Just Be

”The sockpololypse is among us. The fabric of time and space relies on fabric itself. An ankle-high Armageddon is on its way. Everything hangs on by a thread, but a hero with a thread count of awesome can save it all. He’s the knitted knight. He’s so handsome, lingerie linger behind his every single step. He’s even an activist and fights against soxism, foot massage-any and white shoepremacy. With his super-speed and style, he’s the only exception to supporting fast fashion! He has everything, but will this washing machine world separate our hero from his one true match, justice? Everyone knows him. Everyone loves him. He is…. famous footwear.”

The film pauses. A fuzzy pink sock with googly eyes glued to the toe part stared at the class with its plastic eyes and hand-held mouth. To the right, a girl with a wide, fake smile stood with her arms behind her back and her name about to roll in the credits.

”Vickie, the assignment for this class, advertising and marketing, was to advertise and market for generic socks.” Mrs. Savini did not look at Vickie. She looked at the grainy footage still paused on screen.

”In order to know a product, you have to, like, be in tune with it. I don't like the ankle high white socks. I´m specific about footwear, but I won't autististics right now.” Vickie fiddled with her bracelets, her face still straight. She wished Mrs. Savini would just laugh at the satirical film.

The bewilderment on Mrs. Savini’s face matched that of the stoic sock on screen. ”Excuse me?”

”Autistatistics. Like autism and statistics smashed into a word.”

”Vickie, you cannot say” she leaned in. Her voice lowered. ”The A word.”

Now, Vickie looked at her. ”I’m autistic.”

There is an awkwardness that follows behind every autistic teen. Vickie stopped short and let that awkwardness stand in front of her class. The silence stood valiant, a quiet that is either followed by a joke, a change of subject, or a face of sympathy as if neurodivergence was terminal.

”More like ASStistic!” A random student yelled.

A joke fits best, anyway. It's a funny situation. The autistic girl spoke, and that in and of itself is a joke.

Class ended with two boys, a presentation in power-point formation and spearmint-stained drool crusting at the lips of every student in the room. Maybe even the teacher too. Whatever, teachers love to engross themselves in boring things like sock advertisements and sex with their lackluster husbands. What was not boring, however, was Vickie's best friend, Jamie, waiting for her at the edge of the doorway. Her hair was in tight twists that made her kind of look like a pirate. Vickie became friends with her because sometimes they liked to pretend Jamie was a pirate and Vickie was an alien. They were young when they played, but the out-of-this-world aspects of Vickie grew with age, and the yearning for something further still rested deep in Jamie's chest. Playtime became reality, but everything feels too much like a game anyway, so who gives a damn if two girls play pirate and alien through the halls of high school?

”So…how was Mrs. Savini?” Jamie asked, arms held out in front of her like a little girl asking for candy. Her face wasn't sweet at all, Vickie knew.

”Meanie Savini can suck my teeny weenie.” Vickie grumbled.

”Charming.”

”It´s just that I want to go to art school, like, film school, but I know I’m just gonna either get roofied or reeled into the corporate carousel because that’s what school does apparently. They make us ride rigidity like those porcelain horses, around and around until someone pukes up 401-K cotton candy and gets the hell off this ride. That’s what film has devolved into, so whatever if I wanted to do a sock puppet superhero show for my commercial class.” Vickie talked with her hands. She grasped at words and maybe something really was left up in the air, she could catch it and fix it. Words are hard to tinker with sometimes, and they float away too fast if you don’t catch them.

Jamie nodded along. “Savini’s just way too serious. As an artist, you gotta cater to your audience, Vicks”

“What sombre route can I take? ‘Every step you take in our socks, you get one step closer to Jesus AND Allah, just gauntin’ together at our nearest store. All Jerusalem needed for stability was arch support or whatever, so get our cross-stitched socks if you don’t want another crusade’? Like, I know she’s old, so she’d love the church and state crossover, but seriously, she gives us no creative freedom.” Vickie ranted.

“I like what you did with the cross-stitch thing.” Jamie exclaimed with pep and a smile.

“That’s what you took away from that?”

Now Jamie was talking with her hands. “God forbid I like it when you hone in on religious imagery. And I’m complimenting you!”

“I’m sorry, it’s just” Vickie paused, breathed, continued. “I want to be the thing that everyone wants me to be. Not, like, the academic weapon with a messy bun and glasses. Or a soccer captain with thick hair for that matter. I just want to be, like, I don’t know.”

Uh oh, big girl emotions. Jamie didn’t like that. She wanted back to playtime.

“Like Maggy from stats.”

“Who?”

“Richy, bitchy collared shirts look kinda itchy? Stats? The only C Ms. Isaac New-tits ever got were her implants in junior year? But hey, if her grades stay perky, then why can't her girls, I guess.” Jamie’s lewd gestures fractured the seriousness.

But not enough for Vickie to drop it.

“No, I don’t think I want to be her either.”

Jamie thought some more. “Like Audrey, maybe, from Gym. Nice girl, tall?”

“No, not really. I like being me. I like my funky colored hair and my style. I like German expressionism and sharks and maybe I like Audrey from Gym but I don’t know.” Vickie sighed.

“Ooh a crush!” Jamie got excited. This was sleepover talk, a conversation laced with fun and tied off with a bow of adolescent adoration.

Vickie grew frustrated. “No! I liked my sock film! I thought the wordplay was funny. I liked making a joke about my autism! I like smashing words together! I don’t like how it feels like I’m not allowed to!”

Jamie understood this. She wished she didn't.

Vickie’s rambles continued. “It’s scary, being an alien. I’m looking at a world full of pretty colors and clouds and oceans that sound so, so serene! But then there are just people, throwing shit away and destroying it. It hurts because there isn’t anything I can do to stop this beautiful rock of life just being, like, tarnished because people don’t want to see the beauty!”

They are still outside of their school. They stopped walking a while ago. Jamie can bet people heard them talking and thought about how the girl on a rant calling herself alien was weird, and they would laugh with friends over how weird she was, but Jamie knew. Jamie thought her rant was beautiful. What she wouldn’t give to sit next to a little alien Vickie and hold her as she watched the world spin, she doesn’t know.

“I, um, I just want to live. I want to be allowed to be happy.” Vickie finished.

“Can I make you a deal?” Jamie asked.

“What?”

“Show me your sock film, and never stop calling movies ‘films’ instead of ‘movies’, and then can you promise me that once at home, we attach rocks to a cut out of Mrs. Savini’s face and make it walk the plank into my bathtub?”

“Again, what?”

“I hate that someone who's supposed to foster a sense of belonging makes you feel so far away. Vickie, you’re fun. Your movie, which I read the screenplay for, was fun. Gluing googly eyes to old socks and listening to music as we did it, that was amazing because we just were. I’m sorry she shot down your killer neurodiverse portmanteau, and I’m sorry I don’t know how to talk about this right with you, but with me, you can just be.” Now Jamie is finished. Now Jamie’s eyes swam with tears, but again, they were still at school.

“Thank you,” Vickie said after a long moment.

“Any time. Now, can we just be in the car?”

The girls walked to the car. Jamie’s license was fresh, Vickie said dumb jokes, and they both laughed. They laughed because they could. They weren’t a motif. They weren’t floating between adulthood and childhood. They weren’t angst-ridden or overzealous, as teenagers usually are. They just were. That was all they needed.