The Last Confession of Autumn Casterly

by Meredith Tate

  “I’m always right, about everything,” I say. “You should know by now.”

  “You wanna go check out what’s going on inside? I think they’re setting up the PS4.”

  Laughter roars from the group of girls surrounding Kaitlyn.

  “I have to find Kaitlyn first.” I shove past him, elbowing through the mob of people. “Kaitlyn!” She turns around. “Hey! I need to talk to you.” The people crowding around her slowly dissipate, their interests turning back to the party.

  Kaitlyn’s wearing skinny jeans, boots, and a black North Face fleece. It’s pretty much the unofficial uniform of the senior class. “What’s up?”

  I nod toward the shadowy side of the house for some privacy, stepping between some leafy bushes. Kaitlyn narrows her eyes, and I realize how bizarre this looks, but I can’t just bring it up out in the open. I push through the bushes until my back is flat against the house. Kaitlyn follows, but doesn’t step into the shrubs. She keeps several feet of distance, with a leafy barrier between us.

  “Come over here, it’s quieter.”

  “In the bushes? No.” She folds her arms. “Who are you?”

  Jeez, nice girl. “Ivy Casterly. I was wondering if—”

  Recognition crosses her face. “I’m gonna stop you right there.”

  “Wh—”

  “I have no interest in talking to you, or your bitch sister.”

  I blink at her, uncomprehending. “What?”

  “You heard me. Why are you even here?”

  “I need to talk to you about Autumn.”

  “Just leave me alone, okay?” She turns around and walks away.

  “Wait!” I claw my way out of the bushes, scraping the crap out of my arms. I wince, stumbling back onto the lawn. Kaitlyn’s already joined the group of field hockey players who are now toasting marshmallows around the fire.

  I clench my jaw and make my way back toward Jason, who’s standing by the snack table, playing on his phone. He’ll know what to do. This can’t be a dead end.

  I pull out my phone. 8:02. It’s been hours since I last spoke to the cops. I’ll try again.

  “Concord PD, this is Doug.”

  “Hey, this is Ivy Casterly. I filed a report on my sister, Autumn Casterly, yesterday afternoon?”

  “Casterly . . . Casterly . . .” Some pages crinkle over the phone speaker. “Yep, right here.”

  I’m pacing back and forth beside a red car parked at the edge of the driveway. “I was wondering if you had any updates on the case?”

  “You’ll have to call back during normal business hours. I’m not at liberty to discuss sensitive information over the phone.”

  “Sensitive information?” My stomach lurches. “So, did you find her? Do you know something?”

  The man sighs, sending a wave of static over the receiver. “Not that I know of. But you’re going to have to call back in the morning. I’m just here to answer emergencies.”

  “This is an emergency.”

  “If it’s a missing persons report, I promise they’re doing the best they can.”

  Why does no one take me seriously? “Can I speak to someone else?”

  “During normal business hours, call this line, and someone can help you out, okay?”

  I hesitate, trying to think of something to say, but the line goes dead.

  He hung up on me. He actually hung up on me.

  I screw my eyes shut. I have no clues left. No more leads.

  “I don’t know if I believe any of the shit people say about Crespo.” A guy I recognize from the circle earlier takes a swig from his Coke Zero, ambling past me with his friend. “I mean, you can’t just accuse someone of something without proof. That’s not how this country works.”

  I bite my tongue, wondering why they instantly believed that girl’s drug accusation against Mr. Brightman, but find sexual harassment to be such an unbelievable concept. If Coach Crespo was a suspected thief, or stoner, or murderer, somehow I doubt they’d be so skeptical.

  His friend shrugs. “He seems like a nice guy to me. And he’s a great coach. My dad said the baseball team sucked before Crespo took over.”

  “Football team, too,” the other guy adds.

  I bristle. It’s like being good at sports gives you immunity from doing anything wrong.

  “Yeah, I mean if they were serious, why wouldn’t someone just come forward and, like, press charges or something?”

