"Lemon Pulp," by Julianna Britt

Julianna is a freshman studying English and Communications. She wrote Lemon Pulp because, as someone on the autism spectrum, she felt as if there weren’t enough fictional pieces out there that authentically drew attention to autism. She’s always wanted to write a story where two long-lost brothers reconnected, and lemon pulp itself is just a funky concept to base a story around. Juli is a San Damiano scholar who is striving to work towards her Certificate in American Sign Language at Vincennes University to work in Deaf ministry. She publishes under the pseudonym Rae Jacobs.

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I don’t remember my brother very well. I remember his hair was a long, sun-bleached blond that promised to darken with age. I remember his eyes were a pale, mischievous brown that hinted they understood more than they saw. I remember his knobby knees, forever scabbed, and his clothes that were always too big for him because we couldn’t afford anything but my hand-me-downs.

I remember he hated lemon pulp, too. With a burning passion. He would gag if the stuff got within two feet of him. The stringy, floating mush did not appeal to him. For years, he refused to drink lemonade unless it came from a clear bottle and he could inspect it to make sure it was pulp-free. The labels on the bottles wouldn’t convince him. Once, he took my lemonade from Chick-fil-A and chucked it on the floor, chiding me. It splashed a poor old lady’s shoes.

We were separated just before his sixth birthday, when I was nine. All I understood at the time was that our mother was taken away by the police and we were split up. Now, of course, I understand that my brother’s dad, who was not the same as mine, had elected to take him. But only him. Meanwhile, I was dumped into a foster home, new brothers and sisters whirling around me interchangeably, and having to leave just as I started to get to know them.

I became used to this routine, moving from place to place. It wasn’t fun, but it was better than living out on the streets, I suppose. And I was certainly grateful to the people who watched over me, no matter how short the period was. 

But when I turned seventeen, things changed. “You’ll be an adult soon,” everyone told me. “You have to start preparing to live on your own.”

Damn. Nothing hurts more than basically being told that no one loved me enough to adopt me, and that my mom’s too crazy to take care of me. “Good luck, kid.”

“I’m lost,” I told my closest friend, Damien, after school one day. We both worked at a local fast food restaurant and we were walking down the street underneath sagging power lines to begin our shift. Even though beaten economy cars rattled past, spewing smoke and howling with age, he could somehow still hear me.

“Are you lost, or are you just wandering?” Damien asked, pushing his huge glasses up his small nose. His face was freckled with acne scars and framed by dark, stringy hair. “Because there’s a big difference. Maybe you’re just exploring.”

I shook my head. “I don’t think so. I’m gonna be living on the streets or something unless you let me hide out in your basement.” I tripped over a piece of the sidewalk that had been pushed up by an ancient tree, which totally helped me look more professional in my plea for living assistance. Damien rolled his eyes.

“You wouldn’t last a day with my mother. Besides, aren’t there programs you can do or something? Get yourself a scholarship?”

I snorted. “I’m not going to college, Damien.”

But it was a thought.

The next thing I knew, I was seated in a library, a mentor for some kind of shitty program for some shitty scholarship. Helping kids with autism, I guess. The scholarship Damien looked into for me was very insistent on service, so I figured I had to start somewhere. I tried to look like I actually wanted to be there, even though I was bored, had a million homework assignments, and the place smelled like a mix between a recycle bin and old lady perfume.

“Thank you guys for coming!” a librarian gushed, clasping her long, red nails together. “The participants are waiting. Come with me, and we’ll meet them in the community room.”

Several other volunteers groaned as they stood, mirroring my internal thoughts that I kept hidden. We followed the woman to a room that was dimly lit, with the window shades pulled tight, and smelled vaguely of sweat. It was filled with kids; half of them with innocent grins on their faces, half of them crying. Everyone  dove to sit across from the kids that looked the happiest, leaving me with one huddling in the corner. I looked behind me and saw that the woman who had led us here was busy engaging in conversation with a confused volunteer. Another adult loomed over the crying kid, but he looked like he was making it worse.

“Hey,” I said, approaching them. “What’s up?”

The adult sighed, but relief flickered in his eyes. I was relieving him of his duty, I guess. “Hello there,” he said, looking like he wanted to bolt to the nearest coffee shop. “This is Jack. You two want to be buddies?”

