A Year Without Autumn

by Liz Kessler

  You might be wondering what exactly we have in common. I do, too, sometimes. But it’s as if we’re two different halves of one whole or something. I can talk to her about absolutely anything, and she’s the same with me. We never get bored of each other’s lives. We share everything — every last detail.

  Dad and I stand watching the water foam and fight as it rushes to get under the bridge. A couple of boys in sneakers and shorts climb onto the wall, and we watch them prepare to jump into the swirling water.

  “I tell you,” Dad says, shaking his head as the first boy splashes loudly into the water, “if either of you kids ever thinks about doing that —”

  “Don’t worry, Dad,” I say, laughing. “I wouldn’t dream of it!” We have the same conversation every year. How he even thinks I might consider it, I don’t know.

  “GERONIMO!” Another splash as the next boy pounds into the river.

  I shudder as we move on, down to the weir. One year we’d had a really hot summer, and the weir had completely dried up. You could see a wall running across the river, only a tiny layer of water covering it up. Autumn skipped across it and dared me to do the same.

  I tried to say no, but like I said, Autumn doesn’t really do “no.” In the end, she held my hand and practically dragged me across. I clutched her hand so tightly, she had red marks from my nails in her palm for a week.

  It felt amazing once we got to the other side, so I was glad she’d insisted — as I usually am. I’d never do something like that of my own accord, though. Never in a million years. It’s not that I’m a complete wimp. It’s just that, well, it’s dangerous! It might look safe, but you never know what’s underneath or how slippery it is, or if the river will suddenly change and you’ll get washed away and knocked unconscious on the rocks below. Too risky by half, and the Green family doesn’t do risky.

  We like things to be ordered, safe, predictable. That’s why we come here. It’s always predictable here. At least it always has been up to now.

  Dad points to the mist swirling above the weir as we pick our way across moss-covered rocks. The water’s crashing down so hard, we have to shout to hear each other. It’s like Niagara Falls.

  “Not surprising after all the rain we’ve had this summer!” Dad yells in my ear.

  I stand back as some of the spray splashes a rock below us. “Let’s go back!” I shout.

  We pass Mr. Andrews, one of Dad’s friends, on the way back to the condo. I study the woods on the other side of the river as they chat. Row after row of tall, sturdy trees — they look proud and aloof, as if they know more than we do. They’ve seen it all. The leaves on a group of them have turned red. The same trees every year, just one small section of the woods. How do they do it? How do they know?

  “Come on, cupcake.” Dad nudges me, and I give Mr. Andrews a quick wave and an embarrassed smile as we set off. Will Dad ever realize I’ve grown out of his pet names? Will I ever have the heart to tell him?

  We go into the rec center so Dad can book a squash court for him and Mr. Andrews. He never plays squash except when we’re here; I don’t know why he bothers. I watched a bit of his game once. He’s really thin and spindly. He looked like a spider on ice, slipping about all over the court, crashing into walls, and coming away purple with bruises. Mr. Andrews had hardly built up a sweat.

  Dad books the court for tomorrow afternoon and then stops to talk to the receptionist. I look around the shop while they talk. There’s a rack of tiny workout clothes and skimpy swimsuits and six shelves of chocolates and candy. I’ve never quite understood how these go together.

  “Just a little surprise for your mom,” Dad says, linking his arm through mine as he pockets a gift card for a facial.

  It’s their wedding anniversary tomorrow. Fifteen years. They still get all gooey about each other, and they hardly ever argue. They bicker sometimes, of course. But only as much as anyone’s parents and about a hundred times less than Autumn’s. Their arguments are like volcanic eruptions. One minute they’re so laid-back they’re practically lying down, and the next they’re at each other’s throats. Autumn says it’s because they’re artists. It’s the creative temperament.

  “If I could have your attention, please.” Mr. Barraclough taps the side of his glass with a spoon, and the room gradually quiets down. Mr. Barraclough’s the manager here. He’s really tall, with a wavy mop of gray hair and blue eyes that always seem to shine without sparkling, if that makes sense.

