Isla and the Happily Ever After
Page 14
He smiles. “I like it.”
“And you’re a Yom Kippur Atheist.”
“I am.”
I’ve never had a conversation like this before, where something so sensitive was discussed with such ease. We cross a bridge towards the cathedral. It’s on the Île de la Cité, the larger of the two islands that comprise the centre of Paris.
“I have a question,” Josh says. “But I’m not sure how to ask it.”
I wish that I could give him a playful nudge. “I’m sure you’ll do fine.”
There’s an excruciating pause as he searches for the right phrasing. “Kurt has…autism?”
Internally, I cringe. But I spare him as he spared my own ignorance. “Yeah. What the DSM used to call Asperger’s, and what they now call high-functioning autism. It’s the same thing. But it’s not a problem, it’s not like it’s something that needs to be cured. His brain works a little differently from ours. That’s all.”
Josh gestures towards a bench in the cathedral’s small park, and I reply by moving towards it. We sit down about two feet apart.
“So how does his brain work?”
“Well.” I take a deep breath. “He’s super-rational and literal. So sarcasm, metaphor? Not his strengths.”
Josh nods. “What else?”
“It’s difficult for him to read faces. He’s worked on it a lot, so he’s way better than he used to be. But he still has to remember to make eye contact and smile. I mean, obviously he smiles, but he only does it when he means it. Unlike the rest of us.” I’m rambling, because I’m struck again by the fact that I’m sitting on a bench – a bench not even on school property – beside Joshua Wasserstein.
“So he’s honest.”
“Even when you don’t want him to be.” I laugh, but it immediately turns into worry. I don’t want Josh to get the wrong idea. “He doesn’t mean to be rude, though. Whenever he finds out that he’s accidentally hurt someone’s feelings, he’s devastated.”
“It’s kind of French, you know? Not the hurting-people’s-feelings thing. Only smiling when it’s sincere. Americans will smile at anyone, for any reason.”
“You don’t.” The words leave my mouth before I can stop them.
Josh is taken aback. It takes him a moment to gather his thoughts. “Yeah, I’ve been told that I have a hard time…concealing my displeasure.”
“I know.” I hesitate. “I like that about you.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “You do?”
I stare at the bench’s wooden slats. Somehow, the two feet between our bodies has halved into one. “It means that when you do smile? I know it’s not false. You’re not just smiling to make me” – I shake my head, and my hair bounces – “whomever, feel better. If they’re saying stupid things. And can’t seem to stop talking.”
His mouth spreads into a slow smile.
“Yeah.” I laugh. “Like that.”
“What else?”
I tilt my head. “What else what?”
“What else do I need to know about Kurt?”
His phrasing implies that we’ll be spending more time together. The happy tightness returns to my chest. “Not much else to know. It’s not like he’s a card-counting savant or a mathematical genius or anything. I mean, don’t get me wrong. He’s brilliant. But those stereotypes are the worst. Though he does love routine.”
Josh smiles again. “Let me guess. Sushi?”
“Same day, same time, same restaurant.” Kurt and I meet after his weekly therapy session, but Josh doesn’t need to know that.
“Same entrée?”
“Shrimp nigiri and miso soup. But I get the special, whatever it is. I ask the server to surprise me.”
The bells of Notre-Dame peal out from the towers. We startle, covering our ears and laughing. The bells are loud – a cacophony of chimes crashing over one another. From this close, it’s hard to even make out a pattern. They ring and ring and ring, and we’re helpless, completely bowled over with laughter, until they cease their clattering.
The distance between us has disappeared.
His jeans rub softly against my bare legs. I’m too aware of my movements, too aware of my nerves, too aware of everything. All five senses are overloading. I jerk my head towards the cathedral. “That was my cue.”
“Mind if I walk with you?” Josh’s question sounds anxious, like he’s trying to catch his breath. “I need to pick up a brush. At Graphigro.” It’s an art supply store a few blocks away from the restaurant. I don’t know whether he really does need a new brush or whether this is an excuse to spend a few more minutes with me. But I’ll take it either way.
This entire evening has been surreal. We cross another bridge, the Pont d’Arcole, onto the Right Bank. The scent of metal and urine wafts up from the Seine, but even this barely registers. We’re in a two-person bubble. The noises that I should be hearing – cars speeding, pedestrians rushing, construction clattering – are muffled. Instead, I hear my heart thumping against my ribcage. Josh’s steady footsteps against the pavement. The occasional swish of his pant legs catching against each other.
Ask me out. I chant it like a mantra. Ask me out, ask me out, ask me out.
“What are you doing this weekend?” It ruptures from my mouth, far less casual than I’d hoped. “I mean, you don’t have detention, do you?”
Aaaaaand way to make it worse.
But Josh glances at me with a smile. “The head called me into her office, because she wanted to make sure that we ‘get off to the right start’ this year. But she didn’t give me detention. Not yet.”
I have no idea how I’m supposed to respond.
“Actually,” he says, “I’m going to Munich.”
I freeze, mid-step. It’s against school rules to leave the city without permission, never mind the entire country. Someone bumps into me from behind. I stumble forward, and Josh reaches out to grab me, but I’ve already steadied myself. His hand hesitates in the space between us. And then it returns to his pocket.
I kind of wish that I’d fallen.
