The Last Confession of Autumn Casterly

by Meredith Tate

  So close. I was so close to a maybe-sort-of lunch date. I shouldn’t be this bitter about a maybe date with a guy I hadn’t seen in four years before this week, but I am.

  Of course it wouldn’t work out. When do girls like me ever get asked out? Never. Guys swarm around people like my sister while girls like me get the “Hey, Ivy, I know you don’t have a real date, so let’s just go to homecoming together as friends” spiel. The “Sorry, Ivy, I can’t do this” classic line. In fact, if I ever write an autobiography, that’s literally what it will be: line after line of epic fails and guys who like me as a friend.

  I huff, slamming the dirty paper towel into the trash.

  Last year, I was in the pit band for the school production of Les Mis. I swear, when Éponine was singing about how Marius likes her only as a friend, I felt that deep in my bones. But I was also psyched, because surely they’d end up together in the end, since that always happens in rom-coms. Did they end up together? No. Marius ends up with the hot girl he just met, and Éponine dies. That’s my future. I am the eternal Éponine, and the moment a Cosette shows up, everyone forgets I exist.

  Aw, bummer! I write back. I miss your mom, tell her I say hi!

  Patrick’s mom was always nice, but kind of overprotective. When we went trick-or-treating, she’d make us dump our candy out on the floor to check for razors or drugs or something. But if we were shooting hoops in the yard, she’d bring us those squeezable yogurts and pretzels and stuff to snack on. Sometimes Patrick’s brother, Will, would come play basketball with us, too, which made me feel super cool, since he was way older than us. Pat’s dad was always a dick, though. I’m glad he doesn’t live with him anymore.

  She says you can come to Marshalls with us if you want lol, Patrick says. Is that weird? She wants to see you.

  Okay. I didn’t picture going on my first maybe date with a chaperone. But it’s better than nothing, and it beats the hell out of sitting around the house paranoid all day.

  I startle, suddenly overwhelmed by the urge to go with them—beyond my usual Patrick jitters.

  Not weird, I write back. I’m in!

  * * *

  —

  The first time I met Patrick was at a community pool party at Rollins Park the summer after third grade. Mom had died six months prior, and we were in that phase of trying to do “normal” family stuff again. The Perkinses had just moved in from Illinois, and Patrick’s mom revealed herself as an outsider immediately by calling our town Con-cord. My know-it-all nine-year-old ass blurted out, “It’s pronounced conquered,” and everybody laughed. Although Patrick and I quickly became friends, I’m, like, 60 percent sure his mom still thinks I’m a pain in the butt.

  Patrick’s mom has a different minivan than she did four years ago when they moved away, but there’s still a pumpkin spice air freshener dangling from the rearview mirror. The moment I climb into my former usual seat, I’m smacked in the face with the fragrance and feel like I’m eleven again.

  “Ivy!” Patrick’s mom twists in her seat to hug me, but ends up just patting my knee instead. “How have you been?” A few gray hairs peek out of her dye job.

  “I’m good! The usual, I guess.” I put on the cheesy grin I reserve for parents and teachers. “I’m in band now—I play trumpet. Only second chair, though. I’m not very good. I spend most of my time playing video games and stuff. But I don’t have that awful overbite anymore.” Wow, TMI. I snap my mouth shut.

  “That’s nice.” She pulls out of my driveway and gently hits the gas. “You’ve gotten so big.”

  My face heats. I know what she means is You’ve gotten so old, but what I hear is You’ve gotten so fat. I wouldn’t blame her for noticing. I’m much heavier than I used to be, even beyond the usual preteen growth spurts. But I don’t want her to think I don’t see it. “I know, I’m fat now.”

  She gasps like I’ve said a dirty word. “I didn’t mean it like that. You’re not fat!”

  I squirm in my seat. I hate when people act like fat is the absolute worst possible thing I could be. Like, Oh man, your child’s a serial killer? That sucks, but at least they’re skinny!

  I don’t get why people get so defensive when I call myself fat. They always think I’m being self-deprecating or something and try to correct me, but I’m just telling it like it is. I don’t think it’s bad to be fat.

