Catia is a high school girl struggling to navigate a world that seems to reject her at every corner. She embraces the bonds and outlets that she forms. But do they truly provide salvation, or will they ultimately be her downfall?
Part One:
I lean against the seat of the bus and prop my Nintendo 3DS against my knee. My parents just bought me the newest Pokémon game for my birthday. I have been playing for three hours and am feeling restless.
I pull out my phone and check my GPS location on the map. My heart sinks when I see that we have only made it to Providence, we will not be in Boston for another two grueling hours, if I’m lucky.
It has been too long since I have taken a walk, and I’m strung up like a tiger locked in a cage. My legs twitch in sync with my racing mind, begging me to pace. I kick my legs out in front of me as I stretch my arms over my head. My muscles thank me as the pressure spreads through my body. Among the many things that I am not good at, sitting still may take the lead. I kick my legs forward a few times.
I’m not aware of how hard I am kicking until my foot comes into hard contact with the seat in front of me. Brianna Simmons rises from the seat and glares. “Stop kicking me, freak!” she barks. Her freckled face reflects annoyance, which accentuates her curly red hair.
Randy Carlin, who is seated next to her, smirks condescendingly as he peers at my Nintendo 3DS. “Still into the games, huh?” I do not excel at reading body language, but it’s clear that he’s mocking me.
Most sixteen-year-olds would’ve ditched the 3DS in attempt to salvage some remnants of a social standing. But I’ve sunk too far into pariahdom to care. I’ve tried to change and always ended up back in the same place. At this point I’m just trying to get through the day, at least until I can establish a better life for myself.
“Did you not hear me, retard?” Randy presses. Now everybody around us is listening and many wear the same condescending smirk. Sweat forms on my chest. Adults treat bullying like it’s really simple-ignore it and it will go away. This has never worked for me, nothing has.
“I heard you; I just don’t want to talk to you,” is the response I land on.
“And why wouldn’t you want to talk to him?” Brianna sneers condescendingly.
“Because apparently he has nothing nice or intelligent to say.”
She snorts. “As though you’ve said anything intelligent in your life.”
I shrug and turn back to my game. Supposedly the creator of Pokémon was diagnosed with autism, formally termed Asperger’s syndrome. I bet that nobody bullies him and that anybody who ever did regrets it. I hope I can pull something like that off someday, a move that will give me the upper hand over these awful people.
I’m still sweating. I remove my arms from my hoodie and pull it over my head, briefly revealing my slightly curved stomach before I pull my camisole down. I feel a gaze upon me. When I look up Randy is looking at me, not in a belittling manner, but one that reflects lust. He quickly looks away. but Brianna catches him.
“Pull your shirt up,” she sneers. I ignore her, allowing my cleavage to maintain. When I first started popping breasts larger than anybody else’s in my class, I’d hoped they would win me back some points. I may not be the prettiest girl in my class, but I have a nice figure. Sometimes boys look at me, but they won’t date me, as this would destroy their social standing. Girls tend to be put off by other pretty girls when they aren’t their friends. They bully me because I am weird, and also because they feel threatened by my figure.
“You think anyone wants to see your fat rack?” she sneers.
The anxiety in my chest rises to anger. “It isn’t like you have any room to talk, you dumb whore,” I say as I eye her up and down. Her high shirt reveals a generous view of her belly ring, and her skirt falls roughly an inch below her buttocks.
“Catia! We do not talk like that!” Mrs. Sanders is swiftly walking down the aisle of the bus, annoyed as always.
“Did you not hear everything leading up to this? She’s insulting me.”
“That is no excuse for what you said, Catia. You’re being mean. I’m going to move you to the front of the bus to break this up.”
“Good riddance, then.” I glare hard at Brianna before walking to the front of the bus. It is quieter here. Students banter excitedly in their seats; I try not to envy their bonds. The front row of seats are empty so I sit against the window and extend my legs, then close my eyes.
