“Can I get fries with that shake, baby?” Autumn teased, laughing as Miraj shook her hips in reply.
“Tastes so good, makes a schoolboy cry. Sweet apple pie!” Miraj sing-songed, stumbling to a halt. “Oh dude! We should climb the lifeguard tower.”
“What? There’s only room for one up there.”
Miraj shrugged, tossing her hair over her shoulders. “You can sit on my lap, stupid. C’mon!” She pulled at Autumn’s arm, but she dug in her heels.
“I don’t like heights. Can’t we just go to the rocks?”
With an exasperated whine, Miraj shoved her sideways. “Why must you ruin everything?”
- And a wall collided with her head, skull bouncing off the surface. Her vision exploded into a sea of stars as he yanked her back to him, his voice low in her ear.
“You’re mine, Autumn. Mine.”
She awoke suddenly, gasping for air. Outside, a faint hue of pink lit the sky, warning of impending sunrise. With a yawn, Autumn slung her legs onto the floor, stretching overhead as she glanced at the time. Half an hour remained until her alarm was set to blare. At least I’ll get a head start on the showers, she thought happily. Her eyes drifted to the laptop, perched on the spare desk, and she remembered the experiment Veronica had suggested.
Or I could start reviewing footage…
The latter option won as curiousity clobbered a love of shower gels and loofah, and she found herself switching the webcam off and moving to the archived file library… and cursing. There was no file – the recording had glitched somehow. Frantically, she checked and re-checked her settings, baffled to find all in order.
“It should have recorded indefinitely!” she grumbled. “Stupid piece of crap!”
Exasperated, she shut down the software, and moved to launch her internet browser. Scrolling the cursor down, she noticed that her word processor was open. Frowning, she maximized the window.
Your turn.
The words seemed to loom, reach out from the screen, snaking around her throat and choking the breath from her. A cursor blinked, mocking her with its innocent presence. It insisted that all was in order, 1’s and 0’s in perfect binary code. As if it was perfectly fine that someone had typed a message into her computer.
Someone very much dead.
TEN
Oakville; Oct 7th, 2011
“How has your week been?”
Autumn stared at Dr. Stieg apathetically, unsure of where to begin, if at all. The lights were so bright in here; her eyes watered and ached in their sockets. Her doctor leaned forward, a wisp of auburn hair tumbling into her eyes.
“Autumn, are you feeling okay?”
“Yeah,” she lied. “Just tired. Long week.”
“Did you want to talk about it?”
“Not really.”
She was shutting Emma out again, as usual. Why she bothered to try and dig through the remnants of the old Autumn anymore, she didn’t know. She should just write me off, Autumn thought angrily. Pretty much everyone else has. Like Heather, who was apparently too busy to answer an email for two weeks and counting.
“Are you upset with me?” Emma asked quietly.
“What? No! I just… I don’t get the point. I tried to explain this to Miraj on the weekend, but she just kept insisting she was right and I was wrong.”
“Your friend, Miraj? She phoned?”
Autumn hesitated. “She visited. I know, I know, against the rules. But she doesn’t listen to anyone’s rules, so explaining them to her is wasted breath. She didn’t stay long.”
“That’s alright, what Elise doesn’t know won’t hurt her,” Emma replied. “Does Miraj go to your old school?”
Autumn shook her head. “No, her parents are huge Catholics. Causes lots of problems since she’s an atheist trapped in a school with Religion as a mandatory course. We met kinda randomly, on the street…”
They were definitely following her. Laughing, joking to themselves, they kept a distance but matched her brisk pace. She hugged her arms around herself, guarding as much against the frigid temperatures as her unwanted shadows. Her hair whipped in the wind, blinding her in tangled waves.
“Think she’s good to go?”
The other laughed. “Look at her. What else is she good for?”
“Nothing,” Autumn murmured to herself.
Maybe she shouldn’t have ditched out of school today.
Chest stinging from the icy air striking hot lungs, she hurried on down the side street, her destination not much farther off. Warmth, Wi-Fi, and a place to hide: she just had to make it there. But now, they moved faster, and her short legs protested her speed, shin splints seizing her.
