Cassandra in Reverse, page 32
“What is it?”
She’s still watching me.
“Have I got something on my face?” I rub it with the palm of my hand. “What are you staring at me like that for?”
“Look,” Art says gently, pointing at the file.
On the back page, scrawled in our mother’s beautiful handwriting, is written:
And Cassandra.
There’s no question mark. No doubt. This is not a debate.
“And Cassandra what?” I say automatically, then jolt backward. “I’m not autistic. Don’t be ridiculous. I’d know if I was. You don’t live thirty-one years without realizing something like that. Somebody would have said something.”
“From the sounds of it,” Art says quietly, “they did.”
My brain feels as if it’s folding into tiny pieces, like a note in school you can switch into different shapes to read different things, although I wouldn’t know for sure because nobody ever passed them to me. Is this why everyone keeps asking if I’m on the spectrum? I thought maybe they just meant I was inordinately colorful.
“I’m on the spectrum,” I say with a jolt. “Derek and Jack were right.”
“They were not.” Artemis scowls. “That’s a euphemism. They don’t want to say autistic because they think it’s rude. It is not rude.”
“It’s not?” I say distantly, observing my brain shift again.
“Nope. People think autism is some kind of error, and it’s not. You’re not broken or ‘disordered,’ or whatever they say on their little bits of paper. That just means ‘not exactly like me.’ Which—” Artemis points at the folder “—I think you’ll see is one of the many things Mum wrote in the margins, along with the words go to hell, highlighted in pink. Autism is just a different wiring. You’re built in alternative neurological software, from the ground up. Every single part of you. And it’s...”
“Colorful and loud?” I guess, and Artemis laughs.
“I was going to say brilliant,” she says. “But, yeah, I’d imagine that too. Although I don’t know why anyone is surprised at how the world treats you. This has never really been a planet that embraces difference.”
The new solidness inside me shifts and settles, consolidates a little further. I should be more surprised. I should be reeling. But isn’t this exactly how I’ve always felt? That I’m not quite made the same? That I’m some kind of alien, trying to learn how to be a human from scratch every day? That I constantly need to translate the world around me to myself, and then myself back to the world again, like speaking two completely different languages simultaneously?
Wow. No wonder I’m always so bloody exhausted.
“What I’m saying,” Art continues, and I can feel her eyes roaming my face gently like fingertips, “is that you’ve been taught to hate yourself, Cass. From the beginning you’ve been told you’re broken, over and over again, and forced to try and be like everyone else. Then I did it to you too. I’m your sister and I called you a monster. How could I blame you for shutting me out? I’d have got up and smashed my head into the pulpit, if I were you.”
“A good thing I’m not, then,” I observe lightly. “They don’t like that kind of behavior in churches.”
“They certainly do not.” Artemis laughs. “I don’t want you to be normal, Cass. I never have. Honestly, if the world was built for your wiring, it would be a much better place. There’d be a lot less overhead lighting, for starters.”
I stare at the floor as the world and everything in it tilts, then straightens.
“I’m like Mum,” I say softly.
“Yes.” Artemis nudges my shoulder with the end of her nose, like a puppy. “But you’re yourself too, Cassie. Never be ashamed of that. You have always been unquestionably, undeniably, unmistakably you.”
I sit still and wait for the Big Emotions to come steaming in.
They don’t.
Nothing comes, and I know at some point in the future they’ll probably all arrive at the same time—clogging up my doorway exactly like after a postal strike—and it will be overwhelming and beautiful and painful and lovely and I won’t be able to pull them apart or name them, just point at all the colors and guess. But for the first time ever, it feels like maybe that’s okay. Maybe they’ll take their own sweet time. Maybe they’ll turn up when they bloody want to turn up, in any shade they like, and when they do, I will deal with it the way I always deal with it: noisily, in a ball, on the floor.
“Don’t sell the house,” I say finally.
“I thought you might say that.” Artemis nods.
