The Last Confession of Autumn Casterly

by Meredith Tate

  It’s been four years, but it might as well be yesterday. The same high wooden ceiling stretches over our heads, and the familiar picture of Will and Patrick as toddlers eating Popsicles greets me on the wall.

  A pink tinge spreads across Patrick’s face the moment we step inside. “We weren’t really expecting company.”

  Everything’s the same, except for one thing: the place is a total sty. Uneven stacks of papers litter every surface, a heap of clothes festers on the couch, and I can’t even see the kitchen table beneath the piles of junk. Patrick’s mom never would’ve let it get this bad. Or maybe it got this bad, and that’s why she left.

  Who am I kidding. I’ve met Patrick’s dad before; obviously I know why she left.

  “Wow. This is awesome.” Jason runs to the back window and stares at the endless pine trees. “Is this all your backyard?”

  Patrick shrugs. “Kind of. I don’t know where the property border is.”

  Looking into Pat’s backyard brings on an overwhelming sense of nostalgia. Pat and I used to spend hours exploring these woods. We’d play on the winding forest path behind his house, and bounce balls off the shed, pretending they were missiles. One time we set up the hose and tried to build a river, and then dam it up with sticks. Seriously, we could make a game out of anything. But the path looks completely overgrown with weeds and debris now. It’s kind of a bummer seeing it like this.

  “We’re absolutely playing flashlight tag in the woods here next summer,” Jason says. I knew from the moment he saw it that he’d mention flashlight tag. Anytime there’re woods, that’s his first thought.

  “I guess.” Patrick fidgets. “It’s kind of useless for a lawn when you don’t have any grass.”

  “Woods are cooler than grass.” Jason presses his hands to the glass. “Your yard is huge.”

  I jab him in the ribs. “You live in a mansion, don’t even.”

  “It’s not a mansion.”

  “It’s on Pill Hill.” That’s what everyone calls the rich area because it’s full of doctors—like Jason’s mom, the head cardiologist at Concord Hospital.

  “Excuse me, it’s next to Pill Hill.”

  “I love how you think the rich section has a border line.”

  Patrick clears his throat. “Um, did you need to go to the bathroom? I’m not sure I’m supposed to have people over.”

  “Oh yeah. Sure.” I shrink down, kind of wishing we hadn’t come inside.

  At Pat’s request, I use the upstairs bathroom—thankfully, it’s cleaner than the rest of the house—wash my hands, and rip open the door a little too quickly. Before I realize he’s walking down the hallway, I slam into Patrick’s dad, getting a faceful of sweaty undershirt. This guy is a tank; it’s like hitting a solid wall.

  “Shit.” I immediately slap my hand over my mouth. “I mean, shoot.”

  It takes him a second to recognize me. “Ivy Casterly.” He brushes a hand through his dusty brown hair. “It’s been a minute.”

  “Wow, yeah. Hey.”

  Mr. Perkins looks a lot older than he did four years ago. Bags hang under his eyes like he hasn’t slept in days, and the wrinkles around his mouth have gotten deeper.

  He scratches the back of his neck. “So, what’ve you been up to?”

  I shrug. “Not much. School.”

  It seems to dawn on him that he’s wearing an undershirt, and he quickly throws on the red hoodie hanging over the banister. “Sorry about that, wasn’t expecting company.”

  “Yeah, sorry. Just wanted to use your bathroom. We’re heading out.”

  “Okay. Well, have fun.” His mouth stretches into a smile that’s obviously forced. “See you around. You’re always welcome here.” I can tell from his tone he doesn’t mean it. Part of me doesn’t even think he wants Patrick here.

  He clomps back down the hall to his room, his boots leaving bumpy indents in the tan carpet. I’m struck with a pang of affection for my dad. He’s not perfect, but he tries. Sometimes.

  I feel bad for Patrick. It must suck to grow up with parents practically tearing each other’s throats out all the time. Maybe that’s why Will’s so screwed up.

  I used to love how warm and cozy Patrick’s house was. His mom has issues, but she kept the place looking nice. Now it just feels dreary. It’s funny how one person can change the mood of an entire house.