  He wears sharp suits and always has his shirt collar turned up. I think he looks like a cross between an old rock star and a really cool principal.

  Everyone’s at the welcome meeting, looking up at him and waiting to hear about the week’s goodies. Well, everyone except Autumn’s family. They aren’t here yet — but that’s no surprise. They’re late to everything. I think they like to make an entrance.

  Mom looks at the drinks and raises her eyebrows. “Champagne this year. What’s that about?” She pats her stomach. “Shame I can’t have any,” she says. I grab three cups of orange juice for her, Craig, and myself as Dad helps himself to a glass of champagne and downs half of it in one gulp.

  Mr. Barraclough has started talking again. “So, as this is my last year, I thought we’d do it up,” he says.

  “Bit young for retiring, aren’t you?” a red-faced man at the side of the room calls out. “Or are we paying you too much?”

  “I wish!” Mr. Barraclough says, half frowning, half smiling. “No, I just thought I’d do some traveling. See some of the world beyond Riverside Village,” he adds. “I’m fifty this year. Can’t put your life on hold forever.” Then he stares out the window and pauses. For a moment, he seems to have forgotten about all of us. The pause is just starting to feel awkward when he coughs and raises his glass with a smile that looks really sad. You’d think he’d seem a little happier about leaving his job to go traveling.

  “Anyway, I hope you all settle into your condos without any problems,” he says. “I’m here whenever you need me, as are my staff. Try to remember, if it’s a sink you need unblocking, there’s Johnny and Rita and Pete, and if you need someone to share a long drink and chat with in the bar, you’ve got my number.”

  A few people laugh while Mr. Barraclough takes a sip of his champagne. “We’ve got a whole bunch of top-notch events planned for you this week, as always,” he continues, “so please take your time to check out all the activities, sign up before it’s too late, and, most of all, have a wonderful week. Thank you.”

  With that, he raises his glass and nods to a small round of applause.

  Mom grabs my arm. “Come on. Let’s see what they’ve got planned.”

  I grab a handful of dry-roasted peanuts and follow her to join the others crowding around a table that stretches down one side of the room. It’s covered with leaflets and brochures and sign-up forms. Dad and Craig wander over to a board at the other side of the room. It shows pictures of a local steam train. That’s another thing that happens every year. Craig’s world would be turned upside down if we didn’t have at least one ride on the steam train while we’re here.

  “Look. They haven’t done a trip here before, have they?” Mom passes me a leaflet about a candle museum. “You can make your own candles,” she adds.

  I study the leaflet. There are pictures of candles shaped like mermaids and fairies and trees and all sorts of things. I imagine Autumn and me making matching candles and giving them to each other as presents. “It looks good,” I agree.

  Mom picks up the sign-up sheet. “They’re doing a trip tomorrow afternoon. Shall I sign us up?”

  “Yeah, great,” I reply, glancing at the door for the twentieth time to see if Autumn’s here yet.

  A second later, Dad comes over, pulling Craig along by the hand. Craig’s walking like a bowlegged cowboy; his pants are soaked.

  “He knocked his drink over,” Dad says. “I’ll take him home to change. Back in a minute.”

  He pauses at the door to talk
to someone who’s just arrived. I peer around the corner. Yay! It’s Autumn!

  She screams my name so loud that half the room turns to see what’s going on, then she runs over and squeezes me so tight that she practically knocks the wind out of me as her parents come in behind her. They’re dressed in matching linen pants and bright tops: his baby blue, hers bright pink. Autumn’s wearing old jeans and a red T-shirt with a white donkey in the middle. When they come in, the room changes, as though it was black-and-white before and they’ve flicked a switch that’s turned it into color.

  “Didn’t you girls see each other about two hours ago?” Mom asks.

  “Yeah, but we haven’t had time to catch up on the two million things we need to tell each other yet,” Autumn says.

  “Two million? It was a million and a half at the last count,” her mom says with a smile.

  “That was two hours ago! There’s more now!”

  I laugh, but she’s right. There’s always so much I want to tell her. Just stupid things, stuff most people wouldn’t bother with but I know she’ll want to hear about.