“I’m moving home,” I say, now with even more clarity. “To Cambridge. And I’m going to go back to uni to study Greek mythology, just like Mum.”
“Yeah.” Artemis smiles. “I’d already worked that out too.”
This must be why my love of Greek mythology has never felt like a hobby, or a way to pass the time. It’s how I make sense of the world and everything in it. It’s what grounds me, makes me feel solid, gives me something constant to return to. It’s a home inside me: a safe place that never changes, never fades, never grows boring, never tells me I’m not good enough, never asks me to leave.
Most importantly, mythology makes me so ridiculously happy. This is the path I would have taken, if I had only known myself a little better.
No—if I had just allowed myself to be me.
Calmly, I stand up, brush down Sal’s red dress and wonder vaguely if I’ll be different, now that I know who I am and how I’m made. I doubt it. I haven’t changed one iota in thirty-one years: I don’t plan on starting now.
“Have we had this conversation before?” Artemis stands up next to me and surveys my outfit with clear appreciation. “Have you time traveled back to it from the future, Cass, or is it all brand-new?”
“Oh my God.” I think about it briefly. “I’d forgotten I can time travel.”
“Sure.” Art laughs loudly, kisses her finger and touches the end of my nose. “I forget I can travel through time and space just by closing my eyes all the time too. Totally slips my mind.”
I stare at her, assessing her face. “Sarcasm?”
“Sarcasm,” she confirms.
I look at the infinite colors spinning out of me, and the infinite colors spinning out of Artemis—at the colors shooting out of strangers, standing on the pavement, spiraling over our heads—and my sister is right: it doesn’t feel like I’m on a spectrum so much as the spectrum feels like it’s tucked neatly inside me.
I suddenly feel an incredibly strong emotion, overwhelming in its intensity.
Here it comes. Prepare. Galvanize, Cassandra.
Then I realize what it is.
“I’m hungry,” I say abruptly. “Did you bring anything to eat?”
39
Where does a story end?
It’s a lie, the last page of a book, because it masquerades as a conclusion. A real conclusion—the culmination of something—when what you’re being offered is an arbitrary line in the sand. This story ends here. Pick a random event. Ignore whatever comes after it, or write a sequel. Pretend the world stops when the book closes, or that a final chapter isn’t simply another random moment on a curated timeline.
But life isn’t like that, so books are dishonest.
Maybe that’s why humans like them.
And it’s saying that kind of shit that will—one day, possibly—get me chucked out of the Cambridge Undergraduate Book Club.
* * *
So I draw my line here.
This is where I choose to end my story: arbitrarily, in a quiet Soho pub, carefully selected for its low lights, scented candles and nonsticky tables. I choose to end it surrounded by more people than I have ever had in my life.
On the seat opposite me sits Sal, lining up vodka shots with zero precision but impressive vigor, despite being told repeatedly that nobody wants one yet because it’s 5:00 p.m. on a Tuesday. Next to her, Sophie splits open a pack of crisps—which promptly go everywhere—at which point Barry sighs and goes to the bar to get more. Nobody quite knows why he’s here, but apparently he wanted to “say my goodbyes too,” as if I’m dying, which—to clarify—I’m not.
Luckily Jack didn’t feel the same compunction, but Gareth has joined the festivities, and so has Ron. The latter keeps glancing my way, and every time our eyeballs meet it’s like paintballs exploding: yellows and pinks and oranges, splashed across the back of my brain. He’s also back in his navy cashmere jumper, which I’m extremely happy about. Apparently he has nine identical versions, and frankly, I’ve never heard anything so sensible and clever and sexy in my entire life.
Artemis is next to me, which is where she has been since the gala.
She was next to me when I painstakingly filled out an application to Cambridge University, and googled How to Survive University as a Mature Autistic Student. She was next to me when I packed up my Brixton bedroom, when I moved it all to Cambridge in the back of her car—she can actually drive, kind of—and she said nothing at all when I played the same song, over and over again, in an attempt to calm myself down. She was next to me when I walked into our family house for the first time in ten years and started crying, and then when I kicked off and cried again because someone had repainted the bathroom blue.
