The Last Confession of Autumn Casterly

by Meredith Tate

  Specifically #17, he says.

  I scroll through, landing on the one he referred to: Riding the Boston Tea Party ride at Canobie Lake Park. I chuckle, remembering the epic prank I played on Jason last summer. He’d never been to Canobie, and therefore didn’t know that flume ride has a ridiculous splash radius notorious for drenching spectators. I positioned him carefully, then ran away at the last second, leaving him soaked to the bone for the rest of the day. Of course, he felt the need to envelop me in a bear hug immediately after. Ass.

  Jase and I go back and forth for a while, sending funny videos and links. At some point, Kathy scoots past me to head to bed. I should follow her lead, but I’m wide awake. Soon, I’m laughing hysterically, I’ve forgotten all about Kathy’s drama, and it’s after two.

  Shit, it’s 2 AM, I type.

  He quickly responds with an it all happened so fast meme.

  I’m about to say good night when the front door swings open. My sister stands framed in the moonlight like a serial killer and scares the ever-living shit out of me. I can’t help it; I scream.

  Within seconds, the hall light flips on and Dad comes barreling down the stairs. “Ivy? Are you okay?”

  “Ivy, honey?” Kathy hobbles up behind him. “What’s wrong?”

  For a second, the four of us freeze. Dad swallows, his hands flexed at his sides as if facing a wild animal. I know that look; it’s saying, My hooligan daughter was out after curfew again, but if I say anything, she’ll freak out at us. Kathy’s jaw tightens, and I can tell she sees it, too.

  “Autumn,” Dad says gently, “are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” she snaps, sounding anything but fine.

  “Sorry, Autumn.” I keep my voice low and steady. “You startled me, that’s all.”

  “Whatever.” She slams the door. “I’m going to bed.” She scoops up Pumpernickel and roughly elbows past me.

  “Autumn, honey, are you okay?” Kathy asks as Autumn stampedes past her. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “I’d rather die.” Within seconds, her bedroom door slams. Dad’s shoulders tighten.

  “I’m really sorry I woke you guys up,” I whisper. “I swear, I was just sitting here. She scared me.”

  Dad hesitates. I can see on his face that he wants to check on Autumn—or even reprimand her for coming home so late—but he’s too worn out. “It’s late. I’m going back to bed.” He disappears into the dark hallway, barely giving me or Kathy another glance.

  Kathy gives me a sympathetic smile, then follows.

  I head upstairs but pause outside Autumn’s room. Against my better judgment, I press my ear to the door, straining for the tiniest sound. I should check on her, make sure she’s okay. I raise my hand to knock, but it just hovers there. I shuffle my feet. Why am I such a coward? Ugh. Hovering outside her doorway brings back memories of when Autumn first stopped speaking to me. It was like in Frozen when Anna knocks on Elsa’s door every morning, but her sister just tells her to go away; only, in this version, the “go aways” included lots of swearing at me, and Autumn never wanted to build a snowman.

  Finally, I tiptoe back to my own room.

  I wonder if Dad and Kathy saw what I did when I looked at Autumn. I wonder if they saw the tears in her eyes.

  FRIDAY

  AUTUMN

  For the second time this week, there are cops at my locker. Two officers I’ve never met stand together, a man and a woman, talking to the principal. I stiffen, wondering if I should make a run for it. No—I didn’t burglarize the corner store last night, and I don’t have any drugs on me.

  I slip out of my sweatshirt and adjust my tight purple T-shirt. I feel like people always get weirdly suspicious of kids in hoodies, and I don’t want to give them any reason to think I’m up to something. My silver paw-print charm necklace dangles against my chest. I’m glad I wore it today. Charm necklaces are cute and girly, not something a criminal would wear. And I mean, who would be suspicious of a girl wearing a puppy necklace? They don’t need to know I stole it from Claire’s.

  “Can I help you?” I ask the police, trying to keep my voice light and bubbly.

  “Hi, you must be Autumn.” The policewoman’s tone is sweet as honey. “I’m Officer O’Riley.”

