriel. The ones in your form.”

I wonder whether or not to tell him that I don’t think they want to be my friends.

“We have a number of activities within the school that we think Aeriel will also really excel in,” he goes on, always looking at my parents and never at me.

If there was a handbook on being autistic (there isn’t, but if there were), it would tell you to prepare for lots of grownups talking about you but never to you.

35 “We’re announcing a school-wide essay-writing contest,” Mr Archer babbles. “The theme will be ‘Role Model’ and we expect lots of students will choose Aeriel after today’s splash.”

“Sounds sweet,” Mum says, her voice flat and her eyes darting to the clock on the wall.

“I think we know who you’ll choose for your essay, Aeriel,” Mr Archer says, his eyes dancing as he glances between Mum and me. “I can’t wait to read it.”

“Can I go?” I ask, which earns me a sharp elbow from both Mum and Dad.

“There is just one more thing,” Mr Archer says, staring at Mum as though she’s the most important person in the world. “Dr Mars, our school SEN Coordinator, would like Aeriel to attend a daily workshop with some of her other neurodivergent classmates.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Mum says, a look of distaste crossing her face. “We’ve always been very clear with our children, that any diagnosis they may have is not an excuse. We don’t want any special treatment, any additional attention.”

My eyes naturally fall on the collection of newspapers. Mr Archer makes a small noise of surprise. “It wouldn’t be special treatment, Prime Minister. It’s appropriate for children with…”

36 I watch him struggle for the right word. Grownups are all so terrified of the word ‘disability’.

“Children with different special abilities,” he eventually settles on.

“You had a million choices and you picked that?” I say.

“Quiet,” Mum says, doing that thing where she clenches her jaw and speaks without moving her lips. “That’s enough.”

“Dr Mars is excellent,” Mr Archer assures us. “I think it will be good for Aeriel, especially with all of this change.”

Mum and Dad exchange a look.

“Maybe on a trial basis,” Dad says.

Thus, the meeting draws to a close. Mr Archer walks Mum out, saying something about how headteachers are now expected to be like politicians so he understands the stresses in her life.

I wait to see if Mum or Dad look back at me as they walk towards reception.

They don’t.

I walk to Miss Leslie’s form room, as other students start to file into the school building. Ana is already there when I arrive. She’s sitting on the floor by the radiator, scrolling on her phone.

37 I wonder if it’s too late to leave the room.

“Hey,” she says, looking up at me as though we’re best friends. Like she didn’t run away with the rest of them the other day.

I want to remind her that I never begged her to be my friend.

She and I have the same taste in music and we would listen to my playlists during lunchtime, that’s how I joined the group.

Then they all started to treat me like a burden, like a weird hanger-on.

They would never come out and say it, but they made sure to make me feel it.

But I never asked them to be my friend.

But, all I can say to her is, “Hey.”

I don’t know if she feels guilty. She wouldn’t say if she did. She holds up her phone and says, “You’re everywhere. I can’t scroll without a video of you coming up.”

I drop my bag by my locker. “I don’t really want to see any of it.”

“Okay but in total it’s, like, millions of views. My mum was asking about you.”

I almost want to laugh at that. Ana had a birthday just after the start of term.

She invited me when we were alone in the toilets, washing up for lunch.

Two days later, she uninvited me, claiming that her mum had said it was “one person too many”.

I saw Naomi, Ana’s 38 Mum, at the school gates as I headed home after that.

She fully underestimated my astute autistic hearing.

“Such a strange one, that girl. Very odd. I think Ana feels a bit sorry for her but I told her she can’t bring home every stray she comes across.”

The other mothers had murmured in understanding, while I pushed my way through the crowd and refused to show them how upset I was.

“You’re famous,” Ana finally says, her voice full of wonder.

I shake my head. “Well, I hate it. People are staring. Whispering. I don’t like it.”

A look of sympathy flashes across Ana’s face before we both hear the door open.

The noise from the school hallway filters into our form room for a quick second and when I turn to look, I feel a sting of anxiety.

Sable and Jaya are removing their headphones and looking at me with looks I can’t put a name to.

“It’s the superstar,” Sable finally says, her voice dripping with insincerity. “You know the teachers are trying to make a bunch of photographers leave the car park? They’re waiting for you.”

I avoid her accusing glare and glance at Jaya.

She’s looking at me as if she’s seeing me clearly for the first time.

Her face isn’t cruel, like Sable’s, or 39 pitying like Ana’s.

She’s assessing me. Looking me up and down, without meanness.

Just examining me. Something about her opinion of me has changed, but I don’t know what.

Miss Leslie suddenly blusters into the room.

“Morning, girls,” she says, distractedly. When her eyes land on me, they widen and she says, “Aeriel!”

“Yes, Miss?”

“Dr Mars is ready for you in the SEN space.”

Sable snorts, clearly finding any mention of being different funny. I feel my face flushing red. I want to ask Miss Leslie if I have to go but I know what the answer will be, especially after the early meeting with Mr Archer and my parents.

I walk to the SEN space and catch a glimpse of the school car park from the corridor window.

Sable was right. There is a small cabal of photographers standing at the wrought iron gates.

Mr Archer and Miss Duncan, the deputy head, are shouting at them.

I suppose they’re yelling at them to leave.

Just as I’m about to open the door to the SEN space, one of the photographers spots me.

He raises his camera and it flashes before I’m able to look away.

I blink, surprised by how caught it makes me feel.

“Aeriel!” he yells. It’s so loud, I can hear it despite the glass between us. “Smile!”