  Our house has definitely been different without Autumn. What would happen if she never came home? The thought starts as a seed and takes root, spreading through my brain until I can’t think of anything else.

  Her room would be empty. Maybe Kathy would turn it into a guest room or a shrine to Michigan State Football, with a life-size cutout of Chris in his Spartans jersey. I’d walk by Autumn’s room every day, but it wouldn’t be hers anymore. I’d never see her car in the driveway. Her chair would be empty at every meal. I’d be the one feeding Pumpernickel.

  Dad would either spiral out of control or bury her disappearance and pretend it never happened. I’m not sure what would be worse.

  Chris would come home for Thanksgiving. He’d probably still make it to the NFL, and Kathy would still watch his games on her iPad. Their lives would be business as usual.

  It hits me: nothing would really change for me, either.

  I’d get up and go to school. Hang out with the Nerd Herd. Come home and be semi-ignored by Dad. Stay up late stalking people online.

  There was a time when Autumn and I were two threads knitted into the same cloth. Now we’re strangers. Our lives are two circles in a Venn diagram where the only intersection point is our last name and legal address.

  But I would miss her.

  If nothing else, my life would not be the same, because I would miss her.

  I wish I’d told her that when she was here.

  IVY

  My head bobs up and down to the music blaring from Jason’s radio. Patrick pokes his head in from the back seat. “Where’s the party?”

  “Wilson Street,” Jason says. “We’ve gotta meet Kevin and his family at the top of the driveway in ten so it’s not totally obvious when we crash.”

  “Wait . . .” Pat’s forehead wrinkles. “We weren’t invited?”

  I bite my lip. “Not technically?”

  I throw on some mascara in the visor mirror. I wish I had time to do my smoky eye. My stomach has gotten all fluttery ever since we left Pat’s house.

  I hear about senior parties through the grapevine—which is usually band—but I’ve never been to one. She’ll probably have a keg, and maybe a deejay and the type of music that you can feel through your shoes and up your whole body. All the seniors will be there, wasted and hooking up in bedrooms. They must have a separate area for the parents or something.

  I meet Patrick’s eyes through the visor mirror and he smiles at me. My heart does a full-on backflip. Okay, it’s a tiny chance, but maybe this will be the first of many parties, and Patrick and I will end up in one of those bedrooms. We wouldn’t have sex, but I’d definitely make out with him.

  We pull up to Laura’s house, a small split-level with a long, winding driveway. A crimson CONCORD FIELD HOCKEY balloon is tied to the mailbox, wafting in the light fall breeze. I can hear laughter and chatter the moment we step out of the car.

  “Must be in the backyard,” Pat says.

  Nervousness spikes through me. Something tells me this party is my last chance.

  * * *

  —

  I kind of stare for a moment.

  Adults lounge in folding camping chairs on the wooden deck, sipping cans of Heineken and Diet Coke. A cloud of smoke drifts up from the surface of a grill, accompanied by the aroma of chargrilled burgers and sizzling hot dogs. A bunch of people crowd around a badminton net in the backyard—five girls on one side, six guys on the other. They scream and laugh, pelting three different birdies back and
forth over the net.

  “What a beautiful rock garden.” Kevin’s mom carries a bowl of macaroni salad. “This is so nice.”

  Nice is definitely not the type of party I was anticipating.

  She sets her bowl on a long, tarp-covered table, which is already overflowing with an assortment of desserts, dips, and sodas.

  Coach Bratten talks with a group of parents, holding a hot dog in one hand and a bottle of water in the other. Every few minutes, they erupt with laughter.

  The four of us stand side by side, surveying the party. Not gonna lie, it’s a little bit like watching from behind glass; we’re here, but not really.

  “So this is cool,” Jase says.

  I squint at the girls’ side of the badminton pitch, trying to match faces to the Facebook profiles I searched earlier. None of them look quite right. “Which one do you think is Kaitlyn?”

  “Kaitlyn’s not here yet.”

