The Last Confession of Autumn Casterly

by Meredith Tate

  “Oh, is this your new place?” Patrick asks. “I remember your house on Profile, with the massive garage.”

  “Yep. We’ve been here a couple years now.” I’m always a little self-conscious about this house. The lawn looks like a jungle starter kit, there’s a mini Grand Canyon in the driveway, and I’m well aware that it’s half the size of our previous home. We tried to keep the old house after Mom died, but without her income, it wasn’t happening. There was this really bad patch when Dad took a second job, and I’m pretty sure I only saw him for forty minutes a week. Sucked when I had to bring home that band permission form in middle school asking for a hundred bucks to go to Six Flags. I almost didn’t give it to him, but I caved when he heard about it from Alexa’s parents. I didn’t even want to go on that trip; I don’t like roller coasters and I can’t comfortably fit in many ride seats anyway. But everyone was going, and no one else had complained about the cost, so I let Dad write me the check. I still feel bad about it.

  Dad never admitted it, but I think part of him didn’t want to stay in that house anyway. Every room and stair and corner was tainted by Mom’s passing. Even though she’d been dead for several years when we finally sold it, I could see the relief on Dad’s face when we drove out of that driveway for the last time. Still, it was a way nicer house than this one. Patrick is probably super judging me for it right now.

  I hate when other people think I don’t notice things about my own life. Like when you go to someone’s house and it stinks, but they’ve lived there so long they can’t smell it, so you don’t know if they realize how bad it is. Or when people point out I’m fat like it’s breaking news to me. So I try to state the obvious as much as possible. “Dad needs to mow, it looks like shit. It’s pretty small, too. I miss the old place.” I don’t really miss the old place. But it feels like something I should say.

  “It’s great,” Patrick says. I can tell he’s just being nice.

  I grab my bag off the floor, stalling. “Hey, can I get your number?” I keep my eyes down. “So we can catch up.”

  “Sure! Here, give me yours, too.” Patrick hands me his phone and I put my number in. Two seconds later, a text pops up on my screen: This is Patrick Perkins’s number followed by a bunch of animal emojis. I add him into my contacts as P-Squared; that was his nickname back in the day.

  Jason rolls his eyes. “I gotta get home, can you do that later?”

  Sophie slaps his leg, giving him a look.

  I climb out of the car and wave as Jason drives away. Within seconds, I’m texting Sophie.

  Did Patrick say anything about me after I left?

  I stare at the screen as three little dots appear. I want to grab her through the phone and tell her to type faster.

  I’m so focused, I don’t see my sister until I almost walk right into her car. Autumn’s leaning against her Civic, smoking a joint. Right there in broad daylight. Where the hell is Dad? I already know the answer; he’s working at the auto shop until eight thirty tonight.

  “Hey, Autumn,” I mumble, dodging away from her.

  She rubs the end of her joint against the driveway and leaves it on the ground, grabbing an open can of seltzer off the roof of her car. “Ivy! Wait.”

  I stop dead. I don’t remember the last time Autumn called me by my name. Usually she just grunts and walks past me when we’re home. At school she acts like I don’t exist. I mean, the only seniors who usually talk to lowly sophomore me are other band kids, but it kind of sucks when your own sister can’t spare a wave when she passes you in the hall. Alexa’s sister Charlotte Snapchats her from college in New York. They FaceTime every Tuesday and they’re already planning stuff for when Charlotte’s home for their Christmas-Hanukkah festivities. Alexa told Charlotte about losing her virginity before she told any of us. Sometimes I wish I could swap my sister for someone like her.

  Once upon a time, me and Autumn would sneak out of our bedrooms at night to steal snacks from the fridge and watch movies on her iPad, one earbud for each of us, until Mom or Dad caught us and sent us back to bed. She was the first person I told about my crush on Patrick, back in the day. Then everything changed. Autumn was always there for me, until she wasn’t.

  Which is why it’s unnerving that she’s talking to me today. I fidget with my bag straps as Autumn jogs up beside me.

