Page 9 of Role Model

I’m about to be interviewed on the news.

I never watch the news at home. It’s boring and often hard to follow and Mum is on it way too often. I sit in a small room the size of a broom cupboard and blink helplessly at my own reflection in a mirror with bulbs all around it.

The makeup artist doesn’t seem to like children. She pushes my chin back and forth as she dusts powder on me. I hate the feeling of it but I try to smile at her each time she locks eyes with me in the mirror. She doesn’t smile back.

“Hair,” she barks all of a sudden.

She’s straightening my hair and I know that she’s probably used to doing neurotypical people’s hair. They might not be as sensitive to the feeling of the hot iron. The tight feel of the fibres being pulled.

70 I watch as my unruly hair becomes straight and smooth. I wonder how many people would like to straighten the rest of me out.

Next is the audio and sound expert. A frazzled man all in black with a grey beard. He’s holding up a microphone pack.

“Do you know what this is?” he asks me, sounding friendly enough.

“A microphone,” I say.

“Good girl. Now, this part has to clip onto your waist or go in your pocket.”

I’m wearing the hideous blue dress again, the same on from the palace. The dress with no pockets. “I–I don’t know–”

I’m starting to feel panicked. I don’t have a pocket, and it feels like a failure on my part. I’m worried this means he’ll need to put the microphone on me himself. I don’t like strangers being too close to me.

The panic is like smoke, morphing into a hand around my throat.

It tightens gently and it’s harder to breathe.

I know how these things go, they’ll all start frowning at me, wondering why I can’t do something that they think is simple.

It’s what I’m used to seeing right before a meltdown.

I haven’t had one in so long but every wave, even the highest wave, has 71 to come crashing down at some point.

“I need–can I just–”

“I’ll put it on for you,” he announces, stepping towards me and all of a sudden, he’s a giant. I feel two feet tall. I back away, terrified.

And there it is. The expression. The irritation mixed with confusion.

Why can’t you just be normal? I’ve been asked it so many times, their voices have become my own voice in my head. I can’t seem to drown it out.

He’s towering over me now, pinning the actual microphone to my collar while trying to hand me the battery pack.

Everything becomes a kind of blur, with someone else coming over to help.

I’m finally declared ‘good to go’ and so they walk me to the set.

I’m still trying to make my breathing even.

I’m still trying to adjust to the heavy lights over my head.

I can see two presenters on a red couch.

“All right,” a grownup who hasn’t told me their name says to me. “When the footage starts playing, you move to sit on the empty part of the sofa.”

I try to nod but I’m starting to go under.

That’s how it feels, when a meltdown is pressing at my back teeth and behind my eyes and threatening to boil over.

It feels like slipping underwater. Everyone 72 keeps talking to you, frowning at you and wondering why you’re not answering and it’s because you’re slowly sinking to the floor of the ocean.

They all look so far away from down here.

Down with the whale bones and the creatures of the deep.

I’m slowly sinking and, if I don’t start swimming soon, I’m going to drown.

I’m sitting on the guest part of the sofa and the two news presenters are smiling at me. They seem nice. Genuinely nice. It’s a relief. The lady whispers to me, telling me to just relax and answer honestly.

I wish I could make people see the good parts of me. I don’t know how to get them out. I don’t know how to make it happen.

Then.

I don’t know if it’s the pressure of a countdown, of the live interview being seconds away from starting, or if it’s just frustration, but something in me changes.

I’m soaring above me. Airborne, just like my name.

I’m looking down at me and telling me to be great.

Telling me to smile. Telling me to be perfect for once. Just this once.

“Our next story is a bit of a heartwarming one,” says the woman sitting next to me.

She’s not speaking to me, though, she’s looking into the camera.

“Aeriel 73 Sharpe is no ordinary thirteen-year-old. The newly elected Prime Minister’s daughter is making waves on social media as a new Gen Alpha role model.

She’s got children up and down the country saying, “it’s okay to be me”.

And we’re lucky to have her joining us today in the studio.

Aeriel, thank you so much for being here today. ”

Showtime. Something in me switches and, for the first time in months, I break into a massive, full-wattage smile.

“I’m so happy to be here, you guys, thank you!”

They both break into surprised smiles themselves and the man speaks next. “Thank you for coming here, you must have come straight from school, yes?”

The words come out as if someone else is rapidly typing them for me and I’m just a vessel. “Yes, I’m missing some very fun algebra homework to be here.”

They both laugh, some of the off-camera crew do as well.

“Did you expect that video we just played a clip of to go as viral as it did, Aeriel?”

“No,” I say, honestly. “I don’t think I would have been able to film it if I’d known it would be watched by so many people. But that’s the nature of the internet. It’s why we have to be careful about what we post.”

74 I don’t know why I’ve turned into after-school-special girl, but they seem to really like it.

“Now, you talked about how you are autistic,” the woman says and I’m pleased that she says ‘autistic’ and not ‘have autism’. “Do you have anything you would like to say to the families of autistic children who might be watching this?”

I hesitate. “Well. I think I’d rather speak to the actual autistic people who might be watching.”

Neurotypicals do that a lot. They talk to the family members of autistics, rather than autistic people themselves. I find it weird and I don’t know why they do it.

“Excellent,” the man says hurriedly. “And what would you like them to say to them, Aeriel?”

Come and find me! There’s one of me and an army of them.

I don’t want to be on my own anymore. Please come and find me.

I’m sorry, I don’t know why they make me say weird things.

I think I trust them too much. They told me I wasn’t very good at certain things and I believed them.

Now, I take every opinion to heart and I treat it like a fact.

I shouldn’t do that. We shouldn’t do that. We matter, too. We. Matter. Too.

“I would say,” I speak slowly, which makes everything feel like it’s coming to a screeching halt 75 because gaps on television always seem bigger than they really are. “We matter. You matter. I matter. We’re important.”

I don’t know if it was the right thing to say, they don’t react very enthusiastically. They do smile. Then thank me for joining them. As they both swivel their attention away from me and back to the camera, I exhale. I just have to wait until the camera cuts away and then I can leave.

When it finally does, I’m ushered out of the studio as the news is still live on air. When I’m in the green room, Keren appears and she’s beaming at me and both of her thumbs are pointing up.

“Excellent, Aeriel. Just brilliant. Who knew you could smile like that, eh?”

I don’t know who I became on that sofa but whoever I was, whoever that girl was, she saved me. She swooped in and rescued me, determined to stop me from falling apart “Thanks.”

“Your mum called me, she caught it at the office. Said it was fab.”

I reach out my hand instinctively. “Can I talk to her?”

Her smile fades. “Oh, she had to go. It was just a quick one. Got to get back to work, Aeriel. She’s a busy woman.”

My hand sort of hovers in the air for a moment. 76 A bit defiantly. Refusing to give up. After a minute or two, I feel silly and so I let it drop. I follow Keren and Ilya to the lifts, after giving back the microphone pack.

“Who did you become in that interview, huh?” Keren asks me delightedly. It’s the first time she’s been nice to me. “You were a different girl!”