The Last Confession of Autumn Casterly

by Meredith Tate

  She gives me a halfhearted thumbs-up, midyawn.

  I climb into the front seat of Liam’s beat-up old Camry and buckle my seat belt. Abby gets in the back. The light from her iPhone illuminates the dark car as we drive. I bite my thumbnail, scraping off the black nail polish. My insides feel jittery, like I’ve drunk too much caffeine. I’m not sure why I’m suddenly so uncomfortable. Maybe it’s all the people at Liam’s house.

  Liam’s fingers tap against the steering wheel, the only noise breaking through the silence. He’s got a brown knit cap hiding his head and a maroon scarf wrapped around his neck and chin, like he’s bundled for a blizzard rather than disguising himself for a break-in. I tuck my hood over my hair to obscure my face, suddenly feeling a little too exposed. Liam said they don’t have cameras. That there’s no way we’ll get caught. But the more I think about it, the less I believe it.

  “Have fun.” Abby winks at me when we drop her off.

  I stall. I should tell her where we’re going, see if she wants to help. It’s stupid to hide this from her and Jaclyn. I’m not ashamed. But it would mean an extra pocket to split the cash with, and I can’t afford it.

  “See you tomorrow,” I say instead. “Let’s see if we can get rid of some of this shit.” I slap the bulge in my sweatshirt pocket, and the pills rattle in their canisters.

  “Please, Ryan Philips has been after me all week. We can pawn off half a bottle on just him during lunch.”

  I nod, watching her disappear into her parents’ apartment building. “Let’s get this done,” I mutter. Liam guns it, and we take off into town.

  Streetlights blaze past, shining onto empty sidewalks. All the storefronts and old houses are sleepy and dark. We turn down a deserted street, cruising past White Park. I used to do all my deals there, in the parking lot or up by the sledding hill. It got too risky when cops started patrolling every night.

  We stop at a red light, and out of nowhere, Liam turns to me. “Do you believe in God?”

  I blink. “Are you high?”

  “Nah, man. It’s a serious question.”

  I roll my eyes, leaning into the window. Liam does this a lot. He’ll get all existential right before we’re about to steal shit. It’s super annoying. “No.”

  “Not even heaven?”

  “Especially not heaven.” I glare out the window. “Can we focus on the job, please?”

  “Where do you think you’ll go when you die?”

  “A hole in the ground? I don’t fucking know.”

  “I can’t believe that. There has to be somewhere we go, some higher power or something.”

  “You can believe what you want,” I say. “But do it on your own time.”

  “You just don’t want to believe in anything. You’re too cynical sometimes, Autumn.”

  He’s wrong about that. I wish I did still believe in God. “Can you just drive the car? Where’s all this religious bullshit coming from?”

  “Don’t you want to believe there’s more than this?” He gestures around the car. “That when you die, there’s a next step? There’s . . . something?”

  I do wish that. Then I wouldn’t have to picture my mother decaying in the frozen ground. How comforting it would be to believe there’s a happy place for good people, and all the bad people will get what they deserve. Sometimes I think that’s a flaw we all have; we assume truly evil people will always get what’s coming to them, in this life or the next. But good and bad people meet the same fate: ashes.

  “I don’t know.” I press the heels of my palms into my eyes. My pulse ticks under my skin like an overly jittery second hand on a clock. “Can you just . . . stop talking for a minute?” This conversation— this whole day—is going on too long. “I need to take something. You have any Ativan?”

  “Glove compartment.”

  Technically I have a whole pouch full of pills in my hoodie, but I know Liam has a private stash. We’re only a few blocks from the store now, and I need to calm down. It’ll take a few minutes to kick in, but a couple of these should do the trick. I pop open the glove compartment, and sure enough, there’s like eight thousand containers and envelopes.

  “You’ve got a damn Walgreens in here,” I mumble, pawing through his stash.

  “Don’t take too many. I gotta sell those.”

  I fish out the first bottle. Liam’s slapped masking tape on each one and hand-scrawled a coded label across it in Sharpie. It’s a good thing he’s honest, because these little white pills could be Tic Tacs or poison for all I know.