The boy shook his head, the pile of brown curls on his head swishing back and forth. He looked to be in junior high, and was wearing a nerdy graphic tee. Biting my lip, I bent over and tried to smile at him. It was then I realized that I’d never really had a one-on-one conversation with an autistic kid before.

“Hey, buddy,” I tried. As soon as the words left my mouth, the adult helper was halfway to the door. “You’re…Jack?”

The boy, Jack, nodded. His eyes looked puffy and red, like he had been crying, but his cheeks were dry now. He took a finger and started tracing the patterns of the carpet. I sat down next to him after a moment, sighing as my muscles relaxed. I tried asking him other questions, but he didn’t answer until I inquired about his shirt. This is not a drill, it read, showcasing a cartoon hammer.

“My dad likes to build,” he mumbled, curls falling into his eyes and shielding his face from my view. “He got me this shirt for my birthday.”

“That’s so cool.” I leaned against the wall next to him, but he didn’t flinch away. “When was your birthday? Was it recently?”

“Yeah. It was–it was last week.” He pushed himself up out of the tight ball he had curled into and brushed the hair from his eyes, but he still didn’t make eye contact. His honey-brown eyes continued darting all over the room and he breathed steadily through his mouth, his breath smelling of peanut butter crackers.

“What’s your name?” he suddenly asked me, peering at me through black-framed glasses.

“Benjamin,” I said. He clapped his hands together once, like he thought of something.

“Benny,” he said loudly, and I shook my head. Only one person had ever been allowed to call me Benny.

“Just Benjamin,” I said, trying not to be too stern with the kid. He shook his head back and forth, lapsing into silence as he watched all the other kids playing and goofing off with their buddies.

“Got a game you wanted to play?” I asked him. “Or any crafts you wanted to make?”

Jack shook his head again, very adamant this time. I sighed and tried to think about my scholarship.

“Well…what do you like?”

Jack turned his gaze upward, his eyes glinting as though he understood something I didn’t. “Vending machines,” he said simply. I gawked for a second, then laughed.

“Ain’t no way I’m buying you snacks.” Jack sighed at that, and went back to drawing circles on the carpet. I rolled my eyes. “Okay, fine. Whatever you want.”

He was so excited, he jumped into the air, tattered blue converse skipping in place with anticipation. I grinned as he began telling me what types of snacks he liked, and it was hard for me to silence him so I could ask the librarian if we could venture outside to find the vending machines.

“You can,” she said slowly, staring at Jack. “He just…he doesn’t usually eat anything but his dad’s peanut butter crackers. We have to bend over backwards just to feed him and make him drink.”

I shrugged. “He seemed pretty excited about it.”

Jack and I left the room and wandered through the looming shelves crammed with plastic-covered books we both would probably never read, keeping our eyes peeled for the vending machine. I kept a close eye on him, but that didn’t stop the restless pounding of my heartbeat in my ears or the jittery shaking of my hands. What was I supposed to do if he just ran out the door, hollering for freedom? Or started attacking some random snot-covered kid in between the shelves?

Jack slowed so suddenly in the middle of the aisle that I nearly bumped into him.

“Are you okay, Jack?” I asked. He crossed his arms over his chest as he walked, dragging out each and every step.

“I’m thirteen,” he grumbled. I blinked, confused, as we rounded the corner of a bookshelf and started walking through the kids’ area. Picture books, blocks, and half-colored pieces of paper were scattered everywhere like confetti. I half-wondered if Jack’s group of friends had come through here.

“What?”

“I said, ‘I’m thirteen.’ Remember? I’m older now. You don’t have to tail me anymore and keep watch over me like I’m still a baby.”

He started sprinting and my stomach leapt into my throat. “Wait, Jack—”

The kid vanished behind a bookshelf, and when I rounded the corner, I saw the vending machine sitting at the end, crammed into a corner. He was standing in front of it, swaying back and forth and wringing his hands excitedly. With a few bounding footsteps, I stood next to him, taking in all the colorful candy, snacks, and drinks.

“Okay, buddy,” I said, still breathing hard from chasing him. “What snack do you want?”

Jack shook his head, pressing his fingers against the glass. “I want a lemonade,” he said, turning his face towards me. Something was familiar in his expression, but he still didn’t look me in the eyes. “I want a lemonade, but with no lemon pulp.”