  Screw it. I jump in front of them. “Have you ever thought that maybe the other coaches don’t come forward because, I don’t know, he’s the head coach?” I snap. “They’d have to put their jobs on the line, and for what? For people to call them liars and sluts? They tell each other in whispers so when he calls people like that girl into his office, she knows to bring a friend.”

  “Wow, okay.” One of the guys makes a face at me like he just witnessed a toddler throwing a tantrum. “You don’t need to flip out about it.”

  I clench my hands. They say girls are the sensitive gender, but call out the shit their friends do, and all of a sudden guys think you’re flipping out.

  I have a right to lose my temper because it’s infuriating. God forbid I raise my voice to anything louder than a whisper, oh no, can’t have that.

  One of the douchebros heads toward the snack table, but the other lingers behind.

  “Wait . . .” He cocks his head.

  I sigh, because I’ve dealt with more than enough toxic masculinity today. “What?”

  “Aren’t you Chris Pike’s sister?”

  “Stepsister.” I narrow my eyes, waiting for the inevitable ribbing about that gross Chris-Autumn rumor. “Why?”

  “I played on the team with him when I was a freshman. He was great—single-handedly got us into the Northeast championships.”

  Yes, please tell me more about how utterly great my stepbrother is. “Mm-hmm. Yep.”

  “Doesn’t he play for the Spartans now? Always thought he was gonna hit the NFL someday.”

  I don’t try to scowl, but I feel it stretching across my face anyway. “Yeah. Maybe.”

  “See, you should be happy Coach Crespo’s here,” he says.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You don’t know? He saved Chris’s ass back when your drugdealer sister tried ruining his reputation. That bitch is crazy.”

  It’s like he ripped the asphalt right out from under my feet. “Wait, what?”

  “She got wasted at Warren Marden’s party, then went home and fucked Chris. Afterward she regretted it and said he forced her.” He shakes his head. “Imagine if they’d believed her? Chris’s whole life. Destroyed.”

  My mouth hangs open. “Autumn told Crespo that?”

  “No, she told Coach Bratten. Of course Bratten believed her.” He rolls his eyes.

  I remember Dave’s comment about the meeting in Principal Greenwich’s office. My stomach sours.

  Douchebro laughs. “Thank God Crespo was there to attest to Chris’s character. Chris would never do anything like that—he’s so careful, he won’t even get behind the wheel after a single beer. He’s a good guy. And he hugged his mom after every game—the guys used to give him shit for it. Plus, he’s got tons of female friends.”

  “What the hell does that have to do with anything? That’s like saying Ted Bundy didn’t kill people because he had some friends who were also people.”

  “Autumn obviously just wanted attention, or revenge, or something.”

  All I can do is stare, absorbing.

  “It was such a mess,” he continues. “The school called both their parents and everything. Glad it’s over.”

  What the hell? Kathy and Dad knew about this?

  Douchebro drifts back into the party without giving me another glance.

  I remember Autumn throwing her mattress in
to the dumpster, chopping off all her hair, how much it freaked me out. How things got so weird with Chris, and with Kathy.

  If Chris did something to Autumn—if their hookup wasn’t the giant drunken mistake I always assumed—then what the hell really happened at that party?

  My feet auto-pilot me back to the snack table, where Jason’s still playing on his phone.

  “Brownie?” He holds out a plate, his eyes on his screen.

  I frown at him. “No, I don’t want a brownie. I’m trying to find my sister.”

  He puts the plate back on the snack table and nods at the douchebro, who’s currently hitting on one of the senior girls. “Who’s that guy?”

  “Some jerk, I don’t know. I was talking to the police and he came over to start gushing over my stepbrother.”

  “Oh, you spoke to the cops?” His attention’s back on Twitter. “What’d they say?”

  “They keep telling me to trust them and I am so sick of it.”

  “Okay, well, let’s think.” He finally puts the phone down. “You checked her room, right? Her computer?”

  “Yes.”

  “Her search history?”

  I blink. “No. That’s a good idea. I can look at home.”

