She rose shakily to her feet, inhaling slowly and holding the air inside her lungs for several long moments before releasing it. With a sad sigh, she pulled a business card from her back pocket and passed it to Autumn. Constable J. Westminster, Violent Crimes Division.
“You don’t have to, but if you decide to tell… He’s in charge of the case. Just… take care.”
With this she departed, her head held high in the false bravery of the bullied child attempting to believe that sticks and stones are really all that might hurt her, that names and words bounce off and stick back to the one shouting them across the field at recess. Autumn mulled the white cardstock in her hand for scant seconds before tearing it in half and shoving it behind the cubicle in haste.
No, there was no way she could ever speak of it. Fiona could enjoy that spotlight alone.
He was on the run, she said; he had a record. A habit. She had been just another fix for a sadistic junkie craving misery and mayhem. A toy. A puppet. He’d played her note for note, and she’d sung his tune like a good little canary.
Caged bird singing as she was carried to her own doom.
Her head pulsed at the temples, another migraine striking. With a grimace, she tucked her books into her bag and stumbled down to the main office, where a kindly secretary called her mother dutifully and confirmed that yes, she could go home and be in agony while surrounded by her blankets and cradling her cat. She hesitated as she went to her locker, remembering balloons and orchids and staring girls, feeling jealous at the shower of affection not for them.
Safe for now. Ominous words. How long? Days? Weeks? Spinning her combination and yanking the door open, Autumn was only certain of one truth:
Chris Miller would return. And when he did, nothing would keep him from her.
SEVENTEEN
Oakville; October 28th, 2011
Lisa Loeb played softly in the background as Dr. Stieg perused Autumn’s week of journal entries slash anxiety attack analyses, her perfect poker face pissing Autumn off more with every second. Did she care? Did she understand? Was she as bored by her drivel as Autumn was bored with writing it and finding that little ever changed?
Her foot kicked the couch lightly, legs swinging as she rested her head against the back of the couch. One more month of this imprisonment and she would hopefully be free to escape on weekends and cuddle with Pandora while her mom cooked awesome food and her father watched sports on TV. Unless, of course, these stupid journals convinced Emma that she was too damn crazy to be trusted away from the hallowed halls of Casteel.
“Thank you for sharing these with me,” Emma said at last, seemingly sincere. “I know exposing your private thoughts must be unpleasant, maybe even violating.”
“Whatever. It’s just my stupid thoughts,” Autumn grumbled.
“Feelings, too, and neither are stupid,” Emma countered, leaning forward in that tell-tale way that meant it was question time. “I wanted to explore a common theme, if that’s okay with you.”
Autumn shrugged, toying with a strand of hair. “Like I have a choice.”
“Why do you say that?”
With an exasperated sigh, Autumn explained, “If I don’t talk with you and demonstrate some sort of progress you can take to Logan and say, ‘Aha! She’s not Columbine Crazy!’ then I don’t get sprung for home visits. If I don’t get sprung, I get to hear my mother calling me sadly, begging to know what’s wrong with me. It’s really a no-win sort of deal, Dr. Stieg.”
“That’s still a choice,” Emma said firmly. “You can choose not to speak, which in turn leads to my own reactions. For the record, I don’t see any reason why you can’t resume home visits as per normal school rules, whether or not we talk about the pattern in these pages.”
Autumn remained silent, feeling somewhat rebuked. She was being testy, and it wasn’t as much about Emma and her questions as it was about Veronica and hers, and that night’s festivities. Stupid freaking dance! Why did these bullshit rituals of school matter so much around here?
They once mattered to you, too.
Thanks, self. Helpful as always.
“Autumn, I’ve noticed that you seem really triggered by the dance tonight; it comes up in three of your five journals. I can pick up pieces here and there, but I’m really curious about why they upset you so much.”
She shrugged, slouching further into the couch. “I hate them. They’re bad news. Have you seen the decorations? Watched teens sway in slow dance?”