Artemis was next to me when I settled in; found my new patterns.
Refound my old ones, like friends.
And for the first time in years, I don’t feel loneliness like a constant seagull cry inside me: screeching and shitting over everything, eating my happiness as soon as I hold it in my hands.
Honestly, I’m kind of ready for Artemis not to be next to me all the time.
I need my space and she has taken to sitting way too close.
“Have you got everything ready?” Art leans toward me and nudges my arm with her nose. “You’re all packed?”
Finally free of my loop, I realized where I wanted to go: Athens. Only for a long weekend—that’s enough change for now—but I’ve broken it into hour-long intervals and made a plan, and then I used my last day in the office to laminate it. Barry didn’t say anything, so I think we’ve finally reached a kind of mutual understanding.
“Yes,” I say. “Have you?”
“Ha,” Art says loudly. “Have I packed? Of course I bloody haven’t. When I move, it will be a last-minute swear-fest of chaos and plastic bags that break under the sheer weight of all my jewelry and dream catchers.”
My sister is temporarily taking my old box room in Sal’s house while she works out what she wants to do next, which—knowing her—will never conclusively happen. I’m fighting the urge to make a plan for her. Some people are weird like that, and just prefer not to have one.
“Anyway,” I say, looking at my watch, “I think I should probably be—”
“Speech!” Sophie jumps up. “Speech!”
“No,” I say tiredly. “Please stop saying speech constantly.”
“Okay, then I will make one.” Artemis stands up and holds her glass of beer in the air. It’s filthy. I should have picked a different venue. “As we know, my sister, Cass, is extraordinary. Only I know quite how extraordinary, obviously, and if I don’t win the lottery in the near future, I’d like everyone to know it’s her fault.”
Art winks at me and I scowl back at her.
“So out of respect for her hatred of speeches and unnecessary attention, I will keep this brief.” My sister laughs brightly. “To my big sister. Thank you for always being so very Cassandra.”
“For always being so very Cassandra.” Everyone beams while I stare at the table. I glance up just in time to catch Ron’s eyes, flush happily and look back down again. Remind me not to ever leave anywhere ever again: if this is what happens every time, I think I’d prefer to stay where I am.
“Speech!” Sophie shouts again, and seriously, I give up: I might as well be talking to one of my plants.
“Well,” I say, standing up. “There isn’t much to—”
“Oh my God!” Artemis bounces up again, cheeks flaming. “Oh my God, oh my God, what are you doing here?”
“You invited me,” I say in surprise. “It’s my Leaving Do.”
Then I watch in amazement as my sister clambers over my lap and runs toward the door of the pub. And as she bounces across the floor, I feel my brain freeze again. In my defense, I didn’t forget. Not exactly. I’ve done a lot of research about my personal neurology over the last ten days—with many more fascinating years still to come—and it turns out I am very, very good at hyperfocusing on things I’m interested in, and not so good at noticing anything else.
Which is why, when I see Will’s face light up, it takes a while to adjust.
It’s Will.
Will is here, with both of us, and I’m pretty sure that there was something I was supposed to—
“Fuck,” I say loudly, slipping under the table.
“What are you doing here?” Artemis has somehow thrown herself through the air and stuck herself to the front of my ex-boyfriend like one of those little sticky men you chuck at windows. “You’re not supposed to be back for another three days!” She kisses his nose. “You didn’t tell me!” She kisses his ear. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me!” She kisses his eyebrow. “I mean, I know we’ve only met twice and I’m being a bit clingy, but this is bloody outrageous.”
Will is laughing. “I thought you liked surprises?”