  I shake her hand without averting my eyes. They want me to choke. That’s not happening. “Hi.” I drop my bag in my locker, opening it wide so they can see the lack of drugs inside. “I have to go. I’ll be late for Spanish.”

  Officer O’Riley mutters something to the other cop, but they don’t move.

  Jaclyn and Abby peek out from behind a row of lockers. Jaclyn holds out her hands as if asking me what to do. I subtly shake my head, and they get the message and slink away.

  “Can we talk to you for a minute in the principal’s office?” the male cop asks.

  This isn’t good. “Okay.”

  I follow the principal and Officer O’Riley. The male officer stays a few steps behind me, as if worried I’ll bolt. I swallow, trying to reassure myself that this is fine. They don’t have anything. I’m too careful.

  My stomach sours the moment we enter the room. I rub my upper arm, struck with déjà vu. I hate this office.

  The principal pulls out a wooden chair for me and takes the comfy rolling one for himself. The male officer stands by the door, while O’Riley leans casually against the desk.

  “I have a Spanish quiz today.” It’s a lie. Our teacher is on maternity leave, so we’ve had a sub all month. He doesn’t do anything except show us movies in Spanish. I’ve slept through most of them. “If I don’t show up, I’ll get a zero.”

  The principal raises his brows. “Ms. Casterly, are you referring to Señora Albright’s class?”

  Shit. He knows.

  “We just wanted to ask a few questions,” O’Riley says. “I’m sure your teacher will let you take the quiz late.”

  “I’m only seventeen. You can’t talk to me without my dad’s permission.” It’s another lie; I turned eighteen two weeks ago. But no one expects a senior to be eighteen by September, and I doubt they’ll look it up, so I go with it.

  She arches a brow. “We would only need your father’s permission if we took you into custody.”

  Message received. My mouth thins to a tight line, but I nod.

  “The corner store on South Main had another break-in last night. The thief used the store’s security code to enter the building and then emptied the register. They also seem to have attempted to break the ATM with a crowbar, but failed.”

  I pick at my fingernails, laboring to keep from full-on fidgeting. I’m not guilty. I shouldn’t act like I am.

  “It’s happened before, but this time the store had a camera.” My heart jumps. “We’re trying to find a lead on the perp’s identity.”

  “I was home last night.”

  “Well, we’re asking you because someone called the station last night around midnight and hung up. We traced the call this morning to see if it was related to the burglary and it led back to your number, a block from the store, right around the time of the break-in.”

  “Must’ve pocket-dialed. Sorry.”

  She gives me an inquisitive look. “I thought you were home last night?”

  “I was. I took a walk.”

  “You walked all the way downtown? In the middle of the night?” She thumbs through some papers. “According to our records, you live on Church Street—several miles away.”

  I shrug. “Couldn’t sleep.”

  The cops exchange glances.

  Principal Greenwich scrubs a hand down his face. “Autumn, I hear your name floating around this school a lot, from teachers and students alike. I don’t know what’s going on with you, but please. Just cooperate.”

  Someone knocks, startling everyone in the room. Mr. Browne, the guidance counselor, strolls inside. I
relax a little. Of all the teachers they could’ve sent, he’s the least objectionable. He’s kind of a cornball, but Mr. Browne’s always been nice to me—even after our last meeting, when I flipped out after he suggested I see a therapist.

  “Hello, Autumn. May I join you?” Mr. Browne asks. The principal gestures to the chair next to me, and Mr. Browne promptly takes a seat. “I heard there was some trouble downtown last night.”

  “I don’t know. I just heard about it for the first time.” I blink innocently at him.

  “Listen, Autumn.” Mr. Browne lowers his voice. “I’m on your side here.”

  “We all are,” adds O’Riley.

  I bristle. Like hell you are.

  “If you’re in some kind of trouble, we can help you. We want to help you.”

  Lies. I’ve heard that before, but I know exactly how this works. People like me are guilty until proven innocent. I want to shake him and shout at them to stop lying. But I keep it together and nod instead.

