On Tuesday, I open my locker to find a fat, dusty book, and old edition of the DSM. There’s a big Post-it note and an arrow pointing to the section titled ‘Asperger’s Syndrome.’ I’m pretty sure I have Asperger’s. This is an old DSM (the new one folds my diagnosis under autism spectrum disorders). I think this will tell you a lot about why I am the way I am (and why I acted the way I acted), though I can’t use the Aspie thing as an excuse. It’s more of an explanation than an excuse. There’s a famous expression that if you’ve met one person with autism, then…you’ve met one person with autism. So you met me. Just me. Not a diagnosis. I realize I hurt you. I forgot to think about you first. I did not put myself in your shoes, as the expression goes. (Though as a sidebar, I think wearing other people’s shoes is kind of disgusting; I’m only okay with the concept metaphorically.)

‘Do you think this is my once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to kiss Kit Lowell? And if so, what do you think are my chances in that regard?’ ‘Yes, and I think your odds are about two point four percent.’ ‘So you’re saying that on Friday night I have an equal chance of getting vomited on as I do getting kissed?’ ‘Welcome to high school,’ Miney says.

‘You’re probably good people too, but just so you know, I love David more than life itself, so if you hurt my brother in any way, or if you even think about hurting him, I will ruin you. I may not still live here, but I can still do that,’ she says in the hurried whisper of a Mafia don, which come to think of it is not unlike a homecoming queen, even an ironic hipster version. Her eyes are dry now and cold. ‘Understood?’ ‘I think so.’ ‘Good,’ Lauren says, and then she throws her arms around my shoulders in a weird, semi-friendly half hug. ‘I think we’re going to get along just fine.’

‘Don’t get me wrong. He is no way normal.’ I stop, look at David. Smile a little. ‘Sorry, it’s true. But who is? And since when is normal a requirement for high school?’ ‘I like her,’ David’s dad says to no one in particular. ‘I know, right?’ David’s mom says.

‘I just want to say I love you guys and I’m so lucky to have the two bravest kids in the world, and sure you both make mistakes, but please don’t let anyone or anything ever make you feel small, okay? Either one of you,’ my mom says, and stands up and kisses both me and Miney on the tops of our heads as she makes her way to the sink. My mom likes pep talks. It’s kind of her thing. ‘Statistically speaking, it’s unlikely we are the two bravest kids in the whole word,’ I say. ‘Just say I love you too, Mom,’ my mom calls over her shoulder. ‘And I have no idea how one can feel small. I assume I feel exactly proportional to my size.’ Miney kicks me under the breakfast table. I look up and she’s glaring at me. ‘I love you too, Mom,’ I say.

‘I’ll kill them,’ Miney says, which is a nice offer, but I don’t want her to go to jail. Then I wouldn’t be able to talk to her whenever I wanted. We’d have to sit across from each other in a dirty vestibule, converse through bulletproof glass. Miney is a picky eater. She’d hate prison food.

‘I’m not sure what prime numbers have to do with anything,’ I say in a gentle voice. ‘Prime numbers have to do with everything. But to clarify, that’s what I imagine falling in love is like and then staying in love. You start out as low twin primes and as time goes on, if you manage to defy the statistical odds and not get divorced, you become like those rare twin primes, still only separated by two. That’s an amazing feat.’ ‘How romantic,’ I say sarcastically, because to me the idea of falling in love, admittedly something I’ve never had the pleasure of experience, has nothing to do with prime numbers or mathematics or even quantum mechanics. It’s more like music or art or poetry. Something awe-inspiring and beautiful. Maybe even surprising, like how I used to see my parents’ relationship. ‘It actually is. Super romantic.’ David looks down and fiddles with his straw. I think he’s blushing, which makes me blush, even though I have no idea what he’s talking about. Of course, when a good-looking guy uses the word romantic in all seriousness and blushes, whatever the context, even if you are talking about prime numbers, you’re going to blush too. It’s reflexive. It doesn’t mean anything.