  I can’t stop staring at her hands. They’re so pale and dainty for having so much figurative blood on them. She’s wearing like eight thousand rings, and her black nail polish is chipping. I wonder how many pills passed through those fingers. A can of raspberry-lime seltzer is clutched in her left hand and she’s using her right to fiddle with the aluminum tab. My sister is incapable of drinking anything from a can without ripping those tabs off. Why can’t I stop looking at her hands?

  Her fingers push the tab back and forth, back and forth.

  “Do you know where I can find Hailey Waters?” she asks. It would be an innocent enough question, if I didn’t know my sister.

  Hailey Waters sits behind me in band. She plays the trombone, is really awesome at winging her eyeliner, and loaned me her bio notes last year when I had mono. Right now, she’s probably at her boyfriend’s place, or hanging out with the soccer girls at White Park, or at the indie movie theater where she works. God, I hope she’s not mixed up in Autumn’s bullshit.

  “Nope.” I blink. “Never heard of her.”

  Snap. The tab flicks off the can and tumbles to the grass, where Autumn leaves it.

  She narrows her eyes at me and takes a solid swig of seltzer before climbing into her car. It’s a used Civic Dad got her from an impound auction a couple years ago, but it’s still more than anything I’ll ever get.

  “Where are you going?” I don’t know why I ask. I don’t really want to know.

  “To church to confess my sins. To a food drive to help the less fortunate. To receive an award for good citizenship.” Her tone grows increasingly sarcastic with each additional option. “Pick the one that makes you happiest and get the fuck out of my way.”

  I step off the driveway just in time to avoid getting run over as she guns it, disappearing down the street.

  My phone does a classic Wookiee growl, alerting me to a new text. But I’m still staring at the empty road.

  I’m not sure why, but I’m struck with a bad feeling.

  AUTUMN

  Liam has a misdemeanor on his record for shoplifting, but he’s never been to jail. Which is ironic, since he lives down the street from the New Hampshire federal prison. It’s the kind of house where visitors joke that they shouldn’t pick up hitchhikers on their way home, but the proximity’s never bothered Liam. Some people assume we’re dating, but I wouldn’t touch him with a ten-foot pole. He’s more like my stoner older brother who I want to punch in the face half the time.

  My girls and I park on the dirt driveway and walk to the back of the house. House is a generous term—it’s more like a crappy duplex one hurricane away from crumbling into dust. Laughter and deep voices get louder the closer we get to the bonfire roaring in the small backyard. I bury my left hand in my sweatshirt pocket, taking comfort when my fingers graze my familiar knife.

  The first thing I notice is, there are way too many people here.

  I immediately size everyone up. I don’t recognize most of them, but they’re all older than us. Two guys I’ve never seen before sit on lawn chairs in front of the fire, one of them vaping and the other clenching a bong between his legs. A girl with a flannel button-down and ripped jean shorts lies on a blanket with her head in Liam’s roommate’s lap. Fucking Liam, he was not supposed to have this many people here tonight. My fingers tighten around the half-drunk can of seltzer still clutched in my right hand.

  Liam’s friends run the gamut from harmless potheads to downright sketchballs who’ll probably be in prison at least once before they’re twenty-five. A handful of them have alread
y been in jail—this one guy, Derek Foster, got nailed for two DUIs last year and proudly made his mugshot his Facebook profile picture. Then there’s Collin Jameson, who doesn’t need to buy weed because he grows his own and calls himself a “skilled botanist.” Concord’s finest.

  Abby’s thumbs dance across her iPhone. Jaclyn folds her arms and yawns. Both girls are so at ease, it makes me feel stupid for being uptight. But I don’t take my hand off the knife.

  The middle-aged couple who rent the other apartment in Liam’s duplex sit at a card table on the porch with a couple of beers and cigarettes. They give me a lazy wave. When I first met Liam, I asked if his neighbors cared about all the underage drinking and smoking on their property. Then I learned that the sweet older couple were the ones providing the stuff.

  A girl saunters over in an NHTI hoodie, double-fisting a beer and an iced coffee. “Are you Autumn Casterly?”

  I shift in place, mildly uncomfortable. “Yup.” If Liam doesn’t come outside in the next five seconds, I’m leaving.

