The summer closes in a tearful mother’s eyes. My namesake opens in loneliness and labels. I eagerly await the moniker you assign me, so that I might complete the “Hello, My Name Is” sticker in the orientation kit.
She thrust the window open, inhaling the scent of rain as droplets continued to fall scattershot upon the freshly mown grass. Her father was right: this was the perfect view for a writer, after all.
23
Change Of Season
TWO
Oakville; September 5th, 2011
The sense of a barred door slamming shut securely behind her struck Autumn just after ending her evening call with her harried mother. Her belongings were unpacked now – clothes tucked away and uniforms hung neatly, photo frames nestled beside her charging laptop on the worn oak desk. Her fingertips traced etched remnants of previous inmates upon it – fragments of mathematical equations and half-obscenities and the initials N.L. in the upper right corner – as she wondered what mark she might leave upon Casteel. The bathroom light flickered violently when turned on, unimpressed with energy efficient bulbs to the point of inducing seizures in all those daring to possess a bladder, but the toilet flushed with admirable force, assuring her a plunger would not be a regular accessory of dorm life.
Her limbs twitched; her wings were itching. Flight.
Tucking her leather-bound journal and a pen into her smallest purse, Autumn secured the lock on her room door and set out on an exploration of the grounds. Her watch told her she had a solid ninety minutes before the appointed beddy-bye time. It would hopefully be enough to stake out a few writing haunts.
Immediately, in taking a back stairwell to ground level, Autumn noticed a palm-sized rock nestled under a bush beside its metal exit onto the quad – just the right size to prop it open without the surface rippling too far from the red brick walls. When insomnia struck, as it often did these days, walking in the darkness was often one of the few cures that soothed her restless mind. This would come in handy. With a wry smile, Autumn circled into the quad and set out across the lush fields towards the academic buildings on the north side of campus.
Aside from a cluster of what appeared to be grade nine boys, judging from their desperate need for Pro-Activ solution and the occasional voice cracking, the quad was deserted. The windows of Ashbury and its neighbouring male residence (Trudeau House or Hall, if she remembered the campus map correctly) were aglow, shadows passing across in a frenzy of unpacking and socializing pupils. Autumn’s afternoon arrival had been atypical apparently for a relative local. As she picked a path towards a bland two-storey building, her eyes were able to make out a series of desks through the closest window. Boring academic building, she figured and soon confirmed: this was where most core classes like English and Math were taught to the senior grades. The building to the east, however, was far more intriguing, and Autumn course corrected towards it. It was, at best guess, four storeys high on the wings, but the central structure was apparently a single looming expanse. Jogging up the concrete steps, the plaque on the wall brought a smile to her lips: Theatrical Arts and Media Studies Centre. From the well-worn feel of the brick façade and remnants of graffiti scrawled along the binding cement, this structure was old and full of character. Of course, Autumn assumed, the exorbitant tuition had surely renovated the interior with the latest technology, but the history would linger beneath the floorboards and fresh coats of paint.
This was where she needed to write.
She suddenly recalled a humid night in July in the city, wandering the University of Toronto campus grounds at one in the morning with Miraj. Her parents had bought her “staying with Heather” story rather easily, likely because they didn’t want their own Canada Day plans disrupted. Armed with a forty of vodka and a bottle of fruit punch, she and Miraj had prowled the buildings closest to campus limits, seeking a niche in which to drink, smoke up and talk for endless hours, as they loved to do. Passing a small building having something to do with a gallery or a theatre – Autumn couldn’t remember—Miraj had winked, tousling her short black hair as her head tilted sideways.
“There,” she whispered. “This is the place.”
Autumn followed her gaze with a confused frown. “Breaking and entering? Look, why don’t we just fuck off to the Beaches already?”
“Because it’s too far to carry all of the shit!” Miraj protested. “Besides, it’s open. That lock on that basement door is so busted. I have no idea who the hell they think they’re fooling.”
Eyeing Miraj out of the periphery of her vision, Autumn scooted closer, tugging gently on the door in her fear of motion alarms. The door sprung open easily, not a siren to be heard.
“I told you!” Miraj laughed in triumph. “People always rely far too readily on appearances; it’s up to you and me to exploit that advantage.”
Snapping back to the present, Autumn circled the theatre in vulture-like fashion, seeking a carcass to pick – or rather, a door to pick open. On the southwest side, she found her target: a service entry’s door looked alright, if one didn’t study the blatantly jammed exterior lock with the fragment of a key lodged within. And judging from the rust on said key, no one in maintenance had bothered to report it for some time. Under the cover of night, she tugged the bracketed handle, pleased that the door jerked half-open. Another tug and she was safely inside her desired haven.
A short staircase led downward into what looked and smelled like some sort of service tunnel. It reminded Autumn of the basement of Jarvis Collegiate with its dank water and rot-blended-with-iron aroma. It would be a messy journey until she learned the maze, but every service tunnel eventually connected with the building it serviced. Tonight, her unapproved presence would be too conspicuous; it was better that she return in daylight hours and get a lay of the land above ground. A flashlight would also be wise. Hopefully, they sold those in the campus store.
Hip-checking her secret entry shut, Autumn meandered west again along the campus road loop, absently taking note of various buildings. Although the school was secular, a tiny Worship Centre was found near the dining hall and science building, and the athletics complex swallowed up the majority of the western campus with its gleaming windows and freshly lined track loop. So Casteel is a jock haven, Autumn mused. Well, the inmates need some way to burn off their aggression. The smell of marijuana smoke wafted from behind the far wall, but she didn’t dare intrude in spite of jonesing for a hit or two. She’d simply have to find other ways to sleep. Maybe her special doctor friend could give her something tasty and tranquilizing.
A gaggle of girls squawking like geese startled Autumn and she instinctively edged backwards, her red hair sweeping protectively over her face. Between the copper strands, she watched as three girls made their way towards Ashbury in a wave of blonde and brunette. One of the girls was surely a model: statuesque and underweight, drop-dead gorgeous, full lips in perpetual pout as she sashayed in her Guess jeans and cropped leather jacket . The brunette was Autumn’s height, only far more top heavy – Christina Hendricks with a dye job – and seemed mesmerized by her friends. The tag-along, Autumn concluded – she knew the type. She was once that girl, hanging on to Heather’s every whim, brave by proxy.
But it was the second blonde that Autumn feared most – not because of any particular hostility, but because her baby blue eyes pierced her, questioning everything in the span of a frantic heartbeat. Her blonde waves were tucked beneath a knit cap, the kind Autumn normally rolled her eyes at and spat hipster curses about, but on the mystery girl, it seemed... quirky. Like she’d only chosen it because it fit her look, like a bracelet or earrings. Her long black skirt swished fluidly around her slender legs as she brought up the rear of their trio, glancing behind her several times. On the third look, the blonde smiled kindly, then resumed chattering with Supermodel Friend animatedly.
It gave Autumn chills. No one was supposed to notice her here. She was to be translucent, indistinct. A Chbosky-style wallflower. The fringe element.
>
With a furious kick to the soil beneath her sneaker, Autumn took a long circuitous route to the front entry of Ashbury, biding her time and praying to slip in quietly. The front entry was now locked down, providing an opportunity to test her newly acquired FOB. The light flashed green on contact, and the maglock disengaged, permitting access. No doubt these swipes were tracked, lest the students be out at all hours. No wonder the side entry was already stealth-friendly. With a heavy heart, she slowly made her way up the grand stairs of Ashbury, her mind drifting to her phone call and Pandora’s pained howls in the earpiece. She was inconsolable, her mother had advised her, prowling the house and chirping, seeking her master. The pet-free policy was a total piss-off, and it was making this self-imposed exile intensely agitating.
Still lost in her longing for Pandora, Autumn’s shoulder connected sharply with a passing student on the stairs near the second landing. She mumbled apologetically as she glanced upwards, arrested by the sight.
It was the mystery blonde, staring back quizzically.
“No worries, I wasn’t really looking,” she replied cheerfully. “I don’t seem to recognize you. Are you new?”
Autumn stammered, “Uh... Um, yeah. I’m sorry, I’m t-tired. Excuse m-me.”
Autumn jogged up the stairs, pretending not to hear the musical voice call out behind her, inquiring about something she had no intentions of readily sharing. Fuck, fuck, fuck! Was this girl stalking her somehow? What were the odds? Autumn’s soles slapped hard against the wood as she stormed down the corridor, ignoring the open room across the hall as she unlocked her own and rushed inside, securing her sanctuary.
No friends, Autumn reminded herself. I am a danger to everyone. She’d learned that the hard way almost a year ago, a lesson forged in blood and bruises, tears and tire tracks. This blonde needed to get herself a new hobby, find someone else to be fascinated by. The only safe friend now was Miraj – she could take care of herself in the face of anything and anyone – but she was in Toronto, a solid ninety-minute transit trek away. There would be no ally at Casteel, for everyone’s own good.
Flopping facedown upon her bed, Autumn kicked her shoes off, launching them across the room. They hit the opposing wall with a dull thud before toppling to the twin bed’s simple blue sheets. School colours everywhere. They were to eat, sleep and breathe Casteel. Even the bathroom tiles were the familiar blue of the school crest.
Setting an alarm in her cell phone, Autumn plunked it on the windowsill unceremoniously and began to shut the blinds. She needed sleep. This was all irritability from being in a strange place and being the one cuckoo flying over Head Bitch-tress Ratched’s nest, and Pandora being alone in her childhood home without her. Things would look better in the fresh light of morning. In her uniform, she would blend, she reasoned as she stripped out of her faded jeans and Pink Floyd babydoll tee. Keep head down, get the grades, see the Wizard of Scholastic Oz, don’t drop the soap. How hard could it be?
Hugging the pillow she’d brought from home tightly, Autumn shut her eyes and began her nightly ritual of singing albums in her head to sleep.
***
She awoke with a start, the faint strains of Arcade Fire’s “Wake Up” immediately pushing back into the forefront of her consciousness. In the blackness of her room, the air felt hot in her lungs, her tongue dry as she fumbled wearily for her phone. 1:37 a.m. Five hours remained before she needed to wake up – so why was she awake?
Flopping back against the pillow in frustration, Autumn shut her eyes, willing sleep to return, to no avail. The bees were already droning in her skull, and the pasty feeling in her mouth would drive her mad. She’d have to start all over with a new album, new songs – but first, she needed water desperately.
She wearily hoisted herself to her feet, her cotton pajama pants swishing around her ankles as she padded barefoot to the bathroom. Pressing her palm to her eyes, she flipped the switch, a kaleidoscopic blur of light and dark squeezing between the skin of her digits before settling into a jaundiced glow. Her hand switched on the tap, allowing it to run as she stared in disgust at her reflection. The lack of appetite was starting to take its toll: her skin was near ashen, stretched tighter over her cheeks than it once had, and her eyes were set in rings of violet bruising. She’d taken to wearing make-up in recent months to conceal the truth from her parents, but she sensed she wasn’t fooling anyone save herself now. Cupping her hand beneath the stream of cool water, Autumn drank her fill, splashing her face to further assuage the stuffy heat of her room. Still debating which album to sing through next, Autumn reached for the light switch and paused, startled.
Sobbing. She could hear hysterical sobbing coming from nearby. It was the sort of body-wracking, uncontrollable crying of those stricken with grief. It made her chest ache in empathy as she glanced around, cocking her head in an attempt to isolate the source. The tiles felt icy beneath the pads of her feet as she crossed the room, the sound growing louder near the western wall. Sleepy cog teeth in her skull interlocked, and enlightenment struck her: There’s a room through this wall, you idiot. Probably some homesick girl crying her eyes out in bed. Feeling foolish, Autumn stumbled back out into her room, flipping the light off on her way out. Self-absorbed, much? she chastised herself as she slid beneath the sheets. You’re not the only one here. How many other girls were crying tonight? How many boys? How many, like her, were running away from something, only to long for the past?
