Change Of Season

by Dillon, A. C.

  Autumn skimmed the outline, noting the listed grade components and their weighted worth. There was an exam, worth 15% of the final grade, which seemed low until she noted the final novella, due in class, that was worth 40% overall when combined with the oral presentation of it. Shit! If there was anything Autumn loathed, it was public speaking. Veronica hadn’t been wrong when she’d determined her to be too shy for Drama; Autumn often threw up before and after oral presentations. The remaining 45% was split into assignments and class participation – again, public speaking. Maybe Emma can write him a note? Autumn mused. Her grades needed to be stellar this year, both for her future aspirations and to keep her parents and Headmistress Logan off her ass.

  “What’s the participation about?” a petite Japanese girl asked upfront.

  “You’re new; what’s your name?” he asked.

  “Azure Amaya,” she replied. “I transferred from Film.”

  “Welcome, Azure!” George replied with genuine warmth. “For those who are beginning to panic, participation is graded on several factors, including attendance, contributing to discussions, and offering to read pieces aloud. However, I also have a slot in my office door, wherein you can slip written suggestions for class writing prompts, or any additional thoughts you might have about a class. People, relax: I’m not out to fail you. It’s honestly a cushion for those of you whose writing needs work, if you follow me.”

  Autumn was immediately relieved, and smiled as she flipped open her book. I should suggest discussing that video from last class! Maybe we could even critique Adichie’s work somehow? Excited at this prospect, she quickly scribbled down the suggestion on a page, then tore it out and folded it into a neat square.

  A discussion began of introductions, and their structure or purpose. Sarah, whom Veronica had introduced to her at lunch, was one of the more active participants in the light-hearted banter. Autumn envied her the poise and confidence with which she spoke. Her words commanded the entire room’s attention, and George obviously regarded her highly. Subtly, their instructor began tossing in side comments, intent on drawing out something in particular. Autumn felt as if something obvious was being overlooked, but couldn’t pinpoint it. Judging from the furrowed brows of a few of her classmates, she wasn’t the only one stumped.

  “You’re giving me devices, giving me themes, and some incredibly important tips on the development of a good introduction versus a boring one that makes the reader toss your book aside in a rage,” George said. “But you’ve missed one key thing that traditional storytelling has often employed in the past, but tends to avoid now.”

  “Cliché,” Autumn suddenly said aloud, her stomach sinking as heads turned.

  “Elaborate,” George said with a smile.

  “Um… Well, fairy tales began with ‘Once upon a time’, for example, or ‘There was once a young girl’, blah blah blah. Margaret Atwood shreds the concept in one of her stories.” Autumn swallowed hard, willing herself to finish her point. “You see it far less now, unless it’s being parodied for comedic effect.”

  “Bingo! