Statistically Speaking, I’m Screwed
The distance from school to my house is two miles, but that’s two miles enduring forty-five minutes of lawlessness.
Jackson sits in the back of the bus, because sitting up front is uncool. And because it’s easier to make out with Chloe if the bus driver can’t see them.
I’ve never been in danger of being cool, so I have no problem sitting up front, away from the shrieking miscreants who congregate in the back. There's a reason I don't do bus rides without my handy earbuds and my phone. Spotify may rapdily drain the batteries, but the alt pop drifting into my ears allows me to ignore the rest of the bus in favor of an interior world of dance. Occasionally my attention is diverted from my daydreams when a bottle cap or paper wad lands in the aisle or, more distractingly, hits the back of my head.
What’s up with the trash throwing? There are other people on the bus and we’d like to not get hit with trash. Sheesh.
Our bus driver, Miss Dee, snaps at the litter throwers, but her lectures have no effect; paper missiles continue to sail through the air. Maybe if she were willing to stop the bus they’d stop their litter showers, but of course she won’t. She has a schedule to adhere to.
About the twentieth time something smacks the back of my head I whirl around. “Hey! Watch where you’re throwing that shit.”
The troublemakers giggle and exchange glances like it’s funny that my head got in the way of their careless garbage-tossing.
But nobody fesses up. Nobody apologizes. And as soon as I stop looking they revert back to rowdy litter flinging.
My rescue only comes when the bus squeaks to a stop outside my house, which is two stories of made-for-TV right at the corner of a cul-de-sac. I pry myself away from my sticky leather seat. Jackson follows at a more leisurely pace. His hair is still in place despite the humidity; I don’t want to think about how much hair gel is required to achieve this miracle.
“I swear, you’re the only Junior who rides the bus,” he says, starting up an argument we’ve had every day since school started.
“Other people have their priorities all weird," I say.
“Independence isn’t a weird priority.” He looks longingly at the garage as we pass. Maybe he thinks he’ll manifest a car of his own by sheer willpower.
I take the steps to the back porch two at a time. “Not being crushed to death in a fiery disaster is a great priority, though.”
“You’re already taking that risk.”
He thinks he’s making a point, but that’s because he doesn’t understand one simple fact: If I’m a passenger in a deadly car crash it won’t be my fault.
Dad works from home, so I’m not surprised he’s already in the indoor kitchen, chopping onions. Raw chicken breasts lay on a tray beside him. He’s wearing what he calls the Tech Uniform–khakis and a polo shirt–which means he had a video conference earlier in the day.
It’s clear where Jackson and I get our height from, but that’s as far as either of us takes after Dad. He’s blond and blue-eyed and has skin so pale he sizzles five seconds after encountering sunlight.
Our tawny tabby cat, Purrome Robbins, prowls around Dad’s ankles. A butt wiggle demonstrates his intentions before he makes the optimistic leap onto the counter.
Dad shoos Purrome from the counter with his free hand as he greets us. “Close the door. You’re letting mosquitoes in."
I pull the door shut behind me. The crystal light-catchers in the window tremble, throwing rainbows across the table and floor.
“Don’t break the door,” Dad says. “Close it. Gently.”
This is another one of those daily arguments. You'd think I'd have the hang of closing doors by now, but not according to my parents. "Sorry," I mumble.
Thankfully Dad doesn't seem in the mood to deliver a lecture on proper door closing technique. Un-thankfully, that's because he wants to talk about even worse topics. “How was school?”
“Mr. Anderson is a nutcase.” Jackson kicks off his shoes. “I gotta get started on all the homework he gave us if I don’t wanna be up all night.”
He doesn't mention Chloe's news. So either he's totally over her, or he's being weirder than he claims I am.
“What about you?” Dad barely twitches his shoulder in my direction.
“It was school," I say as I waggle my fingers at Purrome. This fails to lure him to me; I can’t compete with chicken.
“You know what I meant,” Dad says. “How was your day? Was it good?”
I shrug. “I guess.”
“I got an email from Mr. Myrick. Something about how you’re not turning in homework.”
Why do parents ask questions they already know the answer to? Do they like making our lives worse?
“You need to take school more seriously.” Dad chops at an onion so hard it shoots off the cutting board and onto the floor.
Purrome sniffs it experimentally. I snatch it up before he can poison himself. “I take school seriously!”
Dad grabs the onion from me. He doesn’t even thank me for saving our cat from certain death because criticizing me is more important. “Is that so? Then why are you missing assignments?”
“I forgot to check," I say defensively.