Emma’s brow furrowed. “I think it goes a lot deeper than that sort of generational distaste.”
“Look, I hate them, okay? I don’t have good memories of them. Every teenage girl thinks a dance is this fairytale setting where she and her magic prince will swirl around the sticky gym floor and find romance. We’re trained to believe this lie, and we fall for it, courtesy of Disney movies and young adult drivel books. But the fairytale isn’t real, and everyone learns that eventually. I learned it the very hard way, and having seen past the veneer, I can’t swallow the bullshit anymore. That enough exposition for you, dear doctor?”
Autumn seethed, her chest heaving as she finished her rant. Of all the things to worry about, why pick her hatred of this pseudo-mating ritual? What was so crucial about it?
She’s not stupid. She knows it’s important.
Emma sat silently, studying her intently. Her auburn waves hung loose today, framing her face and grazing her shoulders. She’d probably been prom queen or something of that sort of title in her own teenage years. She was naturally pretty.
He always told me I was natural. Untouched. Except by him.
“It seems to me,” Emma finally began, choosing her words carefully, “that you loathe dances because the promise of romance and coupling is simply a lure, a line you’ve been fed. I get that, and I won’t disagree: dances can be miserable experiences for most students. I remember one where I caught my boyfriend with another girl. But in here,” she continued, picking up a sheet of paper, “you mention Veronica asking you to come as her friend. And in this other one, you also mention this new friend, Andrew, possibly wanting you there as a friend, too. Or did I read it wrong?”
Autumn shook her head. “That’s all true. Well, I don’t know for sure with Andrew… He was talking people-watching, but I can’t read his mind, and we haven’t really talked since then…“
“Is it possible that maybe you’re using this dance as an excuse to put up fresh walls between yourself and other students?”
“I don’t understand.” A lie.
“You’re a very guarded person, Autumn. You hold your truths close to your chest, and keep everyone at a distance as much as you can manage. I expect that your game plan for attending Casteel was to be the lone wolf, observing but never joining in. Having friends makes that isolation, that arms length sort of strategy, impossible. There is something very real in your anger at dances, but neither of these offers were, as best I can tell, about romance. They were about friendship. Even if we assume that maybe Andrew was thinking of a date, Veronica was certainly not. So why shove her back?”
Emma was very close to her now, intentionally pushing her comfort zone. She was also dead accurate in her theory. Autumn had concluded the same the night before while tossing and turning in bed. With Veronica and Andrew, the familiarity had bred contempt and, more prominently, a terror of how easily each was peeling back her layers. She was exposed, weak, when others had such access to her inner thoughts. To be vulnerable and at a dance, a setting that sickened her in its own right…
“Maybe you’re right,” she whispered.
Emma nodded slightly, leaning back ever so slightly. “I won’t tell you to change your mind about attending, because pushing your boundaries of comfort isn’t helpful, either. I just think that you should try to consider the broader implications of your feelings. Zoom out: panic and anxiety force us to a sort of macro focus, and we miss things we need to see. Make sense?”
“Yeah, it does. I just… I
hate that I can’t just… let go.”
“In time,” Emma said confidently. “You’re stronger than you think, Autumn. Now, the clock over your head tells me it’s time you grab lunch and head to class, but I did want to assign a bit of homework.”
“Oh, yay!” Autumn exclaimed, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “I don’t have enough of that in my life.”
“I think you’ll enjoy this assignment,” Emma mused, smiling. “Next week, I want you to bring me a song that captures your thoughts on love. Surely, with your passion for music, that’s not a lot to ask?”
“I think I can manage.” Autumn forced a slight smile as she gathered up her belongings. “I’ll see you next week, then.” She made it to the door before pausing to look back. “Thank you, for thinking I can go home. I hate feeling caged.”
“I don’t think, I know.” Emma smiled warmly. “Have a good week.”