  I startle at the voice behind me. A tall girl with amazing rainbow hair spoons pickle spears onto her plate.

  “Oh.” My heart sinks. “Is she coming?”

  The girl shrugs. “Probably, yeah. She’s usually late.” That’s both promising and not—what if she doesn’t show up? Can I bug one of these people to give me her number? “Haven’t seen you guys at one of these barbecues before. You have friends on the team?”

  Jason’s “My girlfriend’s on varsity” intersects with my “I’m thinking of trying out next fall,” which runs into Kevin’s truthful “My sister Nicole’s on the team.”

  Oops.

  Her eyes light up. “Oh, you’re Nikki’s brother?”

  “Yep,” Kevin says.

  “She’s great. Saved us in the championships against Nashua last year. I’m Becca, Becca Truman. I’m on the team.”

  “Becks! You wanna play?” One of the girls at the badminton game cups her hand around her mouth. “We need an extra.”

  Becca sets her plate down. “Sure! Nice meeting you guys.”

  We all release a heavy breath. That was way too close for comfort.

  “Okay, so, plan.” I hold up my hand. “We hang out, get food, and stay under the radar until Kaitlyn shows up.”

  Kevin nods. “Got it.”

  Patrick is the first to sidle over to the food table, and the rest of us follow. Someone’s already loaded cheeseburgers, hamburgers, veggie burgers, and hot dogs onto paper plates, all in labeled lines. I take one of the burger plates and pile a handful of chips, some baby carrots, and a brownie on top.

  Jason snaps the tongs at me, then uses them to grab a roll. “This is like those band camp parties.”

  “Not cool enough for that. Oh my God, you do not need three hot dogs.” I pretend to slap his arm. “Seriously, this is like that first band camp cookout when I met you, and you’re still incapable of controlling yourself around free food.”

  “And yet, you befriended me anyway. You have no one to blame but yourself.”

  “This is true. What was I thinking?”

  Our eyes lock, and I quickly look away.

  The four of us take seats on the grass, trying to stay out of the way. I keep glancing up at the driveway, waiting for Kaitlyn to come walking in.

  I check the time on my phone.

  She’ll show. She has to show.

  * * *

  —

  An hour later, the mood of the party has shifted.

  Kevin took off with his parents about ten minutes ago, leaving Jason, Patrick, and me to our own devices.

  The sun has mostly sunk beyond the horizon, leaving an orange-and-pink glow in the sky. The adults who hadn’t filtered out have all left the deck and taken up residence around the fire pit. Embers crackle and pop, filling the air with a woodsy scent that reminds me of summer. Empty beer cans litter the grass. Okay, of all the people I expected to get drunk tonight, the parents were at the bottom of the list. But their laughter fills the air, and I’m 99 percent sure it’s not sober laughter.

  That was surprise number one.

  Surprise number two is that the field hockey players and their boyfriends and friends joined our little circle on the grass, out of earshot of the tipsy parents. Jason, Patrick, and I have spent the last twenty minutes embroiled in their conversation.

  Or rather, we smile and laugh when it seems like everyone else is.

  One girl leans into the guy behind her, who keeps an arm wrapped around her and his hand clenched around a can of Sprite. I’m still not over the fact that they’re not drinking beer.

  I tap my fingers against my thighs. I wish Kaitlyn would hurry up and get here.

  “Okay, so you know Mr. Brightman, right?” The girl flares out her hands for dramatic emphasis. “I got my AP history paper back from him last week and it reeked of pot.”

  Everyone cracks up. I pretend to laugh, even though I have no idea who Mr. Brightman is.

  “I’m not surprised,” another girl adds. “Didn’t Kayla run into him at the movies last year and say his eyes were completely bloodshot, or was that someone else?”

  “It was Kayla, I remember that story.”

  “Definitely Kayla,” Jason whispers in my ear. Neither of us knows who any of these people are, but whatever. I’m kind of pissed he’s not taking this situation as seriously as he should be. Then there’s Patrick, who’s been playing on his phone the whole time.

  “Oh shit.” One of the guys lowers his gaze, obviously reining back a laugh. “Look who’s here.”