“There you have it,” Dad waves the onion in his hand for emphasis. “You didn’t think to check ClassLink. If you took school seriously you’d check every night. Get that, Devin? Every. Night.”
Did Mr. Myrick message Dad a speech to memorize or is this just one of those adult hivemind things?
“But–”
“This is important. You know the stats.”
He and Mom have only been harping on The Stats since I was a Freshman.
Percentage of Autistic students who graduate college: Fewer than 20%
Unemployment rate for Autistic adults: 86%
My parents have this idea that if they nag me enough, I’ll be in the tiny percentage who graduate college and find employment. What they don't seem to realize is the odds are so stupidly stacked against me that I'm screwed. And I have yet another reason to hate numbers.
Not that it does any good to point this out. They’ll just remind me that Elon Musk and Mark Zuckerberg are Autistic and they’re successful. As if that’s going to make me feel better. Do I look like a freaky tech genius? That’s Dad’s gig, not mine. And anyway, I’m pretty sure they both slipped under the diagnostic radar until adulthood. I didn’t even make it out of preschool without people noticing I was a weirdo.
And just in case the reminder about my future of certain failure isn’t bad enough, Dad adds, “I’ll be checking your homework before dinner.”
If there’s one constant in my life, it’s people demanding miracles I’ve already demonstrated I can’t pull off. And finishing my math homework before dinner is miracle territory.
But you can’t tell parents things like that. It’s asking for an argument, and arguments are the worst. Especially arguments with adults; you can’t win against the people who make the rules. So I haul Purrome to my room with me, where I dump him on my bed as soon as the door is safely shut.
He immediately leaps to the floor like a traitor.
I flop face first onto my bed. “I wish I was a cat. Nobody expects cats to know Algebra.”
Purrome’s only answer is to burrow into the pile of clothes surrounding my hamper. If they weren’t dirty before–and I’m never sure which ones are-now that my cat’s made a nest out of them the answer is more clear.
My parents say this wouldn’t be a problem if the dirty clothes made it into the hamper and the clean clothes made it into drawers. Like it wasn’t hard enough to bring them upstairs in the first place.
But my parents are unreasonable that way. I mean, they also say my room is a pigsty, but I ask you, where’s the mud?
Sure, it’s a little disorganized. Maybe I should decide which of the papers on the floor are necessary and which ones can get junked. There might be an empty plastic water bottle or two buried somewhere beneath the clothes. Or a granola bar wrapper or ten. And yeah, okay, my comb needs a place to live that’s not whatever surface is clearest and nearest when I finish getting dressed in the morning.
But clutter isn’t the same as pigsty.
Anyway, neither of them have room to talk. Dad leaves mugs on every surface, to be discovered when you knock over a week-old-coffee while reaching for the table lamp. And one time Mom lost the keys to the car for three days, and they were only discovered when Dad opened the vegetable crisper ‘cause he wanted to make salad for dinner.
Is this the behavior of people who have any business criticizing my organizational skills?
Besides, I don’t have time to organize things when there’s homework looming over me. Everyone knows there’s only one way to handle homework: Dump the contents of my backpack on my bed and brush the non-homework things aside. If they fall on the floor, that’s a problem for later.
The apology note will be easier than Algebra, so I don’t bother opening my laptop. Sending virtual letters to teachers always runs the risk that whichever app they’re using for contact purposes is borked. That’s if I can remember which of the 6 different apps I’ve downloaded exists for which class; I don’t wanna send this to Ms. Torres instead of Mr. Myrick.
I open my binder and then stare at the blank paper, thinking. If I say it won’t happen again, I’ll be lying. I have the memory of a demented gnat; this is definitely going to happen again. People don’t accept apologies if you can’t promise to not do the thing in the future, so honestly, what’s the point?
I eventually settle on:
Mr. Myrick,
I’m sorry I didn’t check ClassLink.
Sincerely, Devin Westberry
This seems lacking somehow, but I can’t think of anything to add that isn’t either inflammatory, a lie, or both.
I leave it as is. If he wanted something different, he should have given clearer instructions. A detailed breakdown of exactly how he wanted this assignment completed, perhaps.
By the time Dad calls me down for dinner, I haven’t started on the Algebra part of my homework.
I slip quietly into my seat, hoping nobody will notice my arrival so I can avoid the homework inquisition.
At first, it looks like my plan to be invisible is working. There’s a mosquito buzzing around the table, and at the moment the rest of my family is focused on something worse than me.
Mom slaps at it. “Ugh, why are there mosquitoes in the house?”
“Devin left the door open,” Jackson says, thus ending my invisibility attempt while also being supremely unfair--how am I supposed to get in the house without opening the door? Should I teleport directly into my room next time?