  X—Xanax—too strong for tonight.

  P—Percocet—not what I want right now.

  I keep digging and pull out a crisp white envelope. Scribbled across the front is a big red R. “What’s R?”

  “Rohypnol,” he replies without skipping a beat, like he’s telling me the weather.

  The car shrinks, suddenly too small and too hot. My blood turns to ice, freezing me in place.

  What the actual fuck?

  Liam wouldn’t have this. He couldn’t.

  A cold, creeping fear snakes through me.

  Why wouldn’t he have this? Was I that naïve to think Liam was anything other than the scumbag he appears to be?

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” I shove the envelope in his face.

  Liam swerves. “Shit, Autumn, I’m driving!”

  “You asshole.” I shouldn’t yell at him, deep down I know I shouldn’t—he could have a gun, we’re all alone—but I can’t stop the words from flying out. “Why the fuck do you have roofies in your car?”

  “Calm down.” He snatches for the envelope, but I yank it away. “I don’t use them, I just sell them. Okay?”

  “How would that make it okay? If you’ve got roofies, you’re trash.”

  “C’mon, Autumn, don’t lump me in with those guys. I’d never drug anyone.”

  “Who buys them? Who are your customers?”

  “I can’t tell you, you know that.”

  “So, you’re not one of those guys, but you cover up for them so they can get away with it.” I snort. “You’re a scumbag.”

  “I’m not the one using them.” He enunciates the words too clearly, like I’m a fucking toddler. “I’d never do that. I just sell them.”

  Just sell them.

  I can barely breathe. My eyes fog with tears as I ram my head back into the seat. I crumple the envelope in my fist. “Let me out.”

  “That stuff cost me money, Autumn. If you destroy them, you better be paying for them.”

  “Pull over and let me out.”

  “Stop freaking out. We’re almost there.”

  “I don’t want anything to do with you.”

  “Fine, bitch.” He jerks the car to the side of the road. “I don’t need this shit. I’ll do it myself. You can walk home.”

  I jump out of the car so fast, I nearly trip over myself. I’m going to be sick.

  Liam flips me off, and I slam both middle fingers against his passenger window. He shouts something as he drives away, but my piercing scream drowns it out.

  I fist my hands in my hair and scream until I can’t scream anymore. I kick a stop sign. I stomp back and forth across the deserted side street.

  Liam. I hate Liam. I hope he gets caught at the corner store and rots in prison.

  I could call the cops right now. Get his sorry ass arrested.

  I pull out my phone, Google the local police department, and dial. It starts ringing. Venom runs thicker than blood through my veins. If I could smash Liam’s head into the concrete, I’d do it.

  “Concord PD.”

  I take a breath. My mouth opens, then closes.

  Holy shit. What am I doing?

  I slam my thumb onto the red button and hang up.

  A blanket of star-filled black sky covers me. In the dist
ance, crickets and peepers fill the night with an orchestra that calms my nerves. I close my eyes and take a few deep breaths. It has to be after midnight by now. I am alone, with no one in sight. Alone is always better.

  I start the long walk back across town to Liam’s house to get my car, my footsteps against the pavement the only noise breaking through the still night air.

  IVY

  I should probably be in bed right now. Okay, scratch that. I’m technically in bed. What I’m not doing is sleeping.

  You’re going to hate Mr. Bennett’s algebra class, I type back to Patrick on my phone while balancing my laptop on my knees. He gives pop quizzes all the time and is just generally unpleasant.

  I think for a moment. Also, he smells like boiled cabbage.

  Patrick responds with an eye-roll emoji. What about English 10 with MacDougall?

  I type back, If you can suffer through picking apart every detail of Walden, I think you’ll be fine. She’s nice and brings cookies for finals.

  Sweet. A thumbs-up emoji. What about Mr. Connolly? I have him for Econ.

  He’s the best, I respond. Everyone loves him!

  My laptop warms my legs through my green-and-white-spotted pajama pants. Some trashy MTV rerun plays on my tiny TV on the dresser, but I’ve barely glanced at it. I’m too focused on other things—like stalking Patrick on Instagram on my laptop while simultaneously texting with him and pretending I’m not doing the former.

