Over the next few days, Stanley leaves more voice mails. I delete them without listening.
At first, the pain is constant, like a weight sitting on my chest. It’s hard to breathe through it. But I keep going through the motions—showing up at work, reading books, taking walks—though I avoid the park now. Little by little, my old routines reestablish themselves, and the ache begins to fade.
As long as I can be with the animals, I’ll survive. They are my purpose. I should have known that all along. I don’t belong in the human world. But I’ve learned from my mistakes; I won’t repeat them.
My phone rings, and I give a start. I start to reach for it, to shut it off—then freeze. The number isn’t Stanley’s; it’s Dr. Bernhardt’s. With a shaking hand, I raise the phone to my ear. “Hello.”
“Hello, Alvie. Just checking in. I wanted to make sure you’re ready for your appointment with Judge Gray tomorrow morning.”
At the words, I feel a sharp jolt. I’ve been so preoccupied, so focused on just surviving each day, I almost forgot about the meeting with the judge. My mouth is dry. I hear myself say the words, “I’m ready.”
“Good. I’ll meet you at the courthouse at seven thirty.” A pause.
“Remember everything we talked about.”
“Okay.”
I hang up.
I lied to him—I don’t feel ready at all. But it’s too late to back out now. This is what I wanted.
I imagine taking all my pain and confusion, folding it up, and tucking it into a drawer in the back of my mind, close to the Vault. When I meet Judge Gray tomorrow, I have to put on a mask of normality. I can’t be distracted.
I lock the drawer, putting Stanley firmly in the past.
The courthouse is on the other side of town, a fifteen-minute drive away. It looks the same as I remember: a huge, square building made of dark stone blocks polished to a reflective sheen, with wide steps leading up to a pair of heavy gray double doors.
Dr. Bernhardt is waiting at the top of the stairs, his cheeks flushed in the cold, a knitted scarf wrapped around his neck. He’s holding a store bag, which he pushes into my hands. “Here. Wear this.”
I remove a cardboard box, which contains a dark gray pantsuit with thin white stripes. “Why.”
“Because you want to look professional and mature.”
I glance down at my skirt, black-and-white-striped stockings, and T-shirt. The words HEAVY METAL gleam, shiny and metallic, above a faded graphic of a woman in armor riding a pterodactyl-like creature. “What’s wrong with the clothes I’m wearing.”
He laughs and shakes his head. I tense. “Sorry,” he says. “I’m not making fun of you. Just trust me on this one, all right?”
We go in. A security guard asks us to empty our pockets into a plastic bin, then waves us through a metal detector—I hold my breath, wondering if someone will try to give me a pat-down, but thankfully, no one tries to touch me. I change in the bathroom, putting my old clothes in the paper bag. The pantsuit is polyester; the material feels stiff and unpleasant against my skin, but I’ll only have to wear it for a few hours.
When I exit the bathroom, Dr. Bernhardt is waiting. “Better.” He gives me a smile. “Just remember—be honest, but not too honest. And stay calm.”
“I’ll try.” My stomach hurts. What happens if this goes wrong? No—I can’t allow myself to think that way, or I’ll start to panic.
“You can handle this,” he says.
I hesitate. “If the judge grants our request, does that mean you won’t be visiting me in the future.”
“Yes. You won’t have to put up with my nagging anymore.” He smiles.
I try to respond and find that, for some reason, there’s a lump blocking my throat. This is what you wanted, I remind myself.
He extends a hand. “Good luck, Alvie.”
I brace myself, grip his hand, and shake once. His skin is soft and dry; the physical contact doesn’t bother me as much as I thought it might. “Thank you,” I say.
I release him, and he turns and walks away.
I stare at the hallway ahead of me. The courtroom is at the end. I feel very small and very alone, and I’m filled with a sudden conviction that this is going to be a disaster. My legs don’t want to move, but I force them to walk forward . . . slowly, because my knees keep wobbling.
The courtroom isn’t large; it feels private and enclosed, like an interrogation chamber. Dingy blue carpet covers the floor, and the walls are wood paneled. Judge Gray—a fiftyish woman with a small, pinched mouth—is already there, sitting in a chair behind a massive desk. She’s the same woman who presided over my case when I first asked for emancipation. Only one other person is there, a younger woman sitting behind another desk, who I assume is a transcriptionist or notetaker.
I sit in the smaller chair facing Judge Gray, folding my hands in my lap. She studies me for a moment in silence, then examines a sheet of paper in her hand. I fidget. Already, I want my Rubik’s Cube, but I left it outside in the paper bag with my clothes; it wouldn’t fit in the pocket of my pantsuit. I try to remember the questions and answers I rehearsed with Dr. Bernhardt over the past few weeks, but my mind is a blank.
“Alvie Fitz,” she says. “You’re seventeen years old now. Is that correct?”
Hot fluorescents beat down on the top of my head. “Yes.”
“And you’ve been living in your own apartment and working at the Hickory Park Zoo as a full-time employee for eighteen months.”
“That’s correct.”
“Mr. Bernhardt has stated—”
“Doctor.”
She frowns. “Excuse me?”
