There were plenty of red flags that I was neurodivergent growing up.
Exhibit A: My biggest fear in high school was getting pregnant — even though I didn’t have sex until I was 21.
Exhibit B: Underwear? Too distracting. I quit it altogether.
Of course, I was a theater kid. At my tiny New Hampshire school, “theater” meant zero budget and scripts no one had heard of. My sophomore year, it was Our Miss Brooks. I played the snooty kid — ironic, since in real life I was the opposite.
The costume? A silky “Asian-inspired” dress with giant slits up both sides. (90s. Problematic on every level.)
Opening night. The gym is full of classmates, parents, and teachers. Stage lights blinding. I go to sit down in a chair on the stage, which I am blocked to sit in, and a castmate (unprompted) slides the chair out.
SLAM. My ass hits the floor. Hard. Legs fly up through the slits.
The audience erupts.
I yank the dress, try to play it off as scripted. But I know: this isn’t just funny. It’s bad.
Backstage, panicked, I find my way into the school and call my best friend Emily. (This is WAY before cell phones.)
“Dude, I need you to bring me underwear.”
“I don’t have any of your underwear.”
“You have underwear. Bring yours.”
“I am not bringing you mine.”
“Yes. You are.”
And because she’s Emily, she did. She even stayed with me the rest of the night, whispering reassurance: No one saw. They were laughing at the fall. I promise you’re not pregnant.
But people had seen. Freshmen on prompt duty. Dads with VHS cameras. By Monday, everyone knew.
First period French. Madame Howard, whom I adored, asked in French how the play went. The class giggled. I had a choice: run, deny, or own it.
“Honestly, Madame,” I said, “it was pretty revealing.”
The room exploded. This time, I laughed too. And two years later, in our senior yearbook under “Most Embarrassing Moment,” I wrote: That whole Our Miss Brooks incident.
Years later, when I called Emily to tell her about this Stage IV cancer diagnosis, she cried right along with me. At Christmas, she came home and took me to an immunotherapy infusion. We sat together while the IV dripped its life-saving juice, and she said, through tears, “At least you’re not pregnant.”
And I laughed out loud, even then. Because that’s Emily. My ride or die.