  “You’re a bright girl,” he continues. “Brighter than you let on. If you keep it up, you’ll graduate on time in June.”

  I nod again and scratch the tattoo on my wrist.

  “The last time we talked, you mentioned you’re considering going to college out of state to be a veterinarian. Remember?”

  I want to punch him. That is my business, not relevant to all the people in this room. Everyone’s looking at me, watching me, waiting for me to fuck up. I nod again.

  “I want to help you get there. We all do. We want you to stay out of trouble and achieve all the wonderful things you’re capable of.”

  I’m scratching my tattoo so hard, skin is flaking off. “I already told you, I don’t know anything about it. Can I go to class now?”

  Mr. Browne sighs. “Autumn . . .”

  “The store owner caught this image on his security feed.” The cop passes me a sheet of paper. My heart pounds like a drum. The black-and-white picture is grainy, but there’s good ol’ giraffe-neck Liam, brazenly tearing open the register like he owns the place. Even with the hat pulled low over his ears and the scarf covering everything but his eyes, it’s obvious—at least to me. What an arrogant piece of shit.

  “Autumn?” Mr. Browne rests his hand on my arm. “Are you all right?”

  I realize I’ve been clenching my fists around the paper and slowly relax them. I nod.

  “Can you tell us who this is?” asks the cop.

  My insides turn to stone. I want to rat him out and see him thrown into the same prison he drives past every day. But what would happen to me?

  Suddenly, I’m back in this same hot room all those years ago, with all those eyes on me. My heart races. The office gets smaller and smaller, and I get dizzier. My vision swims. It feels like I’m going to pass out.

  “Autumn?”

  “Tell us what happened, Autumn,” says Mr. Browne. But his words don’t sound like the guidance counselor’s voice; they sound like my old soccer coach’s.

  I close my eyes. My pulse pounds in my ears.

  “No.” My voice comes out cold and emotionless. “I’ve never seen him before in my life.”

  * * *

  —

  I can’t focus all day. I sit through the Spanish movie, a history lecture, and lunch without registering any of it. I don’t go to last period calc. I walk right out of the building and across the street to the senior lot, get in my car, and drive to White Park.

  Leaning against the car window, I watch the ducks waddle past the pond. An older couple plops down on a bench nearby. Three tiny kids kick a soccer ball back and forth while their mothers chat. I go sit on the swings, gently rocking myself back and forth. A bunch of families and kids walk past me, probably pissed I’m hogging a swing. They’re all shouting and laughing and the noise grates my ears. I wish I had a joint. My fingers weave through my purple lanyard, fiddling with the keys on the end.

  My phone buzzes—it’s Abby, asking where I went. I ignore it, lean my head against the swing chain, and close my eyes.

  Mom used to bring Ivy and me to this park when we were kids. Sometimes in the summer we would go in the pool and push each other under the buckets that spill water when they fill up. Mom would watch from the edge, with her feet in the water.

  Most parents call their kids things like sweetheart and dear, but not our mom. She called me “Fall,” like the synonym of Autumn. Ivy got it worse—Mom called her “Poison,” as in “Poison Ivy.” I always thought it was a little corny, but Ivy liked it, and sometimes we’d pretend we were starting a rock band called Poison and Fall. We’d bang sticks against rocks, imagining they were drums.

  Then Mom got sick. When other kids were going to shows in Boston and ice-skating with their parents, we sat in hospital waiting rooms. I used to put my headphones on and pretend I couldn’t hear Mom crying when they put the needles in. Cancer is a heartless bastard.

  My phone buzzes—Abby again. Holy shit. I guess Liam got dragged into the police station for questioning??

  Wow, seems they found their suspect even without my help.

  I smirk. I don’t know whether karma, justice, or plain old luck was involved here, but I’m not complaining.

  Good, I write back.

  Good? she replies. Wtf?

  I consider typing a long response about how Liam’s an asshole and he’s definitely no friend of mine, but I stop myself. Long story, I write back.