“Hey! Slow down, baby! We just want to talk.”
“Yeah!” Tweedle Dumber shouted. “What’s the rush?”
The slur in their voices betrayed the liquid bravado behind their animalistic pursuit. Two more blocks. Just two more blocks. If she made it that far.
“Please go away,” she whispered. “Just go away…”
“Hey assholes!”
Autumn glanced up from her feet, startled by the shouted greeting. Dead ahead stood a slight girl, her long hair in wild waves of black and orange. Arms akimbo, her gaze was fixed upon the pursuing duo. Puzzled, Aututmn stared at this stranger, transfixed.
“C’mon baby, don’t you like us?” Idiot One pleaded, stumbling audibly over something behind her.
“No, she doesn’t! Now fuck off, or I’ll castrate you!” her stranger-ally yelled. Turning to Autumn, she said, “You have to tell them, too. I got your back.”
“Just bring that ass back here-”
And then, Autumn snapped.
Spinning around, she shouted, “Enough! I’m sorry your dicks are too small to get willing dates, but so help me, you come near me or say one more goddamn word, and you’ll find out all of the things I can do with a switchblade when enraged.”
Taken aback, the duo froze in their tracks, drunken brain cells computing. The stranger laughed and cheered behind her, and for one minute, Autumn felt powerful. Strong.
“Fuck her, man. Let’s go get burgers!”
Stunned at this turn of events, her attention shifted onto the strange girl. She was still chuckling, waving goodbye to the Dimwitted Duo.
“Told ya. They’re never brave when the numbers are even.” She winked playfully, her hand trying in vain to tame her hair.
“Thanks,” Autumn managed, her throat parched. “You didn’t have to-”
“Yeah, I did. They were total pricks! I would have decked them two blocks ago if I were you.” The girl shuffled her feet, jerking her head towards the Starbucks at the corner. “It’s too damn cold out, even for Canada. I’m getting coffee. You coming?”
Autumn tilted her head. “I don’t even know you.”
“Pssh! Easily fixed.” Extending her hand, the girl solemnly said, “My name is Marianna, but no one with any sense uses that. I prefer Miraj, with a J. There, now you know me, Miss…”
“Um, Autumn. No other name.”
Miraj grinned. “Love it! Let’s go. It’s colder than Kim Kardashian’s heart out here.”
“She kinda became my bodyguard slash confidante, I guess. Heather and I were drifting, and Miraj was there. She doesn’t judge. She knows everything, pretty much.”
“But you disagree about therapy?” Emma asked.
Autumn sunk deeper into the couch, shielding her eyes with her hand. “I just don’t see the point in bringing up the past and talking about awful shit. All that matters is being okay now, right? So why go there if I don’t want to?”
“What did Miraj think?”
“That the way out is through, blah-blah cliché. I happen to like going the long way around. I enjoy the scenery.”
Emma considered this for a moment, the room silent, save the faint strains of an old Counting Crows song emanating from the tiny computer speakers. Nodding to herself slightly, she smiled faintly.
“Well, I see the value of
both sides. On one hand, why bring up what’s past if it will hurt to remember it? In fact, some styles of therapy for specific conditions advocate leaving any trauma alone until much later in the process. But at the same time, it’s rather like a medical condition: I don’t need to know how you broke your arm pretending to fly and jumping off a shed, but I do need to know that there was a hard fall to understand why your arm is painful, limp and sitting weird.”
“Okay… so what does that mean?”
Emma shrugged. “No one says this process need be chronological. This is your space, for your work. If you need to focus a session on a current problem, that’s fine. Similarly, I don’t need to know the history of how you feel and think to help improve things now. I just need to know the results of said history, so I can help you reduce the impact of those events. Does that make sense? I’m admittedly running on an empty stomach right now, so my brain might be sugar starved.”
Autumn chuckled weakly. “You’re probably still smarter than me. But yeah, I think I get it. And maybe that would work, I guess… Like a compromise?”
