Prologue

Avery

The looks on their faces—that’s the worst part.

Nobody tries to help. They never do. They just rush by with their own children, hiding their eyes so they don’t see the woman causing the scene with her kid.

They scoff at me, judge me. They make grand assumptions.

“She needs to learn how to control her son,” I hear them whisper.

Or, “I bet she lets him walk all over her. It’s her own fault, really.”

Sometimes, I actually feel ashamed. I mouth apologies, as best I can, and I cry. Sometimes…I cry.

Then there are other times—the ones where I grit my teeth, and I stare back into their eyes, with laser-like precision. I bite my tongue, fight against my grain, wanting to shove them, swear at them—make them feel small.

But most of the time, I just count. I count and I pray—not that I’ve stepped foot inside a church once in my life, but I pray anyway, because if someone’s going to be heard, Lord, it has to be me.

I’ve made it all the way into the thousands before the counting stops. I’ve had security step in, try to calm the situation. I’ve broken displays in the grocery store, set off car alarms in parking lots, and toppled tables in restaurants.

That’s part of the reason I don’t go out much. It just…well…it just isn’t easy. Hell, it’s far from easy. It’s barely possible. And some would argue it isn’t.

But it’s only Max and me in this world—and sometimes, he and I have to conquer its cruelty together.

His teeth are locked on my arm. I felt the skin break minutes ago, and I know when I finally pull his mouth away, there will be blood.

Four hundred seven. Four hundred eight. Four hundred nine.

I’m clutching Max to my body, our grocery bags splayed around us near the store’s entrance. I keep staring at the lone red apple that rolled furthest away. Even the damn produce is abandoning me—hiding.

Four hundred sixteen. Four hundred seventeen.

I shut my eyes, tired of the furrowed brows and the sneers from the old ladies pulling out their carts. If I don’t see them, they won’t exist. I won’t hear them. There’s no way I could over the shrilling scream Max has kept up for at least 15 minutes straight. His body relaxed in my arms a few minutes ago. But I made the mistake of thinking it was over—that we were done. I tried to walk him to the car, leaving the groceries where they lay. And that’s when he got me with his teeth.

My arms are so tired. When Max is like this, it’s like he’s possessed with super strength, and it takes all I have in me to keep his arms down, to keep him from hurting himself. This little boy, barely five—I don’t know what I’ll do when he’s ten, fifteen or…

Sometimes I can send my dad out for these errands. But he almost always gets something wrong, coming home with strawberry pastries instead of cherry. Getting something wrong is almost worse. But today? Today, I don’t know. I think I’d pick the pastry meltdown.

I had to park far. Not in our spot. He was edgy then, shuffling his feet more than normal, and bouncing on his toes. Then the bread aisle was blocked because we were later than normal, and the deliveryman was stocking the shelves. We always go down the bread aisle first.

Always.

But today we couldn’t. And somehow, through a miracle, Max accepted that. But his feet began moving faster, and his arms began swinging more, his hands reaching to almost touch everything, careful to come within a millimeter without actually pressing his skin to anything foreign.

We gathered our small list into the basket. We paid. We bagged the groceries. And we were almost out the door.

Almost.

I felt the handle slipping. Like slow motion, I saw it all play out in my mind before it really happened. The bag tore open, and the apples—Max’s apples—all rolled onto the ground—the dirty ground. And Max had met his match.

“What a spoiled brat!” the woman says as she shoves her plastic purse in the top basket of her shopping cart.

All I can do is smile, and meekly, at that. “I’m sorry.” That’s what I’m saying with that smile. That I’m sorry my son has autism, and that I don’t know how to hide it from you.

Max’s grip is loosening even more, and my lungs finally fill up.

I look back at the apple.

Four hundred sixty-one. Four hundred sixty-two.

Today, I will make it home before dark, but without apples. I can’t do this again…not today. I’ll send my dad for the apples tomorrow. And I’ll give him pictures so he gets it right.