Change Of Season

by Dillon, A. C.

  My parents are equally flustered with my “poor academic performance” and “lack of socialization“; it’s why they’re shipping me off to boarding school. I honestly had no clue such things existed in Canada, let alone schools with programs for troubled teens. I’m really hoping the joint is less horses and boot camp love and more like that flick Piper Perabo did way back, when Mischa Barton didn’t look like a coke whore. I’m blanking on the name of it, but it’s Canadian and filled with lesbian affairs, confused sexuality and actual sword fights. Oh, and a suicide.

  Hmm. Maybe not that part, then. But the punch spiking and dancing to Violent Femmes appeals strongly.

  Her father barely changed lanes in time to take the exit for the campus and Autumn’s head thumped against the glass as her body was jerked by the sharp turn. Shifting in her seat, she continued to scribble upon the pages, the handwriting haphazard thanks to the highway traffic. Not long now. At least the sapphire blue and black plaid of the uniform looks good with my hair, which is more than I can say about the putrid yellow of that other school we checked into. I wonder sometimes if my parents ever stop and marvel at the ridiculous cuteness of naming a child with bright copper locks, born in September, Autumn. Ha ha fucking ha. At least I wasn’t cursed with freckles like Lindsay Lohan. I’m not sure I could rock the Weasley look.

  The iPod shuffled up a sombre track by Neverending White Lights as she caught sight of the first hints of campus through the trees, and Autumn hummed along as she scrawled frantically. Oakville is a fairly developed city, but it still manages to hold an 80-acre boarding school tight within a plethora of vivid green trees. I’m looking forward to the air quality here. It has to be better than the endless churning of pollution in Toronto.

  Hey, a girl takes a silver lining of any size when she’s crazy.

  I’m not sure yet what precise brand of crazy I’m making in the neurotransmitter factory in my skull; my family doctor’s been taking bets with his associates on whether I’m bipolar or just depressed. I love that notion, that “just” depressed. As if depression was no big deal, some emotional hangnail. Stay still, Ms. Brody, and we’ll have that removed in no time. Radiohead used the word Just once; it ended in a mass of bodies lying down, waiting to die. Fuck just. Whatever’s wrong with me, it’s hell. I can’t sleep, or eat much, and trying to read a textbook is a nightmare and a half. I’m inclined to play at having ADHD and solicit Ritalin, but something tells me I’ll just end up like that old South Park episode, digging on Phil Collins’ music.

  Now there’s a reason to commit suicide! The man hasn’t done anything worth hearing since his reunion with Genesis. He retired for the hundredth time a few months back; at least he apologized for his lesser catalogue contributions.

  The Windstar turned right onto the main campus road, passing through wrought iron gates branded with the school logo. Her heart halted suddenly, taken aback at the reality of the situation. I keep telling myself this will make for excellent practice for university dorms, but it’s not quite the same. Universities don’t hold you prisoner on campus all week long, nor do they force you to see a psychologist weekly. I also wouldn’t have to wear a white blouse and pleated kilt everywhere.

  “Which residence is she in?” her father asked as he reached a forked road.

  “Um... Ashbury,” her mother answered after shuffling a few papers on her lap.

  We veer left. Evil goes left, so the saying goes. It’s a video game thing, one of the useless tidbits of information I learned during my time as a cheerleader’s best friend. Try it out: as you play any video game, keep track of how many times the Big Bad is on the left, be it through a door or after a turn in that cursed direction. It’s crazy but it’s true. Jocks know video games.

  “Just over there,” her mother directed, gesturing towards a five-story structure, its walls covered with creeping ivy.

  Autumn’s attention broke from her journaling, her inner narrator silencing itself and forcing her back to reality. Hesitantly, she shut the journal and tucked it and her iPod back into her purse, taking in her surroundings. Several other vehicles were parked along the roundabout before the building, denoted as Ashbury Residence by a pillar with signage in calligraphy. Gardens framed the three steps and adjacent wheelchair access ramp spilling into the main entryway, a mix of annuals and perennials in a rainbow of colours. Stepping out onto the driveway, Autumn noted a frazzled yet seemingly friendly woman with a clipboard, directing the other students and their parents with rambling and frantic hand gestures. Her perfectly pressed suit defied the watery deluge, remaining as crisp as it was, Autumn assumed, off its hanger.

