They were in front of the library now. A smattering of students was moving in and out of the doors, just beyond earshot. They all seemed so carefree, so average. Normal. Autumn envied them.
You could be normal, too. Or do something normal, anyway.
Friendship was what he sought; it was all she could offer him. With a nervous smile, she nodded her consent to his plan.
“Cool! What time works for you?”
“Hmm, the dance starts at six-thirty, so I imagine Veronica will want me there with her until Evan escorts her to the spooky ballroom blitz. Quarter to seven at the latest?”
Andrew thought for a moment, tilting his head slightly. “Okay, so I’ll order at ten after six, and meet you in the suite with food and drink?”
“That works.”
“Great! I’ll see you later, then.”
His smile was warm, his enthusiasm painted on his face. Friendship was as foreign to him as it was now to her, and the prospect of it seemed to lift him above ground, his feet floating towards Trudeau. With reluctance, she turned away, stepping into the library and ignoring the stares from a table near the window that had surely watched the exchange. Let them look, she rationalized. I don’t care about their opinions, and Andrew probably would agree with me.
One person would care very much, though, and would probably hear of their plans very soon through the gossip mill. Veronica. Shit! Abandoning her book search, Autumn darted out the door and crossed the quad towards Ashbury, hoping her friend was there fretting over her dress. She’ll go nuts if she hears it from anyone else! She jogged up the steps to the second floor, cutting right to room 214 and knocking briskly on the door.
“Who is it?”
“V, it’s me.”
The door flew open and Veronica’s hand reached out, yanking her inside by the wrist. Gasping in surprise, Autumn let herself be propelled into the centre of the room as Veronica shut the door in haste. Her roommate, Dora, was nowhere to be seen.
“Keenan already texted me, missy. What’s going on with Andrew?” she asked excitedly.
Autumn groaned, “I freaking knew the gossip mill would get right to work!”
Veronica beamed, flopping onto her bed in her bathrobe. “And is the gossip true? Do you have a date with Andrew?”
“Wait, what? No!” Autumn felt her face warming with the flush of embarrassment. “That’s not what it is.”
“Your face says something a little different!” Veronica insisted in sing-song. “Come on, Autumn, you two spend a lot of time together solo.”
“He just wants a friend,” Autumn countered. “His words. He says he can’t talk to anyone else because they think he’s weird or something. It’s not a date thing.”
“But you are hanging out tonight?”
Autumn rolled her eyes. “Yes, nosypants! We’re ordering a pizza and chilling in an anti-dance party for two. But let me be very clear: I don’t want to date him. He doesn’t want to date me. The end.”
Veronica lunged at her, embracing her tightly with a squeal. “I get it, but I honestly think you two are destined for more. I mean, you’re my wifey and he’s like me, right? Think about it.”
“How about I let you think about it, and keep on being friends with him?” Autumn countered, pulling back. “When’s Evan coming?” Time for classic diversion tactics.
“Six-thirty on the dot! I only have two hours to get ready!” Veronica paced the room, yanking on her damp hair. “Should I put it up or leave it down? Curly or straight? I don’t know. Maybe you should see the dress to decide?”
“Veronica, breathe!” Autumn admonished her as she disappeared into her closet. “I remember the dress. Keyhole cleavage. Royal blue silky material. Got it.”
Hanging the dress off the bathroom door, Veronica stepped backwards, biting her lip. “It’s not too much, right? I mean, I don’t want him to think anything bad of me.”
“Why on earth would he think that? Evan thinks the sun shines out of your ass, V. He was absolutely giddy today in class.”
“Really?”
Autumn nodded, concerned. “Why are you freaking out? What are you afraid of?”
Veronica groaned, leaning against the wall. “I know, it’s so ridiculous but I just… I really like him. I’ve liked him for so long and what if he doesn’t like me after tonight? What if I say something stupid or he thinks my dress looks bad? I want this to work out.” A tear slid down her cheek and she brushed it away quickly. “I feel defective around guys. I’m tired of it!”
Autumn pulled her gently into a hug, rubbing her back gently. “Hey, stop that. You’re awesome. You befriended me right away and take care of me, and you’re mega-talented yet not even a little egotistical about it. You’re gorgeous, too. Evan is the defective one if he doesn’t see that, okay?”
“Thank you,” Veronica mumbled. “I hope you’re right.”
Pulling back, Autumn grinned. “I’m always right. Now, I say hair down, large curls, light make-up. Get to it!”
With a giggle, Veronica saluted her. “Aye, aye! Two inch rollers coming up!”
***
It was six twenty-nine and thirty-two seconds when Autumn shoved Veronica out the front door of Ashbury, struggling to hide her grin as Evan’s jaw dropped open. Apparently, the expression was more than exaggerated cartoonish metaphor – it stemmed from real-life possibility. Presented with a calla lily corsage, Veronica beamed, extending her wrist delicately and trembling with excitement. A quick wave and a playful mention of a shotgun and Autumn was jogging up the stairs to the third floor, where her change of clothes awaited her. She studied her ensemble choice one last time with a critical eye while peeling her kilt and blouse off at lightning speed. This wasn’t a date, and her clothes had to say as much, but if she looked like a menstruating teen from a Tampax ad, that would be equally awful. Hip-hugging jeans, a black tank top with lace fringe, and a dark green hoodie: casual enough.
You’re stressing over nothing! she admonished herself, tugging the tank top over her head. He’ll be in his leather jacket, a black t-shirt and jeans, knowing him. Running a brush through her hair, she shrugged at the waves framing her cheeks. Good enough. Grabbing her purse and keys, she set out for Media Studies.
The campus was noisy and feverish despite the October chill: girls pranced in prom dresses and slinky gowns from H&M while guys snuck sips of alcohol from water bottles and laughed behind the dorms. It seemed the staff of Casteel had a tendency to turn a blind eye for social events, perhaps reasoning that their restrictions on most days warranted the odd chance to blow off steam. It was a wise strategy, even if the student body saw every day as a day to break school laws. Media Studies, in contrast to the quad, was quiet, save for a guitar and piano harmonizing in the theatre. She moved slowly up the main stairwell, begging her heart to slow down and enjoy the scenery instead of galloping out of her chest and down the hall without her. They’d said six forty-five, but she was early. What if security came gawking at her? Had she remembered that pass from Gretchen?
“Autumn! Wait up!”
Spinning around, she heaved a sigh of relief. Andrew was coming up the stairs, pizza box in hand and backpack slung over his shoulder. The scent of cheese and tomato sauce reduced her to a Pavlovian state. Lucky seniors!
“You just get here?”
Autumn gestured to the pizza. “Need some help?”
Andrew nodded, passing her the pizza and digging into his jacket pockets as they walked. “Thanks. I know I have the damn keys, but there’s this rip in one of my pockets and I can never keep straight which one it is – phew!” With a jangle, he unlocked his editing suite, holding the door for her. “After you.”
“Did you consider how we’d be eating this glorious alternative to dining hall fare?” Autumn asked, setting the box on the desk.
“What do you think the backpack’s for?” With a grin, Andrew unzipped the bag and produced a small stack of paper plates, napkins blatantly pilfered from Casteel’s lunch coun
ter, and a six-pack of Coke. “If you enjoy sugar, I also ordered the two-bite brownies.”
“Oh dear God, I am sugar’s bitch!”
Andrew nodded in agreement. “Figured. Us zombie enthusiasts recognize the value of carbs. It’s how we’ll last on stacks of chocolate bars when the fresh food rots. Music? Or should we see if YouTube’s blocked this week from the public networks?”
Autumn settled onto the couch, tossing her purse on the ground beside her. “They block YouTube? I can always access it.”
“Dorm connections are different,” Andrew replied, passing her a can of Coke. “In here, it’s supposed to be all business. No social media, no YouTube, no 4Chan. Their censors are pretty lousy – usually, if you click a link to one of those sites, it’ll still load, but you can’t type it in the address bar.”
“So, if you were to, say, Google Facebook, you could click through?”
“Yup. I don’t know why they even bother.”
“In any case, I vote youTube. Specifically look for Razorsedge, all one word. I think that’s the channel name. He uploads full episodes of Maury. It’s awesome in a gruesome trainwreck of fake sort of way.”
Andrew logged in and pulled up the browser, tapping a few keys and hitting search. After a minute of scrolling and humming, he drummed the desk in glee. “Done! Where shall we begin?”
“You familiar with the classics?” Autumn asked.
“Maury has classics?”
With a laugh, she got up and waved him away from the computer. “Make pizza happen. I’ll create a glorious queue of melodramatics.”
In keeping with the mating ritual on campus that night, she went straight for the teens wanting babies without actually grasping what having a baby entailed. Andrew laughed and nearly choked on pizza as they streamed a full episode of pre-teen wannabe moms and their boot camp induction into parenting, followed by the inevitable sobbed promises to change. It was pure exploitation but still hilarious, as far as she was concerned.
“I had no idea such joys existed! I can’t believe these people are real!”
Autumn pawed at the brownie bag, tugging the corners open. “Well, there’s a degree of caricature here, definite exaggerations – but sadly, these teens exist. It’s a microcosm of what’s wrong with the world. You should see the DNA test episodes: people always ooh and ahh for the woman, who’s always 110% sure that this guy is the baby daddy. They boo the guy for calling her a cheating whore. Then, bam! Tony Joe, you are NOT the father! Cue the weeping mommy who runs off stage and suddenly admits there’s another possible daddy.”
“There’s a whole feminist theory thesis paper in here, isn’t there?”
“At least two, and I bet both have been written already. Maury has been around since forever. Once upon a time, he was a legit journalist.”
Andrew shook his head. “Sell out.”
Autumn shrugged. “Maybe Connie Chung has expensive taste. Maybe she makes him buy her endless quantities of shoes. It takes two: he may have the show, but it would be dead if these people weren’t calling in and agreeing to appear.”
“Fair enough. But there’s money involved, and most of these people seem like working class or lower on the financial scale.” With a stretch, he rose and gestured to the computer. “More disasters of humanity or music?”
“I think we’ve people-watched enough, don’t you?”
“For now,” he ceded. “But when my sugar high kicks in, I might want to watch this one here in the sidebar – something about sleeping with a truck?”
“Oh, that’s a good one! Later, absolutely. What did you think of my latest stash of music, by the way?”
“I haven’t had a chance to listen to all of it. There’s hundreds of songs here. But I did enjoy what I’ve heard, especially Alice In Chains. I’d only heard a couple of their songs before. I’m also wondering what the hell happened to Our Lady Peace.”
Autumn groaned. “Don’t get me started. Raine Maida marrying Chantal Kreviazuk ruined both their musical outputs. It’s a tragedy. They’re too happy and entwined to write good music anymore.”
“Happiness seems to ruin a lot of artists, I guess. Or at least, the ones who write angsty tunes.”
Autumn gestured for a second can of Coke, which Andrew tossed her way as an old Filter song kicked on. “Tori Amos. PJ Harvey. Concept album hell now. Kate Bush still has it, but she’s smart enough to fuck off for over a decade and take her time writing. She doesn’t feel compelled to churn albums out.”
“Marilyn Manson went downhill when he bailed on Dita. One rare case where romance begat musical greatness. His best album was the one where they were married.”
She leaned back into the leather, eyeing him in surprise. “Manson? Really?”
“You loaded live Nine Inch Nails tracks onto my computer. You’re Team Trent, aren’t you?”
Autumn nodded firmly. “Trent is king.”
“Trent’s over that rivalry. Maybe you should be, too?”
“I’m also Team Dita. Screw Manson. Although, credit where it’s due, his interview in Bowling For Columbine is well-done.” Autumn shrugged, sipping her drink. “What else have you been listening to?”
Andrew shrugged. “I let it shuffle, mostly. I have a new playlist going. I just drag and drop anything I really like into it, so I remember what I enjoyed most. That’s what I put on for now.”
“You really should drag everything over. My taste is impeccable.”
Andrew laughed. “Oh, we’re not full of ourselves at all, are we?”
“You’ll see!”