This isn’t the first time that a teacher has accused me of being mean, oftentimes I can be. People copy behaviors that are modeled by others. In a culture where bullying and belittling is often reinforced, my mean mask often seems essential for survival at Devil’s Brush high school.
Brianna is a part of the ‘cool crowd,’ and everything that they do is lauded. At Devil’s Brush, other people’s approval is the only thing that matters. The staff like who the students like. When a cool girl wears a low-cut top, she is sexy. When a loser does it, she’s a ho that needs to cover up. People laugh applaudingly when they bully others. If you’re a loser, it is uncalled for, even if they’re unkind to you first. When a cool girl gets angry, she is fighting back. For a loser this is an indication of instability. It is hilarious when they are loud, yet when my pitch rises it’s annoying.
I will never be one of them. I don’t seem to belong with anybody, hence why I’m always alone.
As far as I know I am the only person with autism spectrum disorder at my school. People tell me that there are advantages to having autism, that this is what makes me special, but I can’t see it. What makes you cool is your ability to conform to other people’s expectations. I never know what people want from me until it’s too late. Charm is everything, and I’m awkward as a fish stuck in a pine tree. I have tried to conform, but it’s like running into a brick wall. They see every little thing I do, oftentimes before I’m aware that I’m doing it. I have difficulty keeping my body stagnant and often break into stimming. Sometimes this is pacing, other times I start hugging myself and squeezing my fists. In the worst of instances, I rock myself. One time Kayla, another one of the ‘cool kids,’ posted a video of me doing it on YouTube. I looked completely deranged, with my face contorted into an angry type of grimace as my body convulsed. It was one of the moments where I believed that I truly am insane.
I need to go to the bathroom, badly. But the only facility is in the back of the bus. I don’t want to walk past Sanders or Brianna again. I wait, but the urgency continues to escalate. I put my beats headphones over my ears; the noise cancellation does a surprisingly good job of tuning out the rest of the bus. I take a deep breath and make my way to the back, raising my gaze to the ceiling to avoid eye contact.
“Catia,” shouts Randy in a purposefully deranged tone that penetrates my noise protection. I don’t need to look at him to know that his face is contorted in a weak attempt to appear mentally challenged. I slip into the bathroom and lock the door.
If you have any type of disability or impediment, people just assume that you are retarded. Few people have awareness of the autism spectrum, so they conclude that I’m cognitively inferior.
I pull down my pants, groaning as I note a small stain in my white underwear. I wrinkle my nose. Of course I don’t have a pad on me. I take a paper towel from the dispenser and place it in my underwear. I hope that I have some feminine supplies in my bag, but sadly I don’t recall packing them.
When I return to my seat I dig through my backpack but do not see any pads. This is unfortunate, but I’m unwilling to return to the bathroom, or Randy’s taunts. I will worry about this later.
I doze off between rounds of Pokémon. After about an hour my phone vibrates in my pocket, I have no doubt that it is a text from Hubert. He is my boyfriend, if you can really call somebody you haven’t met in person a boyfriend. I have known him for two years; we met on a forum designed for teens and young adults on the Autism spectrum. Our communication goes deeper than what few friends I have had in person. I do not have any other friends on the spectrum, and the divide always feels present when I’m with neurotypicals.
I scan my texts.
Hubert: How are you doing? How’s the trip going?
Eh. I shouldn’t have gone.
What’s wrong?
More shit with the cool kids, they caught me stimming.
You know I’d beat them into shape for you.
You’re the best.
I end the message with a chain of hearts then slip my phone back into my pocket.
If Hubert were here, he could solve a lot of my problems. But he is roughly a thousand miles away in Atlanta, Georgia with his grandmother.
With green eyes and jet-black hair, he is more handsome than nearly any boy in my school. Even the ones that the cool girls chase appear scrawny and discombobulated for my taste. Of the ones that I like, none of them have cared for me in return.