“Yeah, I suppose it is. The history’s not going anywhere, so we can visit it whenever you’d like to.” Emma reached for a mug of coffee as she continued, “So, in the time we have left, can we talk about your obvious lack of sleep?”
Autumn sighed. Maybe I should… no. But she might know more about Nikki…
“I’m having a hard time sleeping,” she admitted. “My room… it’s hard to sleep there.”
No reaction.
“Why do you think that is?”
Autumn shrugged. “I’m not sure what bothers me. I just… get the creeps in there. Bad vibes. Anxious.”
Nothing. If Emma knew anything about the history of room 308, she had an amazing poker face that she ought to take down to the nearest casino.
“It could just be the adjustment,“ Emma suggested. “Boarding school is hard for a lot of students, even repeat attendees. Plenty of your peers struggle to sleep. Have you tried yoga or deep breathing before bed to settle in?”
Autumn shook her head. “I usually listen to music, or write until I’m tired. Most of the time, it works for me. This week, not so much…”
I’m just staying awake at night, listening for crying that’s suddenly stopped happening and wondering what exactly it’s my turn for, that’s all. Deep philosophical questions of life after death. Wondering how my dead look-alike died. Y’know, teen stuff.
Emma rose slowly. “Hopefully, you can sleep in this weekend a bit, with the holiday and all. Maybe take the Ativan before bed?”
Autumn grabbed her backpack off the floor. “Oh, joy. I’m sure I’ll sleep fine, what with being trapped here while almost everyone goes home for the holidays and wonders why I’m not. My grandmother’s coming from Buffalo, too, not that Logan cares.”
Emma frowned. “You can go home Saturday. Didn’t Headmistress Logan tell you?”
Autumn froze, struggling to remember. “I think she said something on the first day, but it was kinda vague. Like she was saying yes for appearances, to get my parents out the door. She’s said nothing since.”
Emma sighed, shaking her head. “I already cleared you for a pass last week. You can go home Saturday after lunch, but you have to return by Monday at 4pm. Sound good?”
Autumn smiled in relief. Pandora! My own bed! My mom’s cooking! Nodding enthusiastically, she exclaimed, “That sounds wonderful!”
“Good, I’m glad! Have a wonderful Thanksgiving, Autumn, and I’ll see you next Friday.”
“You too. And thank you.”
Autumn nearly found herself skipping out of the office, even managing a pleasant goodbye to the receptionist as she stepped outside. But then, full daylight struck her eyes and she winced in pain, suddenly cognizant of an impending migraine. Ugh, of course this happens before the one class I actually love! Shielding her eyes, she hurried across the street towards class, her mind racing with the possibilities of two whole nights at home, warm in bed with a loving feline. Maybe she could even find a way to smuggle her back to Casteel.
Distracted, she collided hard with another body, her stomach dropping as she recognized the person she’d bodychecked as her Social Studies instructor, Professor Kearney.
“Oh God, I’m sorry!” she blurted out quickly. “I’m running late and the sun hurts and-”
“Oh, it’s fine, Miss Brody!” Professor Kearney interrupted, smiling. “No harm done. I trust your assignment on Japan is coming along well?”
“Oh, sure. I outlined it the other day. Now, if I could get Biology under control, I’d be great.”
He eyed her quizzically, walking with her in the direction of Senior Academics II. “Do you need some remedial help? I could recommend someone for you.”
“Oh, it’s not that,” Autumn replied. “Professor Grant just doesn’t seem to think much of me, I guess.”
Professor Kearney nodded, shuffling his briefcase to his other hand. “Paul can be a bit grating to everyone. Thinks he knows everything,” he added, somewhat angrily. “You’re an exceptional pupil, Miss Brody, and your participation in extra credit experiments has been a great help to my post-graduates. Try not to let him bother you, and if you ever need an ear or some assistance, feel free to ask. I did a little Biology in my undergraduate years, so I do know what I’m talking about – sort of.” He laughed warmly and gestured to the main doors. “Best get to class, then.”
Autumn smiled through the pulsing in her skull. “Thanks, Professor Kearney. I’ll see you in class.”