The banter continued, music softly playing while they traded barbs over music, film and politics. Each verbal parry was lighthearted, Andrew often seeming to take the opposite stance simply to rile her up. To some, it may have been infuriating, but to Autumn, it was the most she’d laughed in months. They ended up sharing the couch, each leaning against an opposing arm of cozy leather, their legs stretched side by side along the centre cushion. Long having polished off their caffeine supply, they’d had a rousing sing-along to Cee-Lo Green and were now drumming along to The Tragically Hip.
“I love this song,” Andrew said.
“Everyone loves ‘Grace, Too’. I think it’s mandatory to maintain your Canadian citizenship.”
“What do you think they’re playing over in the gym?”
Autumn frowned. “Hmm… Probably wretched drivel by Drake, or some Katy Perry crap.”
“I can see it now: the ten-minute Tiesto remix of ‘Firework’.”
“Oh dear God, save us!” Autumn rolled her eyes. “The moment that she used Rebecca Black in a video, she was truly dead to me.”
“Now, now, be charitable!” Andrew admonished playfully. “After all that hair dye, it’s really hard to remember her days of the week, okay? Rebecca saved her from embarrassment.”
“And now it’s Rebecca’s moment! Her moment! She’s getting her paper.” Autumn snickered at this. “Spoiled rich kid.”
The song changed to a soft piano melody, and Autumn sighed in recognition. It was one of her favourite songs by her favourite band – if she were forced to settle upon just one favourite. Noticing the shift, Andrew leaned forward.
“I really like this one,” he said quietly. “It’s in the running for the film.”
“It’s a beautiful song,” Autumn replied. “A pretty good choice, too.”
“I thought so.”
They sat together, the piano and plaintive vocals the only break in the silence. It was comfortable silence, the kind born on sleepless nights staring out at the stars, counting every twinkle like a ceiling tile dot or a prancing sheep.
“Fitting you like this, what with you sharing the same first name.”
“I noticed the ‘Andy’ in there. Is that why you shared it with me?”
Autumn shrugged. “Just occurred to me, actually. Jack’s Mannequin is one of my favourite bands. Although, it could be a strange serendipity thing.”
Andrew seemed hesitant,
his mind whirring behind blue eyes hazed in sugary silence. There was something… odd. Pensiveness, maybe? Her eyes closed, she pushed aside any questions, losing herself in the safe embrace of her music.
“It reminds me of you.”
“Huh?” Eyes opened wide.
Andrew gestured to the computer speakers. “This song. It just… reminds me of you.”
The room was full of words, razor letters that tore through her defenses from all sides. It reminds me of you. The knife twisted deep in her stomach at this knowing. He wasn’t wrong: it reminded her of herself, too. Insomnia and medications and a desperate need to believe in someone or something? Story of her life.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled.
“It’s fine.”
“You don’t look fine,” Andrew insisted.
A darting glance and she was exposed: he knew her too well. How could he possibly understand so much? How had he cracked her code, learned her by rote?
Maybe he recognizes his own kind, she thought, and immediately felt her heart fall. This misery, this unwanted lover that clung to her flesh and haunted every waking second – she wouldn’t wish it upon anyone. To even consider that he dwelled in the same despair…
“Autumn?”
Startled, she averted her gaze. “I’m sorry. Guess I drifted off for a second.”
The music shuffled on to an upbeat song by Tilly and the Wall. Reprieve. Forcing a smile, she shook herself slightly, stretching her toes.
“Are there any more brownies?”
And like that, they were back to banter, as if he’d never stripped her defenses and called her out.
***
She wasn’t sure when sleep overtook her; she only knew that when a gentle hand shook her arm, she’d squinted at the light flooding her vision, her hand pushing hair from her face and coming to rest on a denim-clad knee that was definitely not her own. Startled, she flew upright, mortified at what she’d done.
I fell asleep on Andrew. What the hell?
“It’s almost ten,” he said gently.
“Oh, shit!” Her mind ran wild, positing all sorts of questions about why she’d fallen asleep, why he’d left her asleep, and what impression precisely does that leave on a teenage male, anyway? She finger-combed her hair, forcing herself to breathe deeply.
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