I have no idea when we will finally meet. I have not gone back to Georgia since my grandmother’s recent funeral. I haven’t broached the subject with my parents knowing what the answer will be. I’ll wait until it’s no longer their say. Hubert can’t come to me because he is constantly in trouble with his family on account of endless fist fights. As a girl on the spectrum, my conflicts with peers are verbal and psychological. For young men, the fights often get physical. He assures me that he is trying to stop in hopes that he will be able to go out of town if he can stay out of trouble for a time.
Eventually the bus stops in front of an all you can eat buffet. Mrs. Hayes, a blonde English teacher, stands and demands our attention.
“We have your assignments for your rooms tonight.” She holds up a short stack of papers. “I am passing these lists around, please check who your roommates will be. There will be four of you in each room, so two people to a bed.”
I roll my eyes; for a five hundred dollar trip our own beds would be nice. I don’t have a lot of friends, but am hoping that I got placed with Christina, the closest thing I have to a girlfriend.
After a couple of minutes, the girl seated in front of me passes back the list. I suck in my breath and skim until I see my name. My heart rate immediately speeds up. Ella, Lena, and Jocelyn: this falls among the worst-case scenarios.
Ella and Lena are decent enough; we aren’t friends, but we don’t conflict. I used to play softball with Ella, and her family carpooled with mine. Jocelyn, however, is most concerning. She is a beefy, outspoken girl who makes her disdain towards me widely known, through both gossip and direct insults.
I make my way into the buffet and pile my plate high with every comfort food in sight, from fried chicken to mashed potatoes to thick brownies for dessert. All of it is delicious. I eat until I begin to transgress beyond bloated.
After about an hour, we pile back onto the bus. I put my headphones on and continue to exchange texts with Hubert. We aren’t on the bus for long before the bus stops in front of the Holiday Inn.
Mrs. Sanders stands up and clears her throat. “Now that you know your room assignments, I will go over some of the rules. Everybody must be back inside their rooms at nine o’clock, that’s one hour from now. We will do a room check to make sure you are there. You cannot have your cell phones in your rooms. It makes it too easy for you guys to make plans to sneak around, and it’s not safe.”
The bus groans in unison.
“Please, everybody pass me your cell phone. I know that you have them.”
Nobody budges.
“I know that every single one of you has a cell phone, and that in this day and age there is no way you wouldn’t bring them on this trip.”
“What if it’s an emergency?” Brianna asks.
“If there is an emergency you can use the phone in your hotel room.” Sanders gestures towards the pink phone in her hand.
Brianna reluctantly hands it to her, then a few others follow suit. A brick drops in my stomach. No phone equals no music, no Pokémon go, and no Hubert. These are the things that hold my coarse thread of sanity together.
Once everybody on the bus has given Mrs. Sanders their phones, she stops in front of me. “Catia? Your phone?”
“I don’t have a phone.”
“Liar! She had it out on the bus today,” says Brianna.
“Yeah, I saw it too,” Mrs. Sanders glowers. I sigh and pull my iPhone out of my pocket. I unlock the screen and start typing a text to Hubert.
“Right now, Catia!”
I slowly place the phone into Mrs. Sander’s outstretched hand. She thanks me, her voice tainted with sarcasm.
My parents do not know that I have a cell phone. They say I can’t get one until I turn eighteen. I bought this with some money my uncle John gave me last Christmas, every month I walk to Walmart and buy a new prepaid phone card. I have learned all the tricks to sneak the things that I need. If Mrs. Sanders tells then about the phone, there could be severe repercussions.
Mrs. Sanders passes out our room cards. Jocelyn takes ours, to a room on the first floor.
“So really? I have to share with you?” Jocelyn scowls as we walk into the room.
I shrug. “Unfortunately.”
Jocelyn scowls as I slip into the bathroom and shut the door.
I sigh as I lower myself onto the toilet. This is going to be a long, rough night. My white underwear are completely soaked through, definitely not wearable. I should’ve done more about this sooner.
I turn the bathtub on cold and begin soaking the underwear.
A loud knock shakes the door slightly. “You’re taking a bath now?! No way, I need to go to the bathroom,” Jocelyn yells.
“No bath, just rinsing off quick. Be right out.”