The promise of freedom buoyed her through Creative Writing that afternoon, the class spent dissecting the works of Edgar Allan Poe to coincide with Halloween. Evan seemed distracted in class, but in a positive way, and this brought a smile to Autumn’s lips as she thought of Veronica’s mirrored impatience. They’re so alike, right down to the nervous tics, she mused as George continued his dramatic reading of The Cask of Amontillado, which happened to be her favourite Poe story. Ten bucks says they shyly debate their first kiss for a full ten minutes before simultaneously going for it.
A lively discussion ensued over the story, and Autumn found herself participating more than usual. Perhaps it was the story; perhaps it was her own nervous energy that powered her steady stream of critiques and observations. Either way, Sarah made a point of complimenting her on the way out of class, while Evan darted over to ask if Veronica liked lilies before rushing off. She straggled intentionally, wanting to chat with her professor about their final novella. The lack of theme was leaving her in the same shaky position she’d been in while struggling with the midterm story.
The one you wrote with Andrew, you mean.
Not now! she scolded her brain.
“I can’t help but notice that you’re not running to freedom, Ms. Brody,” Professor St. James remarked lightly. “Did you need my help with something?”
Autumn nodded, approaching the front of the room. “Call me a huge freaking nerd, but I’m trying to get a jump on the final novella this weekend and well… I’m not sure what to write.”
“Ah, the curse of every great writer: not knowing where to begin. I know it well.” Packing his books into his briefcase, he added, “Too much freedom, I assume? Looking for a prompt?”
Autumn looked sheepish. “Sort of… I mean, how do you decide what to write? Is there a genre you’re looking for here? Some sort of skill you want demonstrated in particular? Could someone turn in the equivalent of Dean Koontz and get an A or are you looking for Margaret Atwood?”
George smiled mischievously at her. “I’m looking for Autumn Brody. What is her voice? What are her stylistic qualities? Can she sustain them over a longer piece of work? Can she develop characters briskly and consistently? Does her story engage me or bore me to sleep?” He winked then added, “Anything is fair game, even Koontz-esque tales. I don’t have a prompt to give you, but I could provide a little anecdote, if you’re willing to indulge me?”
Autumn nodded, leaning on the front desk. “Tell me a story, Professor St. James.”
Rubbing his chalk-dusted hands together, he continued. “Once upon a time, I was a young lad at college, taking my first writing course. I, too, had a novella due at the end of term, and I was fretting over it. So I approached my teacher and asked him where to begin. Without hesitating, he tells me this: ‘Write what you know, and write when you need to let go.’
“Confused, I head back to the dorms, and scribble total crap in my notebook for a few hours – lame ideas, sketches of boring characters. Eventually, I got high – shh! – and got to remembering a time in high school where my friends and I had roamed the city all night, high and misguided. We saw a lot of crazy shit, lemme tell you. Remembering the instructor’s words, I wrote of that night of adventure. It was something I knew well enough to develop into a complete narrative. It paid off: I got an A.
“Years later, I sat staring at a contest for short stories in the paper, not knowing what to write. My phone rang, and upon answering it, my world collapsed: my brother had been killed in a car crash. He was only a year older than I was. I went home and grieved. I returned to my own apartment a mess, but that paper sat on the table, mocking me. How could I possibly write a story when all I could think of was my own mortality and guilt at not spending more time with my brother? I crumpled the paper up and was about to pitch it when I remembered that damn instructor. The gears clicked into place. I won first prize, and from there, wrote my first collection of stories. The story that won was a tale of two brothers, told retrospectively as one grieved the other.
“My point, which I have been coming to throughout this tale, is this: I see emotional turmoil beneath the surface of your work, Autumn. I see the metaphors. Writing is one of the greatest therapies there is, and a truly talented writer knows how to draw from that well of life experience. If you want a prompt, I give you the one that has always worked for me: write what you know, and write when you need to let go.”