  “Didn’t you break some guy’s fingers behind the Irving station last year?”

  Tyler Fenton. We didn’t break his fingers, but we did threaten him with pliers. He owed me sixty bucks and thought I’d forget. I never forget.

  “No, that wasn’t me.”

  Jaclyn cocks her head at me, silently questioning why I denied our takedown of Tyler Fenton. I glare icicles at her, reminding her to keep her mouth shut around strangers.

  “Do you guys go to the Tech?” Abby asks, pointing at the girl’s sweatshirt. She’s a master subject-changer. “I’ve thought about applying there if I don’t get into Keene.”

  It’s such a lie. Abby doesn’t give a shit about school.

  The girl busts out a giggle that would never come from a sober person. “Fuck no.” She touches the NHTI logo. “This is my sister’s. I’m a bagger at Market Basket.”

  “Oh cool. I’ve thought about applying there.”

  Abby and Jaclyn keep her busy while I hunt down my supplier.

  Liam isn’t hard to find. I see him the moment he steps outside, with a bag of Tostitos in one hand and a giant lighter in the other. He drops the chip bag into a girl’s lap and hands the lighter to another guy, picking up a box of half-eaten pizza.

  Liam’s only nineteen, a year and a half older than me, but he’s been living on his own since he dropped out of high school. We met a couple years ago, at the local library of all places. Dad’s printer died and I needed to print something for school; Liam was there using one of the computers. Go figure.

  Tonight, a navy-blue sweatshirt hood covers his short red hair and already-receding hairline. He used to have a thick red beard, too, but shaved it off because it made him a bazillion times more recognizable. Also, his friends kept making lumberjack jokes.

  “Autumn. Hey.” He opens the pizza box. “You want a slice?”

  The smell of pepperoni makes my stomach roll. I look away. “No. Put that somewhere, I have to talk to you.”

  He stuffs a slice of pepperoni into his mouth and sets the box on the grass beside one of his friends.

  “Inside. Now.” I grab his hand and practically drag him onto the porch and through the door. A stack of dirty dishes on the counter wobbles, threatening to crash onto the tile, when I slam the screen behind me. “You’re not supposed to have other people here when I come to buy. That was our deal.”

  “They’re harmless.” He waves it off. “They’re just hanging out.”

  “Yeah, harmless until they snap a picture of me in this outfit right before we bust an ATM.” Anxiety prickles to life inside me, and I swallow it down. I can’t lose my cool. I need this money.

  He checks the time on his phone. “Store’s open for another hour. We gotta wait until after eleven.”

  “Are you sure they didn’t change the code?”

  “Autumn, baby.” He wraps his arm around my shoulders. That’s how I know he’s about to switch into condescension mode. The jackass. “It’s fine. I promise. You can’t say no to that much cash.”

  He’s right. I can’t.

  “Fine.” I thrust a wad of bills at him. “Get me my stuff while we wait.”

  Liam disappears into the depths of the house. His place is so bizarre. He’s got this hollow sculpture by the door he loves to call his “art”; meanwhile it’s tacky as hell and looks like a giant urn.

  I hover in the foyer, peeking around the corner into the living room. A couple of girls are spiking apple cider with Captain Morgan and mixing it in a couple of old Dunkin’ cups, probably so they can drink them in the car without getting pulled over. As if that trick hasn’t been done a zillion times before. Between that and all the drugs, it’s like the embodiment of a New England stereotype in here. I half expect a cow to come wandering out of Liam’s bathroom. I hate townies. Mostly because I’m probably doomed to become one.

  Sometimes I wonder what my life would’ve been like if I’d grown up in a place like Boston or New York. I’m a big fish in a tiny pond here, and sometimes that pond feels cramped. I can’t leave the house without wondering who I’m going to run into, because there are only so many places in this town for people to go.

  I can’t wait to move out—as far from Kathy and my fucking family as possible. Preferably another state. I fantasize about that a lot. I’m going to give a final one-finger salute to Kathy. My dad won’t get a goodbye; he’s ignored me for so long, the least I can do is return the favor. Ivy too. She’ll probably throw a party when I leave. Good riddance to all of them. I slug back the last sip of seltzer and toss my empty can into the urn sculpture for Liam to find later.