  I shrug. “It’s okay.”

  Patrick shoots me an apologetic look through the mirror on his sun visor.

  This conversation is getting a little too personal. Time for some evasive maneuvers. “So, Pat, you never told me why you guys moved back.”

  “The city got overwhelming. We missed Concord.” He grins. “And my brother was still here, so we wanted to be closer to him.”

  His mom merges onto the highway. “You might’ve heard, Ivy, but Will’s had some tough times.”

  “Oh no, is he okay?”

  “He’s just trying to figure stuff out,” Patrick says.

  “Sometimes I wonder if it was a mistake letting him stay with his dad in Bow while we moved down to Baltimore.” She clicks her blinker and cruises off the first exit. “He really wanted to stay with his friends—you know what it’s like in high school—so we let him.”

  “Mom, come on.” Patrick slinks down in his seat. “Ivy doesn’t need all our baggage.”

  “No, it’s fine,” I say. “My sister Autumn’s gotten into some bad stuff, too. I can relate.”

  “I knew back then some of his friends had issues.” She keeps going like Patrick and I aren’t even there. “But I didn’t do anything about it, and I should’ve. Now he’s in all sorts of trouble.”

  Patrick’s face burns redder than the stop sign his mom almost misses. Poor guy. I guess I shouldn’t stoke the fire, so I keep my mouth shut.

  A car with a CONCORD HIGH CREW TEAM bumper sticker zigzags dangerously around us, and Patrick’s mom wags her finger at them like she’s scolding her kids for not cleaning their room. I sink lower in my seat. Maybe this was a bad idea.

  This minivan date is probably nature’s way of reminding me I should start saving up for drivers ed. Lots of kids in my grade already signed up for the class, and some even started practice drives with their parents, but I can’t afford a car anyway, so I’ve never given it much thought. Still, I feel pretty pathetic right now.

  The skin on my arms prickles, and I glance out the window right as we pass the abandoned lot a block from Marshalls.

  And there, all by itself in a desert of weeds and cracked pavement, is Autumn’s car.

  AUTUMN

  Like I told fuckface Liam, I’m not a religious person. But when recognition crosses Ivy’s face and she shouts, “Pull over!” loud enough to make the lady swerve over the double yellow, I want to fall to my knees and thank whatever God in the sky made it happen.

  After half a day of shouting at my sister and following at her heel like a puppy, my messages must have finally gotten through her thick skull. I close my eyes, taking in shaky breaths. She’s going to find me. It’s going to be okay.

  The minivan careens to the side of the road, nailing the curb. “Jeez, Mom!” Patrick gloms onto the door, his face drained of all color.

  “Are you all right, Ivy?” His equally pasty mother whirls around. “Are you going to throw up?”

  Ivy’s already ripping the door open and sprinting toward my abandoned Civic.

  She’s going to find me. It’s going to be fine.

  “Autumn?” Ivy frames her hands around her eyes and presses her forehead to my car windows, one by one. “Autumn?” She raises her voice. “Are you here?”

  “The warehouse!” I’m practically ripping my invisible hair out. “Go. Check the warehouse. I’m right there!” I don’t know how this communication works. She doesn’t seem to hear me, not really—it’s more like she can sense me.

  “Ivy! Wa
it!” Patrick jogs after her. “Are you okay? What happened?”

  “This . . . this is my sister’s car . . .” Ivy forces the words out between heavy breaths. “She’s been . . . she’s been gone all night.”

  “Holy shit.”

  His mom speed-walks toward us, her eyes darting in every direction. “This doesn’t look like a safe area.”

  “Mom, it’s Concord, New Hampshire.” Patrick points. “Bank of America is, like, right there.”

  She clutches her purse like we’re walking through a back alley in Boston in the middle of the night. I’m used to old people getting anxious around me. Usually I assume it’s because of my tattoo, septum piercing, and resting bitch face. But now, in this vacant lot next to the building where I almost died, I can’t fight the shivers, either. I’m shaking worse than this pasty-faced mother over here.