  “I suppose I know what you mean,” Mom says, kissing Autumn’s mom on the cheek and pulling her to one side while Autumn’s dad goes over to speak to Mr. Barraclough.

  “Let’s see what they’ve got lined up for us, then,” Autumn says with a wink as she snatches up a handful of leaflets. “Nope, nope, nah, no way,” she says, quickly scanning each one before dropping it back down and moving along the table.

  “Candles!” she snorts, throwing down the leaflet Mom and I had been looking at. “Who’d want to go and visit a candle museum? I mean, please!”

  I don’t say anything as I shuffle some brochures on the table so she can’t see the sign-up sheet — and I turn away so she doesn’t see my pink cheeks, either. Suddenly, Autumn’s pulling on my arm and jigging up and down like a toddler. “Look at this, Jenni,” she says.

  It’s a brochure for an outdoor adventure park in a village about ten miles away.

  “We’ve got to go!” Autumn says. “Listen to this. They do rock climbing, rappeling, hiking, all sorts of things.”

  I knew she’d try to talk me into something like this. “I don’t know,” I murmur, playing for time. I mean I know it generally feels great after I’ve done some scary stunt that Autumn’s persuaded me is a good idea — but that doesn’t mean I’m desperate for the next one. “Rappeling? Rock climbing? Don’t those involve heights?” I ask nervously. “I mean — don’t you think it could be a bit dangerous?”

  “And horseback riding! That’s it — we’re going!” Autumn bursts out, instantly clicking her teeth and jumping around me, trotting like a horse. “Remember the wooden horses we had in first grade, Jen?”

  We’d persuaded our parents to buy us matching hobbyhorses, and we used to trit-trot everywhere on them. We pretended we were cowgirls out on the plains hunting for long-lost treasure.

  I laugh. “Mm, but like you say, we were in first grade — and they were wooden. No danger of having one of them trample on your feet!”

  Autumn stops trotting and turns to look for her mom. She’s standing in the middle of the room, her hand on my mom’s stomach, smiling as they talk.

  “What’s going on?” I ask as we join them.

  “He kicked,” Mom says, beaming.

  “He?” Mrs. Leonard asks, raising an eyebrow.

  “Well, we don’t know for sure,” Mom says, “but he feels like a ‘he’ to me. Feel the kick on those legs, and tell me we haven’t got a little soccer player in there!”

  I reach out to touch Mom’s stomach. A tiny thump pushes at my hand. It fills my heart to think there’s a little life in there. My baby brother. I can’t wait to meet him.

  Autumn puts her hand next to mine. “Awesome!” she cries. Then she bends down and talks directly to Mom’s stomach. “Hey, Jenni’s little bro,” she says. “Please will you tell Mrs. Green that Jenni and I are going horseback riding?”

  “What’s that?” her mom asks.

  Autumn opens up the brochure. “Horseback riding! We’re going tomorrow!” she announces. Autumn doesn’t generally do requests. There’d be no point; no one ever says no to her.

  “It’s tomorrow?” I falter. “But I’ve just signed up for the trip to . . .” My voice trails off.

  “They only do the horseback riding on Sundays,” Autumn says, studying the brochure. She started riding lessons this year and thinks it’s the best thing ever. I went with her once. I didn’t like it all that much, even though I knew I probably should. All girls my age love horses, but I just think they’re so . . . well, big! My favorite animals are generally the type you can cuddle without worrying about them standing on your feet and crushing your toes to dust. Cute fluffy ones like puppies and kittens.

  “Mom, we can go, can’t we?” Autumn persists.

  “I don’t see why not,” her mom answers, looking at the times of the class. “As long as you can get a ride back. We could drop you off, but I’m booked for an aromatherapy massage later on.” She turns to my mom. “Can you pick them up?”

  “I thought you wanted to go to the candle museum, Jenni,” Mom says.

  Autumn bursts out laughing as my cheeks heat up.