  My internet creeping has taught me that Patrick is pretty much the same guy he was four years ago. He still eats string cheese improperly (biting right into it, like a monster) and still worships the Bruins. But now he seems to have an interesting pet.

  I open my group chat with Alexa and Sophie. They’re both probably asleep and will wake up to a zillion messages from me, but they’ll deal; this is important. Patrick has a big snake, I type. He posted like eight zillion pictures of it on Insta. I think of Alexa’s dirty mind and quickly add, Like, a literal snake. The reptile. A ball python. It lives in a tank in his bedroom.

  It’s a pretty cool pet, but not something I’d expect Patrick to have. In one selfie, the snake is draped over Patrick’s neck. In another shot, the snake sunbathes under a heat lamp in a giant tank while a hand dangles a dead mouse over it. Dinnertime for Chester, reads the caption. Well, that’s gross.

  His most recent photo is of a towering oak tree, its leaves varying shades of red and orange. He didn’t even need a filter to capture the radiance of the colors. #TBT—took this when we lived in NH last time, reads the caption. Thought I’d post now that we moved back—ready for fall! #fallfun #NH #NewEngland #BackHome

  His New Hampshire pride makes me smile. I’m already contemplating ways to convince him to come to the haunted corn maze in Gilford with the Nerd Herd this year. Okay, yes, I always scream and freak out when the chainsaw guy pops up, but this time I’ll have a reason to latch onto Patrick’s arm.

  I can’t stop looking at this photo. It’s such a refreshing change from Autumn’s Instagram. I used to creep on her pictures, before she made her page private. It was always stuff like “F this place” and “I hate Concord” and “What kind of a shitty city has a mall that looks like a ghost town?” with middle-finger selfies, flipping off places I love.

  Autumn used to like Concord, back when Mom was alive. Afterward, it was like the town went from being a seat belt, a comforting dose of protection, to a straitjacket, intent on keeping her back and trapping her here forever. She started pushing back, fighting its hold on her. We’d drive down Loudon Road and she’d point out all the chain restaurants—the same ones we ate in occasionally, growing up—with an eye roll, as if she’d outgrown it all. She stopped wanting to go apple picking in the fall and refused to come to Midnight Merriment with Dad and me at Christmas, even though we went caroling there as kids. Each insult felt like she was dragging me rather than our town. I know I shouldn’t feel rejected by it, but I do.

  Concord’s practically stitched into my DNA. I love the old brick storefronts downtown, and swimming at the docks, and yes, even the deserted mall; it has character. I don’t want to leave. And I know Autumn counts that among my flaws.

  I take a sip of my formerly hot—now lukewarm—cocoa, and frown. My Tolkien mug left a giant ring on my side table. I rub at it with my finger, but it doesn’t come off. Well, crap. This IKEA table has always been sort of rickety, mostly because I insisted on putting it together myself when I was twelve, but I still feel bad.

  I say good night to Patrick, type an apology to Sophie and Alexa for all the spam, and head downstairs for paper towels.

  Kathy sits in the kitchen in her bathrobe, swirling a spoon in a mug of tea and reading something on her phone. A wisp of smoke curls from a fresh butt in the ashtray. My nose crinkles at the smell. “Oh, hello, Miss Ivy.” She gives me a guilty smile, quickly grinding the cigarette further into the tray. “I didn’t know you were awake.”

  “Yeah. I was just watching TV.” I grab a fistful of paper towels, frowning at the cigarette. Kathy’s not supposed to smoke in the house. “Why’re you up?”

  “I was talking to your brother. He sends his love.”

  I hate when Kathy calls Chris my brother. Technically he’s my stepbrother, but even that intimacy feels weird—especially after that whole gross Autumn-Chris rumor I’m constantly subjected to at school. We’re Facebook friends, but otherwise I haven’t talked to him since he left for college two years ago. He sent me a request to list him as my brother, and I’ve ignored it. It’s stewing in my request box along with the Russian roulette of messages from strangers who are trying to either add me on Pokémon Go or send me dick pics.

  I rinse my mug in the sink. “Oh, how’s he doing?”

