Michael nods in agreement. “He’s got a point. You can tell her later if things progress.”

I just shake my head. Parts of me don’t look quite right anymore. That’s the simple truth and something that I feel I need to explain. There’s also the other thing, the thing that I haven’t told anyone yet, because it’s awkward and it sucks and sometimes it still makes me cry. But I’d have to tell Anna. It’s relevant when it comes to relationships.

“You know, I can tell based purely off text messages if a girl is into someone,” Michael says.

“Yeah, like if the message says ‘I’m into you,’ that’s a pretty sure sign,” I say dryly.

“No, get your phone out and text her. I’ll show you what I’m talking about. I can tell within three lines,” he insists. “Plus, don’t you want to know how she’s doing? You guys were originally going to meet up tonight.”

Grumbling, I take my phone out of my pocket and text her, How you doing?

“I’m not going to show you if she says something personal. Also, what if she doesn’t respond right a—”

Dots start jumping on the screen, and I get a new message with a smiley face. I’m okay. You?

I show Michael so he can analyze the exchange like it’s tea leaves or some shit, and he grins right away. “A smiley emoji straight off. That’s a really good sign.”

I narrow my eyes at him before typing, Me too. Was thinking about you.

Before I hit the send button, Michael looks over my shoulder at my phone and says, “What, no emoji? That’s so impersonal. Add a heart.”

I give him a disgusted look. “Marriage has warped your brain if you think—”

He snatches the phone from me, body checks me when I lunge at him, and dances away, typing on my phone screen with his thumbs. When he tosses the phone back to me, the damage has been done. He sent my original message. Except there’s a big red heart after it.

I’m going to kill him.

With my bare hands.

As painfully as possible.

But then my phone buzzes with a new message from Anna. I was thinking about you too. And there, at the end, is a red heart, just like mine.

I stare at her message for the longest time, completely stunned out of my rage. “Do you think she … does she … maybe she …”

Michael wraps an arm around my shoulders. “That, my friend, means she likes you. I read about this in Cosmo.”

“I don’t know how you can stand reading those magazines,” Khai says as he gets up and collects our glasses. “I have a bunch of limes, so I’m going to make another round. I think Quan needs it.”

“Yeah, thanks,” I say as I drop back into my chair, still staring at her message and that red heart.

This changes things. I need to completely scrap my plans for tomorrow. It’s not just about sex anymore. If it ever was.

SIXTEEN

Anna

THIS WEEKEND, WHEN I’M NOT PRACTICING, I’M FEVERISHLY researching autism, consuming information in all possible manners—books, articles online, videos on YouTube, podcasts, postings in autistic people groups on Facebook, even a made-for-TV film about Temple Grandin starring Claire Danes. The more I learn, the more certain I am that this is me. This is where I belong.

I want to tell people, my family, my friends, my fellow musicians at the symphony. I want them to understand me at last. The key to me is right here, in these books and media.

It’s early evening, and I’m nervously waiting for Quan to arrive for our last date and reading an autistic woman’s personal blog entry about proper terminology. Apparently, Asperger’s syndrome is no longer used diagnostically in the United States. In 2013, it was grouped, along with other former neurological conditions, under the broad umbrella of autism spectrum disorder. Many in the autistic community prefer the use of descriptors like with low support needsas opposed to high-functioning, which was how Jennifer described me. I’m mouthing the words autistic with low support needs and getting used to the feel of them when my phone rings. It’s Priscilla, so I pick up immediately.

“Hi, Je je.”

There’s noise in the background, like she’s at a restaurant or a party. She’s perpetually “networking” and doing social things. I could never live her life, not happily anyway. “Hey, I had a free minute, so I thought I’d call you. What’s up?”

“Not much, just reading,” I say as I scroll past the terminology blog entry to one about poor spatial awareness. There’s a picture of the blogger’s bruised legs, and I compare them to mine. Aside from our skin tone, we look the same. Just like her, I’m constantly running into table corners and chairs and door handles and things, but the worst for me is glass cases in department stores. I get distracted by the shiny things inside, and seven times out of ten, I bang my face on the glass as I lean close to get a better look—one of the many reasons why I hate shopping.

“I spoke to Mom earlier. She said Dad’s not feeling great. You might want to check up on them one of these days,” Priscilla says, and there’s censure in her voice, as there always is when it comes to this topic.

“What’s wrong?” My dad is on the older side—sixteen years older than my mom—but I never noticed until recent years, when congestive heart failure forced him into retirement against his will.

“He’s just really tired. Mom says he’s napping today, and you know how he feels about naps,” she says with a subdued laugh.

“I’ll try to make it home next weekend.”

“You’ll try?” she asks, and I look up at the ceiling as my fingers flex into claws. I loathe being told what to do like this, absolutely loathe it, and it’s worse when it involves doing things with or for my parents. They’re close to Priscilla. They wanted Priscilla. Me, I’m their accidental second child, the result of a Mexico vacation and too many piña coladas. Worse than that, I’m overly sensitive, difficult, “lazy,” and, quite frankly, a bit of a disappointment—except for my relationship with Julian, the son-in-law of their dreams, and my accidental Internet fame.

Things with Julian aren’t looking great, however, and the fame isn’t lasting. I’m getting upstaged by a twelve-year-old. I admit I watched videos of her playing with trepidation. I didn’t want to be impressed, but she’s genuinely amazing. I’ve never seen bow work that fluid. She deserves the accolades. Still, now I don’t have anything to show my parents, no great news, no fresh accomplishments, nothing my mom can humble-brag about to her friends, and I know she craves it. I don’t know if it’s better never to be successful at all, or to have success for a short while, only to lose it.

“I will visit next weekend.” I sound peppy and excited as I say it. I even smile. Because that’s how she wants me to be—easygoing and eager to please. Like a golden retriever.

“Good. They’ll be happy to see you,” she says.

I almost laugh at that—a bitter, disrespectful kind of laugh—but I manage to hold it in. If they find out about the shambles I’ve made of my life, they most certainly won’t be happy. There’s no more Julian. No more publicity. The tour is over. My career is circling the toilet drain because I can’t get my act together. I’m in therapy. There’s this thing, whatever it is, with Quan. (What’s worse? Trying to have casual sex with a stranger or failing at having casual sex with a stranger?) And then the latest development …