I turn the tub off and squeeze dry the underwear. I hang them over the faucet of the tub, close the curtain, and exit. Hopefully nobody will look in there yet.
Ella and Lena are seated on one of the beds together, Jocelyn waits by the door. “About time,” she says as she pushes her way past me.
I walk over to my bed and pull my bag towards me. I look through it again in hopes that there’s a tampon I didn’t see before, but I have no such luck. I hear a yelp resound from the bathroom as I shove my pink hoodie back into the bag.
“What’s wrong?” calls Lena as Ella shouts “are you okay?”
Jocelyn storms out. “There are bloody panties hanging from the bathtub. This is so disgusting!” Her face appears slightly green.
I place my hand against my forehead in a feeble attempt to hide my face. The bathroom door slams and Jocelyn storms out.
“Catia was just in the bathroom. Did you leave those there?”
“I’m sorry, I have my period and I was trying to wash them for tomorrow. They’re the only pair I have.” Heat fills my face.
“Well that’s disgusting! You shouldn’t have just left them there!”
“I’m sorry, they need to dry and I don’t know where else to put them.” I wish that I could evaporate into smoke.
“I can’t believe you’re in this room putting me through this mess. Why are you rooming with us anyways? Don’t you have any friends that you could have requested?”
“I don’t know, not that many in our grade. Ella and I played volleyball together, we’re friends.”
Ella doesn’t say anything. I look at her pleadingly, but she does not make eye contact.
“Nobody likes you because you’re weird and annoying.” Jocelyn continues, her voice reverberating with anger.
“I told you that I’m sorry! Do you happen to have a tampon? Or something?” I squeak. The three girls shake their heads in unison. I walk out of the hotel room, slamming the door with all the force I can muster.
Mrs. Sanders glares at me as I step out in the hallway. She is talking to a boy named Jeff. I pace back and forth until their conversation ends. I don’t want to talk to her, but I can’t think of another way.
“Hey, I have problem.”
“And what would that be?” her eyes flicker with annoyance. We have never gotten along.
“I got my period, I don’t have any extra underwear or tampons, nothing.”
“Ah, let me see if I have anything for you. Wait here for a minute.” As she walks around a corner, I start pacing.
“I didn’t bring any feminine supplies,” she says when she returns a minute later.
“But you’re the school nurse, how can you not have any?”
She shrugs. “I’m far from perfect, I don’t always remember everything that I will need.”
“Well, what do I do?”
“I can go around and see if any of the girls have any.”
“That’s the most embarrassing thing ever, are you serious?” I plead.
“Do you think it’ll be less embarrassing when you have wet pants?” she looks irritated, as if my humiliation is nothing more than an inconvenience to her.
“I want to call my mother and tell her to come get me. This room assignment isn’t going to work, Jocelyn is already giving me a hard time.” I don’t really want to call my mother; I want to call Hubert and complain. But this is the only way in which she might give me my phone back.
“Your mother’s not going to be able to do anything to help you. All that will happen is that she will worry about you. We have talked to you about how you need to make more of an effort to get along with the other students.”
“I want to call my mother. Can I please have my phone back?”
“No, you cannot have your cell phones in your rooms overnight. I will give it back tomorrow morning.”
I enter the lobby, where a tall pale woman with sleek black hair is running the check in counter.
“Do you have any pads or tampons you could give me?” I ask quietly. A pudgy man with a balding head looks up, evidently trying to eavesdrop.
“Hold on.” She walks behind the counter and shuffles through some drawers. She reemerges with a tampon and two pads. “Sorry, this is all we have.”
“Thank you so much, you’re the best!” I smile broadly then walk away.
Once I’ve gone to the bathroom, I enter the dining room, where Mrs. Sanders sits at a table with two other. Students are seated at the other tables. Jocelyn glances over at me and snorts. I pretend not to notice.
I pump some coffee into a beige mug then occupy an empty table near the bathroom. Nobody has looked at me except for Jocelyn. She hasn’t told anybody yet, but I’m sure she will.