  Where are we gonna get our stuff if he goes to prison? she asks.

  I hesitate. What if this is an out? Maybe I could start fresh and get a real job. Go to college with a clean slate.

  I scratch my wrist.

  Or maybe I’ll find a new dealer.

  I don’t reply to Abby.

  I lose track of time, and before I know it, the sun is setting. The kids and families are moving on. Car doors slam in the distance, accompanied by the sounds of children whining.

  My phone buzzes again. I roll my eyes, expecting it to be Jaclyn or Abby checking up on me, but an unknown number flashes across my screen.

  I need some cake, know any good bakeries?

  That’s the code I’ve taught my customers to send when they want to buy. But I’ve never seen this number before. I type back, Who is this?

  I watch the screen, waiting.

  I need cake, they repeat.

  I scowl. It’s either a prank, a setup, or a new customer who I’m going to slap in the face for being coy. This is why I have rules for new referrals. I’m about to lay into them when another message pops up.

  Can’t say my name here.

  Well then I can’t help you, I write back.

  Please, they say. I’m feeling really sad and want chocolate cream pie.

  They want Benzos.

  Better see a psychiatrist for that, I reply, adding the middle-finger emoji.

  I’ll pay you $500.

  Fuck. That’s good money. And without Liam’s supplies, it could be the last cash I get for a while.

  When?

  I’m downtown now, he texts, how about the vacant lot on Storrs St?

  I’ve done deals there before. Maybe this guy has, too.

  Fine. Meet me there in 20 mins. If you’re late, I’m leaving.

  They don’t reply. I consider texting Jaclyn and Abby, but they’ll never make it to Storrs in twenty minutes. Jaclyn lives in the boonies and Abby’s probably pissed at me for ignoring her. It crosses my mind to stop back home for my knife, but it’s out of the way. I’ll stay in my car if things look suspicious, and I won’t even bring pills with me now.

  The last drop of sunlight fades behind the trees as I pull out of the park. My purple and green Mardi Gras beads hanging from the rearview sway when I take a sharp turn, narrowly missing the curb.

  I pull into the abandoned lot five minutes early, and a guy is
already standing in the middle. No other cars, no other people. So far, so good.

  The fall chill prickles goose bumps down my arms. I slip into the spare hoodie I keep in my back seat. A couple of twitchy streetlights illuminate the lot. Grass and weeds protrude through the cracked pavement and a dilapidated building sits to the side, right by the rusty old train tracks. Rocks crunch beneath my feet as I approach the stranger. I keep the purple lanyard wrapped around my wrist with my car keys positioned between my fingers, just in case.

  “Autumn?” He grins, holding out his hand. “Hey. I’m Nick.”

  I nod, sizing him up. Could be a fake name, in which case he’s smart; could be his real name, in which case he’s too naïve to do business with me. He’s about my age, with a pathetic attempt at facial hair, crooked teeth, jeans, a hoodie, and a black knit cap covering his hair. No visible weapons, no visible wires. “How’d you get my number?”

  “My cousin knew a guy who gave it to me.”

  I narrow my eyes. “You wanna try that again?”

  “Sorry.” He gives me an apologetic smile. “I’d say more, but I don’t know you yet. Gotta protect myself, you know?”

  I guess that’s fair, but he’s going to give me a name before I give him pills, and whoever spread my information is getting a beatdown. “Fine.” I bury my hands back in my pocket. “How much do you want? Did you bring cash?”

  “Here, let me grab my money. I was right down the street, so I’ve been here awhile.” He points to the abandoned building. “I was in there while I waited for you. My buddies come here to smoke sometimes.”

  I follow him toward the old building. I’ve done a handful of deals in the lot, but never actually checked out this place. Cracked concrete walls make up the sides, with pieces of rusty metal hanging off the roof. A crappy piece of plywood is pushed aside in what looks like the doorway. Darkness hangs heavily beyond it. This could potentially be a good place to handle customers in the future, if there isn’t an army of rats already camping inside. “What is this place?”