“Dr. Bernhardt,” I correct, and immediately realize I should have kept my mouth shut. But because I’ve already said it, I feel inclined to clarify. “He has a PhD in sociology.”
“I see. Well.” She clears her throat. “Dr. Bernhardt says your condition has improved.” She folds her hands and clicks her long thumbnails together. The sound makes me squirm. “As I recall, when we last met, you were living in the Safe Rest Home for girls. You ran away on three separate occasions, and on one of those occasions, there was a police report filed. Prior to your stay at Safe Rest Home, you spent several years in a psychiatric ward. Is that right?”
My nails dig into my palms. I struggle to control my breathing. “That is correct.”
“Are you currently seeing a counselor?”
“No.”
“And why is that?”
I speak slowly, choosing my words with care. “My emotional issues are under control. I’m much more stable now than I was a year and a half ago. I don’t see a need for therapy.”
Her pale blue eyes narrow slightly. “Do you believe your earlier diagnosis was inaccurate, then?”
Sweat pools at the small of my back. My fingers itch to start pulling my braids, but I resist. I know that any twitch, any display of emotion, of anger or fear, could be interpreted as a sign of instability. What am I supposed to say? What’s the right answer? My eyes dart back and forth. The urge to start rocking and tugging my braids grows stronger and stronger, until it feels like trying not to blink.
“Ms. Fitz? Do you understand the question?”
“Which diagnosis do you mean,” I ask, stalling for time. “There have been several.”
“I’m referring to the diagnosis of Asperger’s syndrome. If you have a mental disability, I’m sure you understand why that would influence my decision.”
I think about pointing out that Asperger’s isn’t a mental disability, it’s a social disability, or perhaps just a natural variation on the standard neurological configuration. But I have the sense that arguing with her would not impact her views, and might make her angry. “You mean, if I’m mentally disabled, you won’t hold me accountable for the things I did.”
“No. I mean, it might necessitate placing you under permanent guardianship. The state would appoint someone to help you manage your affairs.”
Permanent guardianship. I start to shake. Is this really happening? Is she going to hand over control of my life to a total stranger? I struggle to hold my tone steady. “Not everyone with autism is under guardianship. Many people with an Asperger’s diagnosis have gone on to have successful careers, even get married and have children.”
“If that’s the case, they were obviously not diagnosed accurately in the first place.” She sniffs. “Doctors love to throw around diagnostic labels. Perhaps I’m old-fashioned, but I believe there’s such a thing as simple bad decision making, and that sometimes, a case of immaturity and teenaged rebelliousness can be cured by a dose of cold, hard reality.”
I want to tell her that it’s not that simple. Being able to hold down a job doesn’t mean I’m not different. My brain hasn’t changed just because my situation has. But what I say next will determine the course of my entire future. I have to be extremely careful. “What are you asking, exactly.”
“I’m asking you if you consider yourself autistic,” she says.
A flash of panic goes off in my head like a bomb, and my vision goes fuzzy and white. No matter what I say, I feel, it will be wrong. But I have to say something. In a split second, I make a decision. “No. I believe my diagnosis was a mistake.”
“So, you’re perfectly normal, then?”
I try to swallow the burning at the back of my throat. I wish I could read voices; I can’t tell if she’s being sarcastic or asking a serious question. But it’s too late to backtrack now. “Yes.”
She presses the tips of her index fingers together. Her expression is blank. “Well,” she says at last, “it seems you’ve grown up quite a bit in the past year and a half. And I believe in giving second chances to those who are willing to work for them. Seeing as how you’ve successfully lived on your own for this long and become a contributing member of society, I see no reason why I shouldn’t grant your request for emancipation.” She stamps the paper in front of her. “You’re free to go.”
I’m in a daze as I walk out of the courtroom, clutching my certificate of adulthood in one hand. I’m still waiting for it to sink in. My whole body feels uncomfortably hot and prickly, and the back of my throat burns dully. Acid reflux, perhaps, from the stress.
I suspect the pantsuit had something to do with my unexpected success . . . though it seems absurd that something as trivial as clothing should have an impact on the judgment of a person whose entire purpose is to impartially and objectively mete out the law. The idea of buying new clothes for the hearing did not even cross my mind. In retrospect, I should have done more to prepare. Without Dr. Bernhardt’s help, I might still be a ward of the state.
I never even thanked him—not properly. My short, cursory expression of gratitude feels inadequate. I scan my surroundings, but he’s nowhere to be seen.
Maybe he left already. There’s a faint ache in my chest that I recognize, after a moment, as disappointment. But then, he has no more responsibility toward me, and he probably has other things he needs to do, other disturbed teenagers to visit.
For a few minutes, I just stand there in the middle of the broad hallway with its glossy, black-marble-tiled floor. After all those months of struggling to prove myself, the decision was made in less than ten minutes, and all I had to do was lie. I look at the document with the judge’s official stamp of approval declaring me a functional member of society, and I feel strangely empty.
Back home, I stick the certificate in a desk drawer.
A glance at the clock tells me it’s almost nine thirty. I push aside my misgivings, strip off the pantsuit, and grab my khaki-colored uniform.
Time for work.