  “I was only doing it for you,” I say quickly. “You go with Craig. I’d rather go horseback riding.” And it’s true. Suddenly the idea of a candle museum sounds dull to me, too. Even if horseback riding is scary, if Autumn’s there, I know it’ll be more fun than anything else I could be doing.

  And, anyway, both of us want to be together as often as possible this week since we’re not going to see each other as much once we get home. We go to different middle schools. I go to the local one, while she goes to a magnet school in the next town. Autumn went through months of agony last year, trying to decide where to go. She wanted to be with me, but her dream is to be a famous artist, and everyone said that she should go there, since it’s got a great art department. Even I agreed — reluctantly. And apart from missing each other, we’re both really happy where we are.

  We’ve always promised each other that it won’t change anything between us and that we’ll be best friends forever. So far, that seems to be the case. But now that it’s the start of another year, I can’t help worrying a little. I mean, you never really know what’s going to happen, do you?

  Wouldn’t it be great if you did, though? If you could just have a little glimpse of what the future holds. Just so you’d know. That would be so cool.

  “All right, love. Your dad can pick you up,” Mom says with a smile. “I’m sure he won’t want to be dragged around a boring museum, either.”

  “Thanks, Mom,” I say as Autumn grabs my hand and drags me off.

  We pass Dad and Craig coming back in as we leave. “Don’t be late,” Dad calls after us. “I thought we’d all have a game of Monopoly before Craig’s bedtime.”

  Autumn laughs as she runs outside. “Honestly, Jen. Monopoly? It’s nonstop thrills with your family!” Then she pinches me, tickling me till I fall to the ground, laughing hysterically.

  Two girls are walking toward us as we chase each other down the path: Christine and Sally. They’ve been coming here as long as we have. They’re about our age, but as different from us as you can get. Both perfect and pretty, with their long blond hair and little pink handbags swinging on their arms. Their pace quickens and their smiles widen when they spot us. Correction: when they spot Autumn.

  “Hi!” they enthuse in unison, crowding around Autumn and hardly noticing me.

  “You want to hang out with us tomorrow?” Christine asks. “I’ve got a new straightening iron we can try out on each other, or we could go shopping or something.” Both girls hold their breath while they wait for Autumn to answer. It’s like being best friends with a movie star. Everyone always wants to know Autumn.

  “Sorry, we’re busy tomorrow,” Autumn says lazily. I don’t think she even realizes how much everyone craves her company. “Catch up with you later i
n the week maybe.”

  The girls try not to show their disappointment. “Cool,” Sally says. “See you later.”

  “Bye, then!” I say pointedly as they turn away.

  “Oh, see you, Jenni,” Christine calls over her shoulder as an afterthought.

  Autumn nudges me once they’re out of sight. “Why would I want to hang out with Barbie One and Barbie Two, anyway?” she says.

  “Autumn, that’s mean!” I say, secretly trying not to smile as we head back down the path, away from the buildings, along the river, and across the long bridge that curves over to a field on the other side.

  A bit farther up, the river opens out into its widest stretch. It’s almost a lake, virtually still and shallow. If you watch closely, you can just about see the current slinking forward.

  Across the bridge, you can creep around some bushes at the very edge of the lake to a tiny rocky bay hidden around the corner. It’s our secret place.

  Autumn kicks off her shoes and rolls up her jeans. She splashes into the water, picks up a stone, and skips it across the lake. It bounces six times. “Oh, yes! The stone-skipping champion of the world strikes again!” she whoops.

  I edge into the water behind her. It’s freezing.

  “So what’s new?” she asks, scavenging for another flat stone. “Any gossip?”

  I laugh. “Gossip? Me? You’re the one with the exciting life!”

  “That’s true,” she says as she flicks her stone across the lake.

  “Hey!” I laugh, kicking water at her.

  She bends down to splash me. Laughing and screaming, we chase each other back to the pebbly cove.

  Autumn flops down on the stones. “Come on,” she says, wiping her feet off with her hands before putting her shoes back on.

  “But we just got here.”

  “Let’s go down to the weir and see how full it is.”

  “It’s full. I’ve seen it.”