“So, um. Munich. This weekend?”
“And you’re a Yom Kippur Atheist.”
“I am.”
I’ve never had a conversation like this before, where something so sensitive was discussed with such ease. We cross a bridge towards the cathedral. It’s on the Île de la Cité, the larger of the two islands that comprise the centre of Paris.
“I have a question,” Josh says. “But I’m not sure how to ask it.”
I wish that I could give him a playful nudge. “I’m sure you’ll do fine.”
There’s an excruciating pause as he searches for the right phrasing. “Kurt has…autism?”
Internally, I cringe. But I spare him as he spared my own ignorance. “Yeah. What the DSM used to call Asperger’s, and what they now call high-functioning autism. It’s the same thing. But it’s not a problem, it’s not like it’s something that needs to be cured. His brain works a little differently from ours. That’s all.”
Josh gestures towards a bench in the cathedral’s small park, and I reply by moving towards it. We sit down about two feet apart.
“So how does his brain work?”
“Well.” I take a deep breath. “He’s super-rational and literal. So sarcasm, metaphor? Not his strengths.”
Josh nods. “What else?”
“It’s difficult for him to read faces. He’s worked on it a lot, so he’s way better than he used to be. But he still has to remember to make eye contact and smile. I mean, obviously he smiles, but he only does it when he means it. Unlike the rest of us.” I’m rambling, because I’m struck again by the fact that I’m sitting on a bench – a bench not even on school property – beside Joshua Wasserstein.
“So he’s honest.”
“Even when you don’t want him to be.” I laugh, but it immediately turns into worry. I don’t want Josh to get the wrong idea. “He doesn’t mean to be rude, though. Whenever he finds out that he’s accidentally hurt someone’s feelings, he’s devastated.”
“It’s kind of French, you know? Not the hurting-people’s-feelings thing. Only smiling when it’s sincere. Americans will smile at anyone, for any reason.”
“You don’t.” The words leave my mouth before I can stop them.
Josh is taken aback. It takes him a moment to gather his thoughts. “Yeah, I’ve been told that I have a hard time…concealing my displeasure.”
“I know.” I hesitate. “I like that about you.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “You do?”
I stare at the bench’s wooden slats. Somehow, the two feet between our bodies has halved into one. “It means that when you do smile? I know it’s not false. You’re not just smiling to make me” – I shake my head, and my hair bounces – “whomever, feel better. If they’re saying stupid things. And can’t seem to stop talking.”
His mouth spreads into a slow smile.
“Yeah.” I laugh. “Like that.”
“What else?”
I tilt my head. “What else what?”
“What else do I need to know about Kurt?”
His phrasing implies that we’ll be spending more time together. The happy tightness returns to my chest. “Not much else to know. It’s not like he’s a card-counting savant or a mathematical genius or anything. I mean, don’t get me wrong. He’s brilliant. But those stereotypes are the worst. Though he does love routine.”
Josh smiles again. “Let me guess. Sushi?”
“Same day, same time, same restaurant.” Kurt and I meet after his weekly therapy session, but Josh doesn’t need to know that.
“Same entrée?”
“Shrimp nigiri and miso soup. But I get the special, whatever it is. I ask the server to surprise me.”
The bells of Notre-Dame peal out from the towers. We startle, covering our ears and laughing. The bells are loud – a cacophony of chimes crashing over one another. From this close, it’s hard to even make out a pattern. They ring and ring and ring, and we’re helpless, completely bowled over with laughter, until they cease their clattering.
The distance between us has disappeared.
His jeans rub softly against my bare legs. I’m too aware of my movements, too aware of my nerves, too aware of everything. All five senses are overloading. I jerk my head towards the cathedral. “That was my cue.”
“Mind if I walk with you?” Josh’s question sounds anxious, like he’s trying to catch his breath. “I need to pick up a brush. At Graphigro.” It’s an art supply store a few blocks away from the restaurant. I don’t know whether he really does need a new brush or whether this is an excuse to spend a few more minutes with me. But I’ll take it either way.
This entire evening has been surreal. We cross another bridge, the Pont d’Arcole, onto the Right Bank. The scent of metal and urine wafts up from the Seine, but even this barely registers. We’re in a two-person bubble. The noises that I should be hearing – cars speeding, pedestrians rushing, construction clattering – are muffled. Instead, I hear my heart thumping against my ribcage. Josh’s steady footsteps against the pavement. The occasional swish of his pant legs catching against each other.
Ask me out. I chant it like a mantra. Ask me out, ask me out, ask me out.
“What are you doing this weekend?” It ruptures from my mouth, far less casual than I’d hoped. “I mean, you don’t have detention, do you?”
Aaaaaand way to make it worse.
But Josh glances at me with a smile. “The head called me into her office, because she wanted to make sure that we ‘get off to the right start’ this year. But she didn’t give me detention. Not yet.”
I have no idea how I’m supposed to respond.
“Actually,” he says, “I’m going to Munich.”
I freeze, mid-step. It’s against school rules to leave the city without permission, never mind the entire country. Someone bumps into me from behind. I stumble forward, and Josh reaches out to grab me, but I’ve already steadied myself. His hand hesitates in the space between us. And then it returns to his pocket.
I kind of wish that I’d fallen.
“So, um. Munich. This weekend?”
