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“She hates me, for some reason,” Wilson said.

“She doesn’t hate you,” Caroline said. “Why would she hate you? I’m sure it was an accident. You need to go lie down for a while.”

So I can call Billie and give her an update, she finished silently.

She hated the Asswiper Support Group, but her mother dropped her off at the Methodist Church downtown at one o’clock every Saturday afternoon. The Asswipers met in a dank basement that had one of those floors covered with tan linoleum squares that had been there since the dawn of time, or since the 1950s, and there were black scuff marks all over the floor that Ava stared at while the other people were talking—the guys were talking, because it was only her and a bunch of losers.

She didn’t like looking at the guys, noticing all their facial irregularities—it was better to stare at the scuff marks on the floor and try to see pictures in them. Each week she made sure to sit in the same chair so that she could revisit the scuff mark pictures she’d already conjured up. There was the clipper ship she’d christened the Ordinary, and there was the tree of life she’d noticed for the first time last week, and over there the state of California, and right in front of her a profile of Elvis, the 1968 comeback Elvis, with sideburns and thin face.

Ava had seen the face of Elvis in the marbled swirls of a shower stall in a Super 8 Motel, in the clouds, in a half-used bar of olive soap from the Italian deli. Hang in there, Ava baby, he was always telling her, things will get better. He understood, because he had Asperger’s, too, only he’d grown up in the good old days before people even knew what Asperger’s was, so it was more of a live-and-let-live kind of a thing, instead of a live-and-try-to-fix-the-other-guy kind of a thing. Back then, you were just labeled a freak and left alone, which really wasn’t ideal either, she had to admit, unless you also happened to be a gorgeous musical genius. Hello there, Elvis. She tapped his chin with the toe of her flip-flop. Hey, Elvis. Hey, guitar man.

One time she’d mentioned to the freaks in her group that, in her opinion, Elvis had Asperger’s, and the only response she’d gotten was the most gung ho Christian guy going, “Rock and Roll music is sinful. The beat is meant to make you think of the sexual act. The phrase rock and roll is actually a euphemism for the sexual act. Even Christian rock isn’t wholesome. Doesn’t matter that the lyrics are about God.” What could you say to this kind of nonsense? For somebody who was so against sex, he sure liked to talk about it a lot. Sexual act. Why add the act part?

And over there, by the group leader’s Teva sandal, plain as day, was the Eiffel Tower with Madeline and Miss Clavel and the row of girls in two straight lines. In two straight lines they ate their bread, brushed their teeth, and went to bed. An ideal life for someone with Asperger’s. Ava had always wanted to be Madeline, an orphan who lived in a cool old house with a solid unvarying routine, some built-in friends, and a nice old lady who was not your mother, like Nance.

Ava would’ve given anything to see a row of girls about then, because the guys in the support group were the most peculiar bunch of guys ever assembled in one room. They were mostly old and scary, not one potential boyfriend in the bunch. This week, though, there was a new guy there, baby faced, about her age, who said his name was Travis and that he didn’t have Asperger’s but that his mom had wanted him to come check out the group. Interesting! A non-Aspie, not bad looking, who wanted to check them out! She wanted him to say more, but the other guys wouldn’t let him get another word in. Their voices droned on.

“Those Aspies are so repulsive,” she’d complained to her mother once, who told her that it wasn’t very nice to say things like that, and that she should give them a chance, and that every man wasn’t going to look like Elvis, so she’d better face reality. She’d insisted that Ava join this group to improve her social skills