Kay Kerr - Social Queue

I thought I was nobodys teen crush, but turns out I was just missing the signs.

Zoe Kelly is starting a new phase of her life. High school was a mess of bullying and autistic masking that left her burnt out and shut down. Now, with an internship at an online media companythe first step on the road to her dream writing careershe is ready to reinvent herself. But she didnt count on returning to her awkward and all-too-recent high-school experiences for her first writing assignment.

When her piece, about her non-existent dating life, goes viral, eighteen-year-old Zoe is overwhelmed and more than a little surprised by the response. But, with a deadline and a list of romantic contenders from the past to reconnect with for her piece on dating, she is hoping one of her old sparks will turn into a new flame.

Social Queue is a funny and heart-warming autistic story about deciphering the confusing signals of attraction and navigating a path to love.

For Aggie & Arth

At the hazy midway point between waking and sleep, my hand reaches for my phone. Most mornings start like this, before my eyes are even open. Its an involuntary action, like breathing, or the way my sneezes come out sounding like they belong to a cartoon mouse.

The idea of unseen notifications makes me anxious, and so I check my phone approximately every twenty minutes of the day, and a couple of times throughout the night as well. That is according to my screen-time report, which is something else that makes me anxious. The invisible pull of my device has strengthened since I joined a couple of dating apps last month. Or, more accurately, since my sister Harriet set up profiles for me on a couple of dating apps last month. Three weeks on these apps and I have already learned more about the rules of the dating world than I picked up in my previous eighteen years. For example, people are far more interested in chatting from the hours of 9 pm to midnight than they are in the mornings, which is disappointing as I go to bed early and mornings are my best time for social interaction.

Also, where I previously thought only autistic people like me relied on scripts to help them through difficult initial conversations, it turns out everyone does. They might not call it scripting, but I realised pretty quickly when three guys used the same opening line on me within a week, that thats what it is. Prettiest smile Ive seen on here. As a line, its fine. It resulted in a date with one of the three so the odds are okay. There are other rules: about how long after a match someone should message (according to my field research, no earlier than twenty-four hours, lest either of you seem desperate, even though matching and messaging is the entire purpose of the app), and the coded language people include in their profile. Harriet has helped me with this. I now immediately swipe left to get rid of anyone with a profile descriptor that includes: no drama (probably a misogynist), any mention of their salary (wanker), or an overly specific set of rules about what they are looking for in a woman (probably a misogynist AND a wanker). Also, if all of their photos are of them drinking alcohol, thats a no too. That one is a personal preference. Drinking can be part of their life, but Im not interested if its their whole personality. None of this is to say I think Im better than anyone I encounter online, its more that I only have a finite amount of social energy to expend, and it saves time for all of us if we at least start from a place of potential compatibility.

So, like I said, there are rules to online dating and, unfortunately for me this bright and early Monday morning, MadDog03 is not following them. I think his real name is Michael, if my memory serves me correctly from my swiping session last night. He was a swipe left (mention of salary) but he found my Instagram account overnight and now theres a DM waiting for me. I can see the first few words. It starts Hey, thought you could get away Sinking down into my doona with my phone balanced on the thumb that is becoming permanently shaped around it, I get the gist. If I read the whole thing, he will see its been Seen and I risk an unpredictable reaction. If he doesnt respect the rules, its an indicator that he wont respect me.

Deep breath. To be honest, its all a bit much. My phone can have a little rest on the bedside table, as a treat.

Thoughts bubble and swirlits chaos behind my eyes. In March Im rewatching the To All the Boys Ive Loved Before trilogy for the millionth time, dreaming of my own Peter Kavinsky. In April, I turn eighteen and, voila, Im inadvertently trying to manage the ego of a person Ive never met, who I think wants to strongarm me into a date Im not interested in. Or at least tell me off for not being interested. And I need to get ready for work. But first I need five minutes of staring at the ceiling to let my mind work through it.

Then, with my feet on the floor and a shake of my wrists, Im up. Harriet would have something clever to reply with, but Im just putting my profile on private.

I want to draw the blinds and hide inside. Im suddenly hyper-aware of my online presence. Should I delete everything? But its never really gone anyway. A name change seems like overkill. If people cant stick to the rules, Im not sure Im cut out for online dating. My mind flashes forward to the alternative: me in my eighties, an eccentric old spinster with too many cats. It is obvious a man came up with that archetype of a failed woman, because it sounds quite lovely to me.

Online dating was a brash decision, and barely even a decision at that. Harriet walked in on one of my rom-com binge sessions and decided there was something sad about me consuming all that romance without experiencing any of my own, so she set up the profiles and now here I am. One coffee, one ghosting, and a handful of message conversations that havent led anywhere but might have potential if I can stay awake past 9 pm. And now this. Whatever youd call it.

MadDog03s casual dismissal of my no makes me feel unsettled, but I dont really have time to think about it right now. Best to focus on making the bed. Sheets folded back, pillows fluffed and everything buried under too many cushions. Memory is a funny thing. I cant remember a single password I ever set for myself, but somehow I will always remember, word-for-word, the article I read a couple of years ago about how making your bed in the morning is a sign of wellbeing and success. And so I make my bed every morning.

The lesson here, I think, is that I should stick to my imaginary relationships; at least the scriptwriting is better. The circumstances and players differ, but it follows the same through-line Ive been gorging on since childhood. Two people meet each other, often in an unusual way, face minor challenges of miscommunication, before getting together and staying that way. Only, my life feels like one unending challenge of miscommunication, and there is nothing minor about it. And MadDog03 has now reminded me that I do not necessarily get to control how this dating business plays out.

If I can draw any positive from this, its that Josef might like this as a story idea at our brainstorm meeting this morning. Thats a thought thread worth pulling. He might even want me to write about it, a personal piece about the perils of online dating, as if there arent a billion of those out there already. And I want to be the kind of person who finds it to be an amusing anecdote, laughed off with friends. I want to be the kind of person who is thought of as having friends, plural. Josef doesnt know who I was in high school. He picked my resume as one of three from what I can only assume was a pile of hundreds of applications for the internship positions at Bubble. There arent many online media positions up for grabs in Brisbane. And the other two interns are in their third year at uni, while Im only in my first. That is something. My first week was not a disaster, but I have a feeling Josef doesnt know my name yet so I cant say its been a total success either. I have done a good job on the tasks Ive been given, but havent managed to build up the courage to pitch any stories of my own. Josef calls me hun, like a shop assistant shouting through the change room door to see if I want more sizes. Ive got three weeks left to change that.