  “Hello, there!” Frazzled Woman called out. “Name, please?”

  “Autumn Brody,” her father responded, stepping forward to greet Frazzled Woman. “I hope we’re in the right spot.”

  Autumn moved around to the hatchback, popping it open and yanking her suitcase out as she observed the quiet exchange between her father and someone she presumed would be one of her prison wardens. Pages were flipped wildly, her father pensive until F.W. had an a-ha! moment, at which point she made a check mark on the magic clipboard.

  Why yes, sir, we’ve been expecting this lunatic! Did you bring your own restraints, or shall we supply the standard leather and buckles?

  Her mother seized a duffel bag from the hatch as Autumn remained frozen, thoughts adrift. Her elbow grazed her daughter’s arm, a gentle reminder to keep moving. With a shake of her head, Autumn slowly approached her father and F.W., hoping she wouldn’t be expected to say much. Her words were sacred, closely guarded against all intrusion. Openness was what had brought her to this precipice.

  “This must be Autumn! It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Carol, one of the guidance staff here at Casteel Prep.” The clipboard juggled to the crook of her elbow as her right hand extended in greeting.

  My condolences, Autumn thought. Maybe you should just let me keep calling you F.W. Aloud, she demurely replied, “Hi. Where’s my room?”

  Carol was briefly taken aback at the direct demand, but the smiled remained. “You’ll be in 308, which is of course on the third floor, on the east side of the corridor. It’s a double occupancy, as are the vast majority of our rooms, but you won’t have a roommate, so feel free to spread out a bit.”

  Crazy is contagious. Her parents had arranged this solitude – and apparently, they’d paid out the ass for it. Not that she was supposed to be aware of that; Autumn was merely stealthy, haunting her home and hearing all she should not. Like how her mother adamantly felt this was a bad idea.

  Better boarded than dead, Autumn quipped to herself, tipping her mental hat to Ted Leo’s lyrical mastery.

  “Is there an elevator of some sort?” her mother interjected, the duffel bag overwhelming her slight frame.

  “Unfortunately, no; there are plans to construct one as we continue to improve accessibility,” Carol explained. “If you require assistance, I can call for one of our senior students in the male dorm down the street—“

  “Mom, it’s fine. We can do this,” Autumn interrupted quickly. No men. No way.

  “Sarah, give me that. Why don’t you take that small box, the one with Autumn’s notes and photos?” Neil Brody offered, seizing the strap on her shoulder.

  With a shrug, Sarah Brody relinquished the bag, walking briskly towards the van in search of the box. Autumn signed a spot on the clipboard at Carol’s prompting – some check-in procedure of sorts, from the babbling she’d mostly ignored – and led the way up the steps into Ashbury Residence, parents in tow.

  The decor immediately summoned to mind the older corridors of the Royal Ontario Museum: the low lighting cast faint shadows along the polished hardwood floors splitting off in a T formation, the structure itself a traditional blend of ancient trees and exposed brick. A large bulletin board lay directly ahead, with several postings already dotting the corkboard. It felt sturdy, strong, safe.

  Autumn loved it.

  The large stair
case ran just to the right of the bulletin display and Autumn plodded forward, her suitcase thumping gently against her thigh as she ascended. An elderly man passed them in the opposing direction – someone’s grandfather, Autumn presumed – but no other students were to be found. This was pleasing to Autumn. Her goal was anonymity here. Wallflower status. It had its perks, if you took Chbosky’s writing to heart.

  The third floor was denoted by a bronze plaque, the number branded deep into its surface. A temporary sign inserted in a metal stand indicated the direction of room numbers. Unsurprisingly, 308 lay to Autumn’s left. Perfect. As she found her room, she couldn’t stifle a soft laugh: it was the last room on the left, no less. Destiny, Autumn thought wryly, pushing open the door with baited breath.

  For a dorm, the room was fairly spacious, even with the duplicated beds, desks and other furnishings supplied by the Academy. A large window took up a good chunk of the wall farthest from the door, with the heads of the beds lined up either side, bookending it. Around the corner to her right she noted what she assumed to be a small closet, given the sliding wooden door. At the foot of each bed rested a small working desk with just enough space for a laptop, a lamp and perhaps a bottle of Diet Coke, while beneath each bed were several drawers for, Autumn assumed, clothing and assorted belongings. The bathroom – half-bath, Autumn corrected herself; there was no shower – was around the corner to the left.