“I love surprises.” Art grabs his head with both her hands, as if she’s going to eat it, and they both look so happy to see each other. I can feel their neon-blue joy spilling over like one of Sal’s poorly organized vodka shots. “How did you know? Oh. I told you. Okay, that makes sense. How was it? Tell me everything.”
“I will.” His eyes are captivated by her beautiful face, like Paris meeting Helen for the first time. “Turns out there are only seven vaquitas left in the world, so we’ve had to make another plan to find the poor little buggers.”
“That is far too sad,” Artemis announces. “Just pretend you got kidnapped by pirates or something. Keep the tone celebratory.”
Laughing, they both lean in for their very first kiss. It’s surreal, how I can feel their clear connection from all the way under this tiny wooden table where I’m currently crouched in a ball.
“Come with me.” Art grabs Will’s hand. “You have got to meet my sister. You’re going to love her. If you don’t love her, I can’t love you. It’s as simple as that. So you’d better love her, that’s all I’m saying. No pressure, but literally all the pressure.”
“I’m sure I will love her,” Will laughs. “Can I please get a drink first?”
“No.” Artemis tugs him toward us. “You can have a drink after. Then we can celebrate your return and her imminent departure at the same time. You’re kind of swapping over. William Baker, meet—Cass? Cassandra, why are you under the table? She hates meeting new people. I should have done it a little bit at a time, like introducing a recently acquired kitten. Can someone please go under and get her?”
Closing my eyes briefly, I take a deep breath.
Then I clamber out awkwardly and stand in the middle of the pub, with the rest of our party watching me curiously. In fairness, I asked for this. It serves me right for spending a hundred hours googling maps of Athens and facts about the Acropolis and Temple of Poseidon instead of remembering the small yet arguably more important point that I currently share an ex-partner with my own bloody sister.
“I couldn’t find my phone.” I realize it’s in my hand. “Oh. There it is.”
“Cassandra?” Will says.
“Hello, Will,” I reply stiffly. “It’s nice to see you. How was Mexico?”
Will opens his mouth, shuts it, opens it again. He glances from me to Artemis, then back to me again. “What the bloody hell is going on?”
“Wait.” Artemis is also visibly spiraling. “You know each other already? How do you know each other? Through work? Cass?”
There’s an awful lot of truth, but I’m not sure how much they’re asking for.
“I can’t tell exactly what is happening,” Sophie narrates chirpily to Sal, “but it looks like they’ve had a bit of boyfriend swapsies. This is very exciting. Like a reality-TV show, except everyone is quite a lot older.”
Will kindly decides to step in and elucidate further.
“So what’s going on is I dated Cassie.” He frowns. “Briefly. We went on three dates, just before I met you, Diana. Which is why I’m a bit thrown. You’re sisters? Is this some kind of...joke? A setup? Am I being recorded?” He looks around the pub. “Am I missing something that makes this situation less weird?”
“Artemis,” Art says abruptly, her face suddenly pale.
“I’m sorry?”
“My name is Artemis. Not Diana. I lied.”
“Now?” I sigh in frustration as Will’s colors shift yet again. “Of all the possible times, you decided to tell him that now?”
“It just came out,” Art says in desperation, then frowns. “Wait. This is your ex? Will is the guy you’ve been traveling through time for? Cassandra?”
“I...” I swallow. “A little bit.”
“A little bit?”
“Yes.”
“Oh my God.” Artemis crumbles. “Cassandra, how did this happen? Do I already know this? Have I found out already?” She studies my face and freezes. “So that’s a yes. How many times have I found out?”
“This is the second,” I say in a small voice.
“You cannot do this to me,” she shouts, picking up crisps and throwing them at my head one by one. “I am so cross with you, Cassandra Dankworth! So cross.”
I duck the crisps and we both turn toward Will.
The poor guy looks like he might be about to be sick, and I can’t blame him. It takes a certain kind of man to happily date two sisters—one of whom is apparently a secret time traveler—and I’m not sure it’s one either of us would want. I think the time for breaking this news gently might now have passed.