  Maybe if Ivy finds my phone and reads my texts, she’ll figure out that I followed that Nick guy here. Maybe that will get her to check the warehouse.

  “Get in my car,” I instruct my sister. “Find my phone. Read my texts.”

  Nothing happens.

  I take her hand, desperation dripping from my words. “Please, Ivy. Please get into the car. I need you.”

  As if this draws some invisible connection between us, my message seems to click.

  “I need to get into this car.” Ivy pounds on the window. She rattles the handle, but it doesn’t budge. “Dammit.”

  The woman grabs her son by the elbow. “Come on. You can’t just break into someone’s car.”

  “It’s not someone’s! It’s my sister’s!” She points to the DON’T SHOP, ADOPT sticker next to the pole-shaped dent on my bumper. “I know it’s hers.”

  I can see on this woman’s face that she doesn’t believe her. No. Ivy’s so close to finding me. She can’t give up.

  I scream my fucking lungs out. No one glances at me—not even Ivy.

  It’s a strange feeling to scream and have no one hear it. At school, I could whisper and heads would turn; now I am a storm barreling across the Atlantic that doesn’t rock a single ship. It’s a sad, powerless feeling that strikes me with overfamiliarity. I swore I would never be silent again. I swore my voice would always be the loudest in the room. Now they don’t even know I’m here.

  “When we get inside, we can call your father and tell him about the car,” the woman says, like she’s talking to a five-year-old. “But it’s not safe to be here.” She lowers her voice to a whisper. “This is where thugs hang out.”

  I remember Patrick pretty well. He used to hang out at our house all the time. Of all the pint-size nerds kid-Ivy brought home, he was the least objectionable. But this is the first time I’ve met his family, and so far, I’m not impressed.

  The woman grabs Ivy’s arm to lead her away, but my sister seems conflicted.

  Panic sets in. “Don’t you dare. I’ll fucking kill you if you leave.” If looks could murder, my eyes would’ve shot a million daggers into this lady’s face by now. “Don’t you dare leave, Ivy!” This can’t be happening. The warehouse is barely thirty feet away.

  She keeps rattling that damn handle. “I can’t get in.”

  “Here. Let me try.” Patrick slides a credit card into the crevice between the door and the panel and it’s clear he has no idea what the hell he’s doing.

  “Smash it!” I shout. “I don’t care about the glass.”

  Ivy picks up a small rock and chews her bottom lip, as if contemplating it, but finally lets the rock fall back to the ground.

  Fuck. Ivy’ll never break the glass. She’s too much of a little saint.

  Ivy circles my Civic. It’s like she thinks the whole thing will spring open like a toaster if she watches it long enough.

  My mind races. I need a solution. Something to get her to stay. Anything.

  “Ivy, we’re going to Marshalls.” The mother beckons my sister with her arm. “Come on.”

  “Go into the warehouse.” I focus intently on her. “Find me.”

  “You coming, Ivy?” Patrick asks.

  “Ivy. Warehouse. Now.”

  “I think . . . I think I should look inside.” Ivy points at the abandoned building.

  Yes. Excellent. About time.

  Patrick looks at her like she suggested running in front of a freight train. “Into that sketchy building?”

  “Absolutely not,” his mother says. “There are probably homeless people living in there.”

  “What, like that would automatically make it dangerous?” I snap. “Just go in!”

  Ivy squints at the building. “But . . .” She sighs. “Okay. Let’s just go.” She follows the others back toward the minivan.

  I blink in disbelief. No. She can’t give up that easy. I’m not going to die because my sister won’t stand up for herself.

  “Ivy!” I stomp after her. “Ivy, don’t go!” Desperation floods my voice. “Come on! Ivy!”

  She stops and pulls out her phone. I peek over her shoulder, watching her type a message to some guy named Jason D-C.

  What time do you get off work? I have a potentially dangerous mission for us.

  She quickly stows the phone back in her pocket, glancing worriedly over her shoulder. I give her a half smile she can’t see. Maybe I underestimated my sister after all.