  “This looks rather homey,” her mother remarked, relief in her voice. “It would be a little crowded for two, but you’ll have plenty of space honey.”

  Her father sat the duffel bed down on the right bed, moving towards the window and peering down. “You have a great view of the quad, Autumn. Should be rather inspirational for writing.”

  Autumn smiled at her father, a rare moment of genuine happiness. One of the many reasons Casteel Prep had won out was their specialization programs in the arts: while all students were required to take the standardized provincial curriculum, there were opportunities to study film, theatre, visual art, music and writing alongside their usual course loads. It made for a potentially cumbersome program, but Casteel argued that the structured environment of a boarding school made for efficient time management. Autumn had enrolled immediately in the Creative Writing course, offered as an approved substitute for her grade eleven English credit. Her ultimate goal was to pursue a degree in Literature with a contemporary focus, but she also longed to write professionally as a career. Her father had always supported her aspirations, even if the likelihood of success remained slim. He’d merely suggested she consider teaching English as a back-up plan, to which she’d readily assented. Her mother, although supportive, felt she was far too intelligent to waste her potential, and suggested law rather frequently as an alternative.

  Autumn tossed her suitcase onto the left bed – having already decided it would be the one upon which she’d rest her head – as her room door swung open, admitting another polished suit of a woman. This one was clearly in her late 40s, and by the way she carried herself, Autumn assumed this was a higher ranking official of some sort. Prepare to curtsey, she quipped to herself, edging backwards.

  “Is everything in order?” the woman asked her parents.

  “Yes, thank you. I’m Neil Brody, and this is my wife, Sarah,” her father said by way of introduction. “And over there is Autumn.”

  The woman smiled at Autumn, but she didn’t trust it; it didn’t reach her eyes. It’s the Head Warden, she thought bitterly. My very own Nurse Ratched, I presume.

  “ I’m Elise Logan, the Headmistress of Casteel Preparatory Academy,” she replied firmly. “I came to discuss the terms of Autumn’s stay as a new student and the expectations of her program.”

  Yup, Nurse Ratched. Ice pick lobotomy is on the menu for me, I’m sure. Autumn settled defiantly onto the foot of her bed, summoning her best Jack Nicholson to mind. Miraj would know how to handle this bitch.

  The room door was shut briskly, her parents listening with concern as Nurse Ratched droned on about her expectations of perfection for her school-cum-mental ward. Blah blah, stay on campus. Blah-di-blah no males in the dorm – Good, Autumn thought – blabby-blah go to classes and curfew is ten. Where Autumn’s ears perked up was the part about her special program for her mental disturbance, as Headmistress Logan called it.

  “As one of our students in the behavioural support program, Autumn will be required to attend therapy at least once per week, or more often if deemed necessary by her case manager. We also ask that for the first ninety days that Autumn not leave the campus on weekends for home visits. This is to ensure she does not maintain contact with anyone encouraging negative attitudes and actions before we equip her to manage those interactions.”

  “Oh,” Sarah mumbled, looking distraught. “I thought... Well, Thanksgiving is next month, and my mother is coming from Buffalo.”

  If my mom cries, I am going to cut this bitch, Autumn growled in her head. Thanksgiving at an empty boarding school? Is that really supposed to be therapeutic? Autumn glared as Ratched patted her mother’s arm with a slight nod of her head.

  “I do suppose we can make an exception for the holiday, but we would prefer if Autumn remain on campus until Saturday evening and return Monday morning. Would that be amenable?”

  “Yes, we can work with that,” her father assented. “It’s just this holiday, Sarah.”

  Autumn’s fingertips drummed along the windowsill as she stared out onto the quad, a rapid-fire beat. Two guys were outside now, tossing a football back and forth between them in a nauseating Rockwell moment. Trapped in Oakville for ninety days. Lovely. There was more blather behind her, names of school personnel and other crap she didn’t care about, and finally, Ratched shut the hell up.

  “Well Autumn, I’ll see you tomorrow at nine,” she announced, far too pleased with this prospect.

  “Huh?”

  “For therapy, sweetie?” her mother prompted. “Headmistress Logan will be introducing you to your counsellor.”

