Coral

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Author's note: Credit for the cover goes to TheTigerWriter. Thank you!

"Deja vu" may not technically be the right phrase, but I'm not sure what the proper word is to describe walking into the dining room and being hit with the forgotten scent of pine and gluten-free cookies. "Nostalgia" isn't the right word, either – that would imply fondness for the memory. I could say it made me feel like a kid again, but that's the cliche people use to say they feel free or giddy. I just feel out-of-place. Like a kid who's suddenly been stretched into adult proportions and has no idea what the expectations are anymore.

"The kitchen is this way, girls," says Sister Hansen, the youth group leader, looking very much like she knows what she's doing with her capri pants and whistle. But she's never been here before. We, the four youth volunteers, follow her anyway. Rachel Hansen, Sister Hansen's daughter and my friend, takes in the sights. Rachel's thirteen-year-old sister Rebekah and her friend Audrey chat about something unrelated.

Sister Hansen talks to a woman with a clipboard and a nametag that says "Nancy," who tell us to put the cookies on the table and then we can relax until the campers show up. The task gets done quickly, and Rebekah and Audrey bounce off towards the recreation area. I follow. It doesn't look quite how I remember it. The big red bean bag has been replaced with a smaller blue one - or maybe it only seems small because I've grown. The television has been replaced with another one, slightly less obsolete. The bookshelf is stocked with DVDs instead of VHS tapes - the absence of the tape containing my favorite episode of Adventures of Sonic the Hedgehog makes me feel more dismayed than I should be. There is a Frozen DVD where the Sonic one used to be. I can't think of a more inferior substitute for Sonic than Anna and Elsa. The wooden table is the same, though, with the same red embroidered tablecloth, long enough to almost hide you.

"This is actually, like, really cool," says Rebekah, flopping onto the bean bag and reaching out to grab a picture book off the shelf in front of her. Rebekah has no qualms making herself comfortable.

"Yeah, I wish I could've come here as a kid," Audrey agrees. She's looking at the container with all the card games in it.

"Yeah, how come the retarded kids get all the good stuff?" Rebekah shoves the book back onto the shelf and stretches out on the beanbag.

"Rebekah!" Rachel scolds. Her voice is a little less soft than usual.

Audrey looks away from the container of cards, eyes forced open and mouth forced into a frown. She might be amused or shocked.

"What?" Rebekah defends herself. "I'm just saying the kids here are lucky."

"Don't use that word! What if one of the kids' parents heard?"

"Whatever." Rebekah sits up, crossing her arms.

I prepare to make sheepish eye contact with Rachel, but she doesn't look at me. Maybe she doesn't actually know I have Asperger's syndrome. My parents certainly never kept it a secret – Mormon parents are prone to oversharing – and they were always quick to use stories about me for lessons about overcoming adversity. Besides, Rachel and I have known each other all our lives, and when I was a kid it was a lot more obvious that there was something wrong with me. But it's been a long time since I've had a meltdown in Sacrament meeting because I couldn't stand my velvet dress.

Whether or not Rachel knows I'm autistic, she doesn't apologize to me on her sister's behalf, which is just as well. Not apologizing means she doesn't consider Rebekah's comment to be an offense towards me, which means in a roundabout way that she sees me as my own individual person and not an "autistic person." I know it seems like those things aren't mutually exclusive, but they are. I can't explain how – it's not something people realize they do.

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