  Abby wanders into the room, her brown hair now sitting in a messy bun on top of her head, with that drunk girl tailing behind. “There you are. I was looking for you.”

  “Just waiting for our stuff,” I mutter, keeping my eyes on the people sitting at the other end of the room.

  “Look.” Abby nudges her head toward the window. Outside, Jaclyn is laughing in the arms of some loser with a cig hanging off his lips. “Do you think Jac’s going to have sex with him?”

  I wouldn’t be surprised. Jac’s a serial offender of boning the grossest guys she can find. She could do way better than this loser.

  I don’t get the big deal about sex. Then again, it’s not like I have loads of experience; I’ve only done it once, and I was drunk.

  I asked Jaclyn about it last year, in the car on the way back from school. She’d never really brought up her sex life before, and asking about it felt weird, but I was overcome with curiosity.

  * * *

  —

  I turned down the volume on the radio. “You like sex, right?” I asked her, keeping my voice casual.

  Jac shrugged. “Yeah. Of course. I mean, who doesn’t?” When I didn’t respond, she added, “Why? Don’t you?”

  “I don’t know. What’s there to like about it?”

  She laughed. “Um. Is that a serious question?”

  “Yes, Jaclyn, for fuck’s sake.” I bristled.

  “Wait . . . You’re not a virgin, right? Didn’t you lose your virginity to, um . . . you know. Chris?”

  It felt like being slapped. I had never told Jaclyn and Abby about that incident, but obviously they’d heard about it. Everyone had. I slowly cruised to a stop at a red light. “Yeah. I guess.” A squirrely feeling came over me. I hated the phrase “lose your virginity.” This whole conversation was getting way too personal, and suddenly I regretted bringing it up.

  “Do you . . . want to talk about it?” she asked.

  “No.” I hit the gas and turned the radio back up. “Forget I said anything.”

  * * *

  —

  I never brought it up again.

  And now Abby’s question is veering dangerously close to that territory.

  I shrug. “Maybe
. Who knows? Why do you care?”

  “I’ve heard that girl Jaclyn gets around, if you know what I mean,” the drunk girl says. “She’s such a slut.”

  I almost burst out a laugh. Jaclyn sleeps around and is called a slut, I’ve had sex once and am called a slut, and hell, Abby’s a virgin but sometimes wears low-cut shirts and I’ve heard the word used to describe her, too. As if this drunk girl has some sort of moral superiority because she hasn’t met the arbitrary measurement of sex to constitute sluttiness. “How about you mind your own business and stop worrying about who other people are fucking?”

  “Jeez. Okay.” The girl gives me a look and slinks away. I cross my arms, trying to tame my pulse that’s threatening to rocket out of my skin. This day needs to end soon. I wish I was in my car, or back in my room, or literally anywhere else.

  By the time eleven o’clock rolls around, I’ve got a grocery bag full of pill canisters stuffed into my sweatshirt pouch. Most of Liam’s friends—or customers, or whatever they are—have gone home or passed out. Jaclyn called her mom to inform her she was sleeping at Abby’s house, then promptly left with the guy she’d been hanging out with.

  “Can we go soon?” Abby whispers in my ear. “My mom won’t get off my ass that it’s after curfew.”

  Guilt gnaws through me. Me and Liam have become masters at shoplifting together, and now we’re planning a full-on burglary, but I’ve never told Abby or Jaclyn that I steal. I’m not sure why. As far as they know, I hang out at Liam’s house alone sometimes because we’re hooking up.

  It hits me that I’ve spent the past three years hanging out with people who still don’t know a thing about me. If I got stung by a bee, Abby and Jac would probably watch me die, because they’ve got no clue I’m allergic and have to keep an EpiPen in my purse. Whatever. I used to care about stuff like that, but now it seems juvenile. Friends are a waste of time.

  I hesitate. “Yeah. I’m sleeping at Liam’s tonight. But we’ll drop you off first.”