Autumn nodded thoughtfully, the weight of his words a stone in her heart. I know too much that needs to go. George was always full of insight, always challenged her, but this time, he’d really thrown down the gauntlet. Did she dare write of him? Could she let go?
“I hope I’ve helped you,” he said quietly.
“You have. It’s just not an easy prospect to face,” she confessed.
“You have a good seven weeks or so? Take it slowly. It will be worth it.”
Speechless, she nodded again and left the room, her mind reeling at the thought of not only writing of her deepest secret, but the accompanying oral presentation of it. She would be laid bare through language. They would all surely know how raw the material would be.
At least I could fill a novella with it, and then some.
The fall air had grown crisp, and she zipped her coat higher, St. James’ story still lingering in her mind. How awful to lose a brother like that! No chance for goodbyes, no last exchanges… Perhaps she should check out his stories from the library for inspiration? She halted in her path, mulling a course correction to sign them out, and found herself slammed into from behind.
“Fuck, sorry,” a familiar voice began, then halted.
Andrew Daniels. Of course. She spun around slowly, forcing a casual expression.
“You’re not doing a very good job at sneaking up on me,” she quipped.
“Looks like my back-up career as a detective isn’t going to pan out. It’s a shame. Robert Downey Jr. makes it look so cool in the Sherlock movies.” Andrew smiled, seemingly relieved. “Where are you headed?”
“Library, I think? I was debating it when you crashed into me.”
“Can we walk together?”
It was a timid request, fearing her reprisal. He thinks he’s done something wrong, she thought sadly. I’m giving him more reasons to be unhappy. With a shrug, she assented, falling in step beside him as they cut across a field.
“I’m sorry,” he blurted out, eyes locked on the ground. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“You didn’t… It wasn’t anything you did wrong. I’m just a mess lately.” I’m a little unstable and in need of reform, you see.
Andrew considered this silently for a moment, while a passing group of seniors immediately began whispering of Autumn and what this pairing meant in the scope of school gossip. He really doesn’t talk to anyone. But he was here, talking with her. Why?
“Are we friends?”
Autumn paused in the middle of the field. “What do you mean?”
“You know… like, friends. People who hang out and joke and share common interests. BFFs and all that jazz. Are we?”
Autumn smiled in spite of herself. “Oh! Well… I think so? That is, if you want to be?”
She wanted to be. Emma was right: she was throwing up walls and that was perhaps wise to a point, but it was increasingly desolate, especially with Veronica tied up in rehearsals and Miraj having dropped off the planet. She wasn’t a great friend right now, but she could try a little harder.
“I do. I mean, you get me. No one here really seems to get me. But you laugh at my puns and don’t find zombies weird, and you really are a music addict with a lot of good stuff to share. It’s kind of lonely when you feel like no one understands, and well, when you bailed…” His voice trailed off, his shoulders shrugging helplessly in confusion.
“Not many people get me either,” she replied. “I’m not very interested in average crap that seems to matter to our peers.”
“I think I get you,” Andrew said. “I think you’re funny, and also really insightful. You understand film, which is pretty fucking cool. And politics, too. When I asked you… I thought we could go mock the usual BS and swooning in pink dresses and shit.”
Autumn nodded. “I get it. Like I said, it wasn’t you.”
They continued walking, the two of them more relaxed as they curved towards the library. The camaraderie was restored, the usual ease in his presence seeping back into place. He did get her, as much as she allowed anyone to glimpse her personality these days. In any other setting, she would love to people-watch and snark for hours.
“So, Autumn, are you doing anything tonight?”
She shrugged. “Probably watching Netflix and waiting for Veronica to come back to the dorm gushing about her date with Evan. You?”
“I was mulling working on the documentary, since I have no desire to be social in semi-formal attire. But if you’re not too attached to Netflix, did you want to maybe hang out and listen to music? We could order a pizza to campus?”
“We can order in food?”
Andrew grinned. “Seniors can. Another perk of friendship with me.”
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