  IVY

  The lady in charge of the Marshalls dressing rooms keeps giving Patrick’s mom dirty looks. Probably because Mrs. Perkins—I guess I should get used to calling her Ms. Fournier now—is dropping piles of clothes on the table and barking out instructions for different sizes. I kind of want to take a pair of those discarded pants and drape them over my face so no one can see how badly I want to melt into the floor.

  I found Autumn’s car in the vacant lot on Storrs, I text my dad. He never checks his phone when he’s at work, but he’ll see it eventually. You should come down here.

  My knee bounces against my hand. Patrick’s mom has started chiding the lady about the better sale prices at JCPenney, all with a big smile on her face. She reminds me a little of Dolores Umbridge from Harry Potter. If she acquired a bunch of cat photos, she could literally be her doppelgänger.

  I’ve been rotating my phone in my hands for so long, the screen’s gotten all sweaty and gross. Maybe I should call the cops. But I don’t want to get in trouble, and I definitely don’t want my sister to think I tattled on her. It’s possible Autumn left her car there and hopped into someone else’s. That sounds like something she would do.

  My intestines are cramping just thinking about it—or maybe that’s my period. I pull out my pack of birth control and check; still another two weeks on the pink pills. It’s definitely nerves.

  After an eternity of sitting on the bench outside the dressing room with Patrick’s mom while he begrudgingly tries on eight bajillion pants, he picks two pairs of bootcut jeans. I subtly check out his butt when he pops out to show us.

  “You should get that other pair, too, Patrick. Your pants are too loose. You’re losing too much weight around the waist.”

  Patrick rolls his eyes. “Mom. It’s really fine. I promise I’m not gonna drop dead because my pants are loose.” Sorry, he mouths at me.

  I shrug, covertly checking the time on my phone. I’m starting to hate myself for agreeing to come. I’ve had two realizations: One, Patrick’s mom didn’t get the memo that he graduated kindergarten nine years ago. And two, I’ve never been so grateful to Dad and Kathy for butting out of my business.

  “You want to look at any fall clothes, Ivy?” Patrick’s mom asks.

  I probably wouldn’t fit into most of these clothes. The last thing I need is to get stuck in something in the dressing room, and then Umbridge would have to come pry it off me. I’m also broke. “Nah, I’m all set.”

  Of course, this hot guy from school—Aaron Dunlap of the “Aaron Dunlap i
ncident” himself—happens to be working the register. Which means I’m staying as far away from it as humanly possible. Let’s just say last time I spoke to this guy, I had a wipeout that resulted in my jabbing him in the balls with my trumpet.

  They pay for the pants while I hang out near the door, pretending to look at purses. I got my current purse at the Sunapee craft show last summer. It has a dragon stitched into the side, and if you pull the tab on the bottom, cloth flames shoot out of his mouth. Best twenty bucks I ever spent.

  “With my coupons, we saved seven dollars.” Patrick’s mom beams. “I might come back later this week and get that other pair. Are you sure you don’t want some khakis, too?” She prowls the clearance rack at the exit like a shark smelling blood. “Maybe you should have something a little more formal if you start looking for after-school jobs.”

  “Mom. I’m fine. We can get other stuff later.”

  I open the text with my dad to see if he’s read it, but the little bar just says Delivered.

  “Okay, I need to run a few errands.” Patrick’s mom pulls a giant notepad out of her purse. “Do you kids want to come, or should I drop you off at home?”

  Before Patrick can respond, I get there first. “Actually, my friend Jason is working at the bagel place up the street. Pat, you wanna grab lunch there? Jase can drop us off after.”

  “Yeah, that sounds good,” he says, a little too quickly. I can tell he’s just as eager to ditch his mom as I am. Let’s see if he’s still this excited once he figures out where we’re going after.

  We say goodbye to Patrick’s mom and take the sidewalk up the hill to Main Street.

  “Sorry about my mom,” he says. “She’s gotten a little over-protective.”

  “A little?” I mutter, then realize I’m being mean. “It’s fine. She just cares about you.”

  “She’s been like this with me since Will started getting in trouble.”

  “That sucks. You and your brother aren’t the same person.”