After a few minutes, Mrs. Sanders walks into the bathroom, leaving her big black backpack on a chair directly outside. I wonder if the phones are in there; if she really made it this easy for me.
I glance around the room, happy to see that Mrs. Hayes has disappeared. Mr. Marker is talking to a couple of the boys about World of Warcraft. Everybody appears blissfully engrossed in conversation. I wonder how it is that I can be so miserable in a setting where everybody else is so happy. I truly am a freak.
A freak that is going to get the hell out of here tonight. I creep over to the bag, blocking the room’s view with my back. Sure enough, about thirty phones are piled in its main chamber. My iPhone’s fire orange case flashes among them. I grab it and slip it into my bra.
I freeze as footsteps sound behind me. I glance back to see Alana, a slender, brunette cheerleader whom I have rarely spoken to. I smile weakly. She shrugs and winks as she turns away. Hopefully that means she won’t tell. Regardless I need to act fast.
I return to the now empty hotel room. The only benefit to this room is that it is located on the ground floor with a door leading directly outside. I sling my backpack over my shoulders. It is painfully easy for me to walk out into the parking lot.
My mother’s words fly through my mind. “There are some very sick people out there. Always stay with the group.” My classmates are the sickest people I’ve spoken to. You can make a person fear hell once they realize that they’re already living in it.
For all of Sander’s insistence that she had no feminine products available, there is a CVS pharmacy right next to the hotel. I quickly locate a box of tampons, I count my money as I pay the blonde cashier. $48 remaining, perhaps enough for a bus ticket, but surely not a motel room. I need to find a way to make some money, if I’m going to be able to escape from here.
A loud siren interrupts my thoughts. I walk out the door and duck behind a pillar as I look around the parking lot. A police car parks in front of the Holiday inn and a cop walks inside. My heart accelerates. They are already looking for me.
They are only a thousand feet away. If they have any deductive reasoning skills, they will find me right away.
The busy street is lined with a broad selection of department stores and chain restaurants. I will need to find a place to go before the police come. I see a McDonalds a couple hundred feet away, my stomach growls. I will kill a bit of time here then come up with another plan.
I go inside and order a burger and fries off the dollar menu. I head back to the bathroom, where I will listen for the police.
I think back to a conversation I recently had with Amanda, another girl on the spectrum that I met in a chat room. There are apps where you can sell provocative pictures of yourself. Not only did she make $100 off one picture, but the money came through in under an hour. She did it to get a ride away from her home after her parents’ fighting constant banter escalated into physical abuse. She remained in a hotel for weeks before anybody found her. While it isn’t optimal for a 16-year-old to get involved in porn, I have a pair of breasts that knock most celebrities out of the park. I can’t think of any other way for a teenager to make decent money quickly, especially not without a vehicle.
I remove my shirt once I’m locked inside a stall. Next, I position the camera in front of my bare chest and zoom in until only my breasts are visible. Nobody will be able to identify me without my face showing.
I am no novice at taking arousing photos of myself. I have exchanged them with Hubert, this is the only real way to do a long-distance relationship in the 21st century. I taste bitter betrayal; he wouldn’t like me doing this. Hopefully he will understand if he ever finds out. After all, I’m doing it to get to him. When I do, he’ll have more of me than anybody ever has.
I quickly find the site; it contains several links to videos involving very little clothing. Many appear eclectic, men working on their cars and women posing in their kitchens. Apparently, the webmaster provides immediate direct deposits in exchange for your content, with payouts issued in as little as twenty minutes. I read the directions on how to upload then I provide my Venmo account in addition to an email address that only I am aware of.
I have a credit card linked directly to my account. Since as I am only sixteen, I had to apply for this through my mother. Thankfully, she is not concerned enough with her credit report to check it regularly. She is not technologically savvy; she blindly expects my father to handle all the finances. I set the card to auto-withdraw from my bank account and only have statements sent to my private email.
I choose the picture that appears most flattering, take a deep breath, and upload.