“Ah, yes, I forgot to ask.” Dad waves his fork in my direction. “How’s the homework situation looking?”
“I got mine finished,” Jackson answers promptly.
I take aggressive bites out of my chicken, because biting annoying siblings is against the rules. (It’s been a decade since I bit Jackson, but my parents still tell anyone who will listen about how I used to be a biter. They have no sense of privacy.)
Dad's attention is temporarily diverted because Mom smacks the top of his head.
"Dammit," she says. "Sorry, honey, the mosquito..." It's still buzzing around us, probably laughing in mosquito.
Dad rubs his head as he turns to me. "Devin? Homework?"
“Ummm. I’m not quite done.” My voice gets quieter with each word until the buzzing mosquito drowns me out.
After dinner Dad follows me to my room and makes me pull up ClassLink to show him the assignment I haven’t even started.
He glances at his watch, shakes his head, and says, “We’ll be doing this after dance, you understand?”
Sure. No problem.
I didn’t need sleep anyway.
As soon as Mom drops me and Jackson off at Nesbit Bridge Dance Studio, I turn on my brother. “You didn’t tell me Chloe was gonna be a Rockette.”
Okay, audition for. Details! I’m sure her success is a foregone conclusion.
“Yeah, I did.” Jackson doesn’t look at me, just heads straight to the back of the studio. As we pass the classrooms, I can see the junior company dancers through the observational windows.
“No, you didn’t!” I jostle him with my duffle bag. Sure, I may be clueless sometimes, but I would remember something like that.
“Yeah, I did,” He repeats, shoving me back. “Last night. At dinner.”
“Oh.” Guess I wouldn’t remember something like that.
Jackson heaves the exaggerated sigh of a long-suffering pain-in-the-ass. “You were on Planet Devin again, weren’t you?”
I answer by flipping him off. But if I’m honest, the gesture is directed at my stupid gnat brain, not him.
The back of the studio smells like hairspray and charred satin. Chloe is sitting at this little table, pinning up her hair in the mirror. She does a double take when our reflections appear behind her, emits a squeal, and flings herself at Jackson.
“Hey, babe.” He drops his bag onto the floor and envelopes her in his arms. He only has about two inches on her; if she had on character shoes, their height difference would be eliminated.
They begin kissing right as I shove my duffle bag inside an empty cubby. I avert my eyes and flee to class. To give them privacy. ‘Cause I’m a thoughtful big brother.
Most of my classmates are also company dancers, because Ms. Torres’s Monday hip-hop class is required for company participation. There’s a motley collection of water bottles next to the yoga mats and a swarm of teen dancers out on the floor, or stretching at the barre. All of us are wearing black—loose pants with a combination of baggy t-shirts and tank tops.
Ms. Torres is already present, bouncing on the balls of her feet as if she can’t wait to get down to more teaching. “Places everyone.”
We’ve been working on our routine since Summer Intensives. By the time regionals come around, we’ll have practiced the choreo until muscle memory overcomes the harsh stage lights and knowledge there’s an audience.
That’s one of the things that makes dance better than anything else: You’re given steps and then you rehearse them to perfection. No second guessing your choices. Just muscle memory and a familiar beat.
Even in free dancing, which is ostensibly a form of improv, you limit your choices to the moves you’ve polished, and the only wrong move is the one you don’t commit to.
If only the rest of life worked that way.
When we exit our last dance class of the evening, the sky is already dark. None of our rides are here yet, so Jayla and I practice lifts on the sidewalk.
Jackson and Chloe aren’t practicing anything but noisy kissing.
The Deloach’s car pulls up to the curb and Kadarius rolls down the window. Heavy guitars blare from the radio, and a demonic force growls out incomprehensible lyrics. “Yo, Westberrys, your mom asked me to pick you up,” he shouts over the hell music.
A quick glance at my phone confirms he’s not putting us on: Mom texted a warning. A futile warning, since my phone has been on silent all evening.
Jayla grabs my wrist, practically dragging me into the car after her. “Cool. We can brainstorm on the way home!”
Kadarius twists around. “Brainstorm what?” He’s wearing what looks like a very spiky dog collar. That can’t be comfortable. Then again, cool and comfortable are antonyms as far as I can tell.
“For the Vlog,” Jayla explains. “We wanted to try something different.”
“Throw Devin into the air for a change.” Kadarius turns his back on us and puts the car in drive.
Jackson leans across me to waggle his eyebrows at Jayla. “You can throw me into the air.”
“Down, boy,” Kadarius says.
Jayla gives Jackson the finger, which is a nicer response than he deserves.