  “Would you believe it, he’s starting quarterback this year.” She scrolls through her phone, then shows me a picture of Chris in his football jersey.

  “Nice.”

  “Yeah. The coach told him he’s got a real shot of making it to the NFL.” She keeps her eyes on her screen. “I always knew he could do it, if he put his mind to it and got a scholarship. We just need the right people to see him play, and all the big scouts seem to watch the Spartan games.”

  “Cool.” I feel like she’s talking more to herself than to me. “He coming home for Thanksgiving this year?” I already know the answer.

  Her smile sinks. “No, he’s going to his father’s in Ohio again. Maybe for Christmas.”

  I know she’s just saying it to make herself feel better. Chris won’t come for Christmas. Things got really awkward after whatever happened between him and Autumn. When he left for college, he never came back. Which is totally fine with me, to be honest.

  “Sometimes I wish he hadn’t gone to school so far away,” she says. “Driving distance would’ve been nice. But he’s got to be where the opportunities are.”

  I tear at the edges of the paper towels. “Yeah. That must be tough.”

  “I don’t know.” She gives a sad smile to the table. “I just miss him. Your father . . . well, he works such long hours.”

  I shuffle my feet. I don’t want to have this conversation right now. It’s late and I don’t know what to say. “Okay, well. I’ve gotta go to bed. Good night.”

  “Good night, honey.”

  I speed-walk to the stairs, using my phone as a flashlight, and almost trip over Pumpernickel. He stands, his wide eyes shining up at me in the darkness. “Creepy,” I say, giving him a scratch. I always feel bad when he camps out near the door at night. I know he’s waiting for Autumn to come home, and she rarely does.

  “You miss your mommy?” I crouch and pet him. “She’ll be back.” Eventually.

  My phone buzzes—Jason. Of course. Who else would text me at one in the morning? You still awake?

  I type back, Technically. What’s up?

  I can’t sleep. Entertain me.

 
; I can’t either, I reply. I was just talking to Kathy and drinking hot chocolate. I take a seat on the stairs, scratching Pumpernickel’s head with one hand and typing with the other. And you can entertain ME, bitch.

  The first time I met Jason was freshman year at the band camp cookout. Every year, on the last night of band camp, we do a mock field show for the families, followed by a barbecue. I was standing in line to get a burger, and still way too shy to talk to any of the upperclassmen.

  This sophomore guy with floppy dark hair stood in front of me, loading up his already loaded paper plates. I remember thinking, Why does he need two plates of food? Of course, now that I know Jason, I realize he’s just a huge pig anytime there’s free food.

  He made a grab for the last hot dog, but then whirled around toward me. “Hey, did you want this?”

  It took me a second to realize he was talking to me. “Oh no, go for it. I’m more of a burger girl.”

  “Cool. Thanks.” He piled it on top of his deviled eggs, which made me want to vomit. “You play trumpet, right? I’m Jason, saxophone.” That’s the funny thing about band kids—you’re always defined by your instrument. He maneuvered his paper plates trying to shake my hand, which I automatically thought was weird; I couldn’t remember the last time someone who wasn’t my dad’s age introduced themselves with a handshake. But I was still a loser freshman who didn’t know any upperclassmen in band, so I put on my widest, cheesiest smile.

  “I’m Ivy.”

  “Whoa, that’s a cool name.” His eyes lit up. “Like Ivysaur, the Pokémon. Or Poison Ivy, the Batman villain.”

  I grinned at him. “Can I just say how awesome it is that your first instinct wasn’t to compare me to the plant?” I leaned into the table, making my best attempt at being smooth, but ended up sticking my sleeve into the bowl of potato salad.

  And that was how I met my best friend. This was followed by, like, eleven months of writing bad poetry about him in my pink notebook, but I’d rather not think about that.

  Fine. Watch this. He sends me a YouTube link.

  I click on it and watch some guy fend off an attacking Canada goose with a briefcase. Immediately I reply with another link, a guy on a skateboard showing off, then spectacularly wiping out (he’s okay at the end, I swear). Jason responds with a BuzzFeed article—“21 Things Only People from New Hampshire Will Appreciate.”