Aside from Professor St. James – George, she corrected herself; he hated formality – Professor Kearney was her favourite instructor at Casteel. His lectures were always loosely constructed, with plenty of room for class discussions. Her history teacher at Jarvis had all but ruined the subject for her: he was racist, rude, and droned endless dates and rote facts. Kearney was the complete opposite. He made her laugh, and always took time to point out the positive, just like George. But writing was her passion, and George challenged her with every assignment, and for that, she was endlessly grateful.
In his usual cheery mood, her Creative Writing instructor was already organizing a stack of papers on his desk. He nodded to her as she entered and tossed her bag on her customary desk near the rear window. Wincing as her temple throbbed anew, it was undeniable: she wasn’t going to make it through this class with a migraine like this. Shyly, she approached the front, feeling disappointed at her weakness.
“Um, George?” It was still strange, addressing a teacher so informally.
“Autumn! You don’t look very well,” he observed immediately.
At least I look ill. “Yeah, a migraine that won’t die. I took Advil but it’s just not going away. I really don’t want to miss class-”
“If you’re not well, you need to rest. We’re just reviewing our metaphor assignments and offering constructive feedback in anticipation of the midterm story. Can you hang on for maybe fifteen minutes?”
Autumn nodded. “I think so.”
George smiled warmly. “Good. You’ll know your cue to duck out.” Reaching into his briefcase, he hummed triumphantly as he located a small blue note pad that she recognized immediately. Excuse slip. Even those come in blue at Casteel. Scribbling down a few lines, he folded it neatly, passing it across the desk. “Go swing by the nurse; maybe she has something to help that head of yours. And do me a favour?”
“Sure.”
Leaning forward, he whispered, “Look: you’re one of the strongest students I’ve had in years. But even us geniuses need downtime. Please rest up over the weekend? Eat turkey ‘til you pass out, or yams if you’re vegetarian. Alright?”
Autumn’s lips curled into a genuine smile – the first one all week. “Deal.”
“Okay, sit! Time to begin!” Louder, he added, “Alriight! It may be a holiday weekend, but we still have class, so you can pretend to listen.”
With a flurry of hushed whispers and giggles, the ro
om settled into its usual rapt attention. Professor St. James was well loved; he didn’t need to fight to command his classroom.
“Today and Tuesday, we will be doing something a little fun, but also helpful to your midterm assignment, which we’ll discuss next week.” Amused at a groan near the front of the room, he added, “Joey, you won’t die. I’m sure you can spoof another episode of 90210 on the hurry.” Laughter erupted as the professor reached for a stack of papers, shuffling the pile as he slowly paced the aisles.
“Now, then: you will all recall your metaphor assignment, wherein you attempted to write about the mundane in a way so mysterious, I wouldn’t be able to determine what you were talking about. The odds were stacked against you, being as I have been teaching for years and was a fan of Pink Floyd in my teens, if you know what I mean.” He paused, allowing for knowing grins and chuckles. “However, kudos: two of you almost stumped me entirely, and one of you actually managed to keep me guessing to the very end. I’m impressed. It means you’re learning, which is the goal.”
Strolling towards the back of the room, he continued. “I’m going to hand a story to each of you in turn – names have been removed from these copies, and they are not marked up in any way. You will read aloud a classmate’s story at random, after which we will offer constructive feedback to the mystery writer. Please keep it centred on the positives. Imagine yourself as the writer of every one of these stories, and how your comments would sound to you. Fair enough?” Arriving at Autumn’s desk, to her dismay, he added, “Your reading aloud is an easy boost on that big ol’ scary participation part of the grade, as well as the comments, of course.”
And then, he handed Autumn a paper with a determined look. Glancing down, the fifteen minutes request made sense: he’d handed her a copy of her own story. He wants me to get my feedback and participation in. With a reluctant smile, she scanned the page, refreshing herself on the content.
“Miss Brody will start us off today with our first anonymous tale. Please give her the courtesy you’d want for yourselves, and also, try and determine what the writer is describing. That’s half the fun of the discussion.”
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