  I jerk my head up so quickly, I nearly get whiplash. But it’s not Kaitlyn.

  It’s Coach Crespo.

  “Great,” I mumble to myself, picking at a blade of grass. So far, I’m no closer to finding Autumn than I was two hours ago. But the moment I see Creepo, I remember the letter on Autumn’s computer, and suddenly I can’t think about anything else.

  “Creepo’s looking for some action,” a guy says.

  Everyone watches Creepo crack open a can of beer and wander over to the group of adults. The girl next to me hides her mouth behind her hand to block the giggle.

  “Oh shit, he’s going for it.” The first guy pretends to scratch his neck while very obviously watching the coach slink over to Coach Bratten’s chair with his back to us.

  Coach Bratten had been Autumn’s soccer coach. I didn’t know her very well, because Autumn only played high school soccer for, like, a month, and I stopped playing after middle school. But I’m struck with sympathy for her. I can’t imagine dealing with this guy every single day.

  Creepo wraps his arm around Coach Bratten’s shoulder, leaning against her chair. She stiffens and slides closer to the opposite armrest. It’s so cringeworthy, I don’t even want to look. But everyone around me snickers.

  “Do you guys know Lydia Taylor?” one of the girls asks. “She’s a junior.”

  No. “Yeah,” I say, even though no one else responds.

  “Well, her mom’s the Commons D secretary, right?” The girl leans in, holding everyone hostage with her eyes. “She had to deliver a memo to Creepo’s office last year, and he asked her for a blow job.”

  Laughter explodes around me.

  “Creepo’s getting bold,” someone says. “Like, even for him.”

  “How does he do it?” Another guy presses his hands together like he’s praying. “Teach me your ways, Coach Creepo.”

  More laughter. Patrick shifts in place, his forehead crinkling. He probably has no idea who Coach Creepo is, and I’m a little embarrassed this is one of his first impressions of our otherwise decent school.

  “He asked me to come to his office after class one day last year, so I brought Michelle with me,” another girl says, with a dramatic shiver.

  “Aw, you missed out,” says another guy. “He would’ve offered to show you his bat.”

  Another guy chimes in. “Please, he
’s the pitcher.”

  “Gross,” says a girl.

  “Why do you joke about that?”

  Everyone’s eyes settle on me. All the heat in my body floods into my face. I should’ve spoken up last time. I should’ve, and I didn’t. Before I can stop the words, they’re pouring out of my mouth. “It’s like this gross public secret everyone knows and no one does anything about.”

  They’re all gaping at me, but I can’t stop.

  “He’s a predator, and he’s harassing people. They probably don’t even feel safe coming to work—you didn’t want to be in his office alone.” I point at the girl. “It’s disgusting, and I’m sick of everyone treating it like this hilarious joke.”

  I dart my eyes to the ground. Silence descends over the group.

  Becca Truman clears her throat. “She’s right, you know. I’m gonna get a snack.” She pushes to her feet. A couple of other people mumble about joining her and get up.

  Well, great. I finally get into a senior party and I drive everyone away. I keep my head down. That’s not like me. But I can’t make myself regret saying it.

  I’m so distracted, I barely notice the two pinpricks of light pulling into the driveway.

  “Oh hey, Kaitlyn’s here!”

  A bunch of people stand and rush to greet her.

  I jump up so fast, I stumble, steadying myself against Patrick’s arm. A cloud of seniors flocks around Kaitlyn as she climbs out of her Volkswagen. I’ve never seen her in person before, but I recognize her dirty-blond hair and round face from the Facebook picture.

  What do I say? What if Hailey was lying and Kaitlyn doesn’t even know Autumn?

  “I’m going to find the bathroom,” Pat says.

  “Fine.” I wave him off.

  Patrick disappears into the house.

  Jason digs his sneaker into the dirt, keeping his eyes down. “Hey, I’m really sorry about Thursday.”

  I don’t have the energy for this. “What happened Thursday?”

  “I made a joke about Coach Creepo. You’re right. It wasn’t cool.”