We pull onto Nesbit Bridge accompanied only by Kadarius’s music. It’s segued into something more melodic and not gonna lie, this part kinda slaps.
I lean forward to rest my chin on Kadarius’s headrest, trying (and failing) to catch a glimpse of the band name on his dashboard.
“These fuckers go hard,” Jackson says as the singer returns to his earlier demonic growling. “Think Ms. Torres’ll do some choreo to a heavy metal song?”
“Why not?” Kadarius says. “I wanna see y’all try some jumpstyle.”
“Sure,” Jayla says. “I’ll put that on the list. Right up there with get Devin to ask someone to Homecoming.”
"I thought we'd agreed you were gonna ask Leo," I say, hoping to remind her I’m committed to cowardice. "Anyway, I don't even know when Homecoming is."
Kadarius laughs. “Are you for real?”
“It’s at the end of September,” Jayla answers. Before I can feel too grateful for her help, she adds, “It was on the Knightly News.”
The Knightly News is what Nesbit High calls the morning announcements. It’s a joint project between the media studies students and the theater kids. They write, perform, and film a bunch of confusing skits that theoretically are supposed to convey information about various school activities. And every morning, after the Pledge, the rest of us are subjected to this by the force of school custom.
The theater kids think the theater kids are hilarious. I, on the other hand, understand none of their jokes.
Not worth it.
“You’ve known Devin how long?” Jackson asks.
Jayla answers with a heavy sigh. "When you're right you're right."
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I demand.
“It means she should know better than to expect you to watch the announcements,” Jackson says.
“Are you kidding me?” I resist the urge to elbow him. “Nobody watches the announcements. They’re irrelevant. Just like Homecoming.”
“Homecoming is relevant to people who can get dates,” Jackson says, proving that younger brothers ought to be illegal.
“You say that like getting dates is easy,” I complain.
Jackson is merciless. “It is easy.”
Jayla raises both eyebrows. “You really out here choosin’ violence today, huh?”
As far as I know, Jackson is the only person in this car to ever have a date so maybe he should tone it down seeing as he’s outnumbered. But I'm also curious. How does he convince girls to overlook his less dateable characteristics?
"All right," I say grudgingly. "If getting dates is so easy, how do you get them?"
“Ask people you like,” Jackson says at the same time Kadarius answers, “Grindr.”
“Grindr?” I ignore my brother’s unhelpful answer. “What, I hit some guy up like, hey, I’m 16, I live in the suburbs, and I can’t drive. Wanna meet up?”
There have got to be easier ways.
Like, maybe finding a genie’s lamp.
Or discovering werewolves attend school with me and I’m the alpha’s soulmate.
Something. Anything.
And anyway, I’m not entirely sure, but I have this idea that Grindr is less a date app and more an adult only app.
Kadarius scoffs. “You don’t tell him you’re sixteen, man. C’mon!”
“Why not?" I ask. "I think that’s relevant information.”
Kadarius literally tsks at me. “You never lied about your age before?”
“No.” I go approximately four places, and my age isn’t a secret at any of them. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. My parents’d never let me download Grindr.”
Kadarius bursts out laughing again. “Don’t tell them.”
"I can’t ‘not tell them’! Downloading apps triggers a notification on my Dad’s phone.”
My parents send seriously mixed messages about how much independence they want for me.
“Use the web version,” Kadarius suggests, as if he believes the computer will have less parental oversight than my phone.
I narrow my eyes. “Whatever,” I say dismissively. “Like you’ve ever used Grindr.”
Kadarius’s smug expression is clearly visible in the rearview mirror. “Oh, but I have.”
Jayla cups a hand to her mouth and stage whispers to me, “Don’t listen to him. His account got banned for being underage.”
That wipes the smirk off Kadarius’s face. “Traitor!”
“Hookup apps won’t get you a Homecoming date,” Jackson interjects. “You have to ask someone.”
“That’s easy for you to say!” I glare at my pest of a brother. “You’re not gonna get Hate Crimed for asking.”
“Shuvam would never,” Kadarius says as we pull into my driveway. “Hate crimes look bad to college admissions.”
“You really will try and find any excuse to sabotage yourself, won’t you?” Jayla asks, patting me on the shoulder.
“I’m not self-sabotaging,” I object, leaning away from the unwelcome physical contact. It’s just that asking people out involves my least favorite things:
1. Talking to people
2. Opening myself up to rejection and
3. being assertive
And it comes with an additional chance of violence. Even someone as stupid at math as me can tell the odds of this going well aren’t great.
“This,” Jackson says, dropping his gaze to his phone. “is why you’re gonna be single forever.”