  “See? Cheer up.” He pretends to punch me in the arm. “You’ve got another lead already. Probably better than randomly interrogating people here, you know?”

  I grit my teeth. “I’m not randomly—”

  Becca saunters over and skewers a marshmallow on the end of a roasting stick. “You guys are in band, right?”

  “Yep,” Jason answers, halfheartedly checking Twitter again. “Living the dream.”

  “I used to really want to play the snare drum,” she continues.

  “You should learn. Hang out with us cool kids.”

  “Hey, I think it’s cool. I only come to the football games for the field show. And the fries.”

  “You know what they say.” Jason wiggles his eyebrows. “Without the band, football’s just a game.”

  “Well, I hate to interrupt this little party,” I snap, “but I have to find my sister.” I start walking away.

  Jason runs after me. “Hey! Wait up.”

  The second we’re out of Becca’s earshot, I stop and whirl on him. “You know, you could at least pretend to take me seriously.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  I continue walking. “You’ve been on your phone and stuffing your face and having a grand old time. You could humor me and act concerned.”

  “I am concerned!”

  “Funny way of showing it.”

  “I’ve been following you around all weekend while you play detective—”

  I stop. “Is that what you think this is? Playing?”

  “I checked Twitter for, like, half a second! Becca came over, I was being nice!”

  “My sister is missing. Sorry if you can’t understand that with your perfect little family.”

  “What? What the hell does that even mean?”

  “You know what it means.”

  “My family’s not perfect. Why would you even—”

  “If you’re gonna argue with me, just go away.” I put my hand up. “Seriously. Turn around and leave.”

  “I didn’t have to come tonight.”

  “Maybe you should’ve stayed home, then.”

  “Maybe I should’ve.” He turns to go, but stops, and I can see it, right there, about to spill out of his mouth—the last Jenga block. “You know, if you were missing, she’d never do this for you.”

  Jason’s words sink into my skin, settling deep down in my heart. He’s right. A zillion percent right. Autumn doesn’t care about me, Dad only cares about me sometimes, and Jason only wants me as a friend. The backs of my eyes burn, threatening to spill tears.

  “Fuck you.” I sweep away from him. He doesn’t follow.

  I storm into Laura’s house and let the door slam behind me. A burst of warm air envelops me, along with the smell of cat food, but thankfully I’m alone. I hold my fist to my mouth to stop myself from crying, but let the waves shudder through me.

  Jason was supposed to be here for me, and he doesn’t give a shit. He’s not even trying. He’s given up. I’m used to people ditching me when it matters, but for some reason, this one really hurts.

  This might be my last chance, and I’m not wasting it, whether Jason’s with me or not.

  I peek out the back window onto the deck, where Kaitlyn sits in one of the camping chairs, talking to some of the field hockey players.

  I rip open the door and stomp onto the deck. They startle, watching me with curiosity—except Kaitlyn, who looks like she’s ready to punch me.

  “Hey.” I level a glare at her. “What do you know about Autumn Casterly?”

  The other girls look at me like I just told Kaitlyn I’m her biological mother.

  She crosses her arms, daring me. “I’m not talking to you.” A twinge of fear twitches across her face.

  “Yeah you are.” I have no clue where all this is coming from, but I can’t shut up. “Because she’s been gone since Friday, and I need to know what you know.”

  One of the girls slaps a hand over her mouth.

  Kaitlyn shrugs. “Good.”

  I blink at her. “What did you say?”

  “I said, good. I’m glad she’s gone.” She smirks, getting to her feet. She’s got a good five inches on me, along with a ton of muscle, but I don’t back down. “I don’t know where she is. And if I did, I wouldn’t say a word. Autumn Casterly is a bully, and a druggie, and a slut, and I hope she never comes back.”

  My vision flashes red. Before I can stop myself, I fling my hand back and slap her across the face. The clap echoes in the night air. A couple of the girls gasp.

  I glance from Kaitlyn to my hand, disbelieving. I hit someone. A senior. What the hell?

  Kaitlyn presses a hand to her reddening cheek. Before I know what’s happening, she’s charging at me. I shield my face, but she grabs my hair, so I take a swipe at her, sinking my fingernails into her cheek.

  “Stop it!”

  The other girl jumps between us, shoving us apart. Kaitlyn touches the scratch on her cheek, and her finger comes back stained with blood. Wincing, I massage my scalp, pretty sure she yanked out a clump of my hair.

  Holy shit. I’ve never gotten into a fight before.

  The girl whirls on Kaitlyn. “You wanna get kicked off the team? She’s just some random sophomore, she’s not worth it.”

  Kaitlyn scowls, examining her scratched face in her phone camera. “Bitch.” She spits a wad of saliva at my feet. “You’re as bad as your sister.”

  For some reason, that makes me feel smug.

  She shoves past me, clomping down the wooden steps and back into the yard. The other girls follow, leaving me alone on the deck.

  As soon as they’re gone, I collapse into the folding chair with my head in my hands. This is so messed up.

  Something thumps and I jerk up. Patrick sits in the chair next to me with a plate of pretzels, sipping from a red Solo cup.

  Patrick. My Patrick.

  The adult cooler lies on the floor beside us, with a label that says “21+ only” in black Sharpie.

  “I’m glad I found you,” Patrick says. “I don’t know anyone here.” He holds up his cup. “I found ginger ale, though, if you want any.”

  Old Ivy would’ve taken this crap lying down. Old Ivy’s the one who gets abandoned and shit on. Old Ivy definitely wouldn’t drink.

  I don’t want to be Old Ivy. Not anymore.

  I grab a bottle of Budweiser from the cooler and wipe the excess water off the sides. “I’m having this instead.” It takes me three tries to remove the top using the frog bottle opener before I realize it’s a twist-off.

  Patrick
raises his brows. “I didn’t know you drank.”

  “I don’t. I’m a beer virgin. Popping the ol’ cherry right now.” Patrick clears his throat, his cheeks pinkening. I hold it up to him in a toast. “Cheers.”

  This is it. My first beer. I slug back a hearty gulp and almost gag it right back up. Oh my God, it’s the grossest thing I’ve ever tasted. How can people enjoy this? I’m pretty sure this is what sewer water tastes like. I feel like I’ve been lied to for years.

  I take another gulp.

  “Jeez, Ivy. You can sip it.” Patrick laughs.

  I glance into the yard. Jason’s standing by the almost extinguished fire pit, talking to Becca Truman and some guy I don’t recognize. Screw him. I knock back half my beer in a single slug.

  “You must be thirsty.”

  “Something like that.” I swallow down the last swig of my beer. That 5 percent alcohol content hits me like a freight train. I crack another and chug it. The second one doesn’t taste so bad. Maybe that’s the trick.

  I’ve spent this whole weekend looking for Autumn, running around Concord, breaking laws for a sister who hates me. Maybe it’s time I did something just for me. That familiar Patrick-induced lightness swarms my chest—or maybe it’s the alcohol. I need this. I need him.

  “You know what?” I sling my arm around Patrick’s shoulders, tugging his chair closer to mine; the legs scrape against the wood. “We should date. You should be my boyfriend.” Well, I guess I’ve hit the famous honesty portion of being drunk.

  He gives me an amused look. “Are you drunk? After two beers?”

  “Yeah.” I think for a second, leaning my elbow against the plastic arm of the chair. “No.” Maybe? I don’t even know what drunk is supposed to feel like. Fed up? Sick of everyone’s shit? They all feel the same. “I don’t know.” I pluck a third beer from the cooler and pop the top. Honest Ivy’s raging hormones are out in full force. “I mean it, though. We should date.”

  Patrick laughs and shrugs out of my arm. “Ivy, I . . . That’s so nice of you.”

  My shoulders hunch. He doesn’t need to say anything for me to read his face. That’s the it’s not me, it’s you, I’m definitely not interested look. I made a huge mistake.