Racing words, racing thoughts: it never stopped these days. Buzzing and whispering, vicious accusations and revelations spun webs around her until she was hog-tied to her misery, relentlessly squirming as the insects infested, laying their angry word-eggs in her ears. There was no peace when the hornet’s nest was stirred; it never slept, but only fed upon her mind, her memories, moths eating holes in her joys long gone. Biting her lip to ground herself, Autumn sang quietly into her pillow, hoping her sister in sadness would find solace in her solidarity, and that perhaps she would soothe the ceaseless whispers in madness’ wake.
31
Change Of Season
THREE
September 18th, 2010 10:13 p.m.
My apologies, journal; it’s been a really strange and hectic week around good ol’ Jarvis Collegiate. I only managed to find this time by bailing on Heather for our usual movie night by exaggerating my headache into a migraine. White lies, white lines? Fuck, now I’ve got that song in my head. Might as well dig out the Shaun of the Dead DVD now.
For the record, journal, the second album I ever bought for myself was Arcade Fire’s Funeral.
But I’m going off track here, which is a bad thing, since I really need to sort this all out on paper fast, before my teenage hormones take charge of matters. Monday was cheerleading and football try-outs – second week of the school year, without fail, and since it’s our grade ten year, Heather’s eligible to shoot for junior varsity. Now, I love Heather – we’ve been best friends for years, and will likely be those obnoxious girls who are each other’s bridesmaids and crap – but cheerleading is painfully dull to watch when done poorly and frankly, Heather had no competition. So I was tucked up on the bleachers, working on this short story idea I have involving a homeless teen girl’s typical day, when suddenly, I had company.
“Taking notes for the paper?” I heard behind me.
I spun around, slamming the notebook shut, and well... Holy shit! Extreme hotness ranking a full Johnny Depp on the sex appeal scale standing there, smiling at me. I couldn’t even answer him at first. ME. I never shut up. It’s what I’m known for, and what I love to do (talking, I mean). I finally managed to mumble about it being recreational or some other vague and ridiculous reply, and he didn’t go away.
The way he stared... It was a Heather moment. I’m the friend, every guy’s female buddy, the wing-gal to Heather and Corrina. Even the sunlight was framing him in this angelic hue. I was starting to feel delusional, and then he sat down beside me.
“Grade ten?” he guessed, to
which I nodded. “I’m in eleven. Moved here from Calgary.”
“What’s Calgary like?” I asked, as calmly as I could.
“Harper’s from Alberta. Guess.” Hottie rolled his pale blue eyes (which were like quicksand, since I kept getting stuck staring into them) and I giggled. Our illustrious Prime Minister Harper is the biggest bastard in politics. “At least people are a little more open-minded and a little less infatuated with Nickelback here.”
“Ugh, fuck, don’t get me started on Nickelcrap and their crimes against music,” I snarled, scanning the crowd below for Heather. “So, did you come here to cheer? Spirit finger it up?”
I was joking, of course. My social skills had engaged again, and I was back to good old witty Autumn, casual and cool in the face of extreme panty-dropping stress. Hottie laughed and grinned.
“Only if I get to hoist you over my head,” he replied coyly.
“Alas, I am gross motor skill challenged,” I sadly mused. “I have long dreamed of being the top of a pyramid of women, but the lesbian in me will have to wait for a college feminism seminar.”
“So you’re trying out for football, then? I have to say, that’s pretty bold. Of course, looking at the place kicker down there, I’m sure you’ll make the cut for at least second string.” Hottie pointed to a scraggly excuse of a kicker, chuckling at his epic failure of a field goal attempt.
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