  “Ah. Cool. Do I get a key for this place or what?” Autumn asked, her icy tone a challenge.

  Logan raised an eyebrow, then patted her jacket pocket. “Yes, I almost forgot.” She passed a ring containing the room key and residence FOB device to Autumn’s father, shaking his hand before moving briskly out into the hall without a backward glance. Her heels stabbed the aging wood floors, a faint scrape-gouge noise that reverberated in Autumn’s skull.

  “Was that necessary, Autumn?” her father asked quietly as he tossed the keys onto a desk.

  “Absolutely. She’s a miserable woman who seems far too delighted to keep me locked away here.” Autumn shrugged her shoulders as she strolled over to the closet and yanked it open. “Good call on the hangers, Mom. There’s like, five in here, and four of them look old enough to have been wielded by Joan Crawford.”

  Her mother embraced her from behind, kissing her cheek. “This isn’t about punishment, Autumn. Promise me if it begins to feel that way that you’ll tell us, okay?”

  Autumn smiled slightly. “It’s going to be fine, Mom. But if that woman finds a can of tuna in her air conditioning vent, it wasn’t me, alright?” Her parents chuckled as she spun around, heaving a huge sigh. “I love you guys, you know. And I have my cell phone. I might even have my charger, too!”

  “I’m sure your mother will burn up your minutes, so don’t go making too many boyfriends,” her father gently teased.

  “No boys,” Autumn replied firmly. “I need to focus on my grades now. Besides, aren’t boarding schools for lesbian activities?”

  “I’ll give PFLAG a call when we get home,” Neil Brody fired back. Autumn’s wry sense of humour was a genetic gift from the paternal side of the tree.

  “Ooh, get a bumper sticker!” Autumn enthused.

  “Alright, you two,” Sarah chided gently. “As much as I’m going to miss your shenanigans, we do need to eventually move from that roundabout. Is there anything else you need sweetie? We could go try
and find a Tim’s or a Starbucks that’s open—“

  Autumn shook her head slowly. “Mom, really, it’s fine. You should go, beat the cottage traffic if you can.”

  Embraces were exchanged anew, her parents taking turns to express all that remained unsaid: her father’s arms were warm, imparting strength as if packing a survival kit for a long journey; her mother grieved, clinging to her as if it was a final farewell. Autumn, too, felt a funereal pallor cast over their parting, a troubling sense that something loomed on the horizon, ominous and omnipresent. She suddenly recalled an old episode of Buffy The Vampire Slayer, the one in which Buffy struggles between her known world and the revelation that perhaps she’s been a schizophrenic in an institution for years. The way her words shrunk in the air echoed Buffy’s goodbye to her mother, and it took all of her resolve not to collapse into tears at their feet, change her mind and beg to go home.

  She had to be strong, make the hard choice.

  “I’ll call you tonight,” her mother swore as her father gently led her to the door.

  “Not too late. I’m pretty sleepy from the change,” Autumn replied gently.

  “Love you,” Sarah Brody whispered.

  “Love you back.” Autumn forced her lips to curl upward. “Now go, before you’re stuck behind five boats and pick-ups with crazy dogs!”

  She did not watch them retreat down the hall; it only would have encouraged her mother to return, to beg for a change in heart. They were closer than any mother and daughter Autumn knew. Hell, Miraj avoided her parents at all costs, and Heather’s mom was usually too drunk to recall having offspring. She choked on the stifling, musty air in the dorm room as she unzipped her suitcase, lungs seizing as she felt the absence of home. It suddenly occurred to her that she was truly alone now: it was no longer just a state of mind, a prison of her thoughts and terror. Setting her laptop on the windowsill, she kicked the floor absently, sneakers scraping on the polished surface with a faint squeak.

  Ten months. Two hundred and ninety-nine days. Seven thousand, one hundred and seventy-six hours. Four hundred and thirty thousand, five hundred and sixty minutes. Perhaps not as melodic as Larson’s rock musical anthem, but it is how I will measure a year at Casteel, she typed, continuing her stream of consciousness. Some of those minutes will be yours, whoever you are, but I will not measure myself by them. There’s no sense attempting to measure up to normal’s standards when one is no longer normal. I will measure in time, because it is my only constant between the old Autumn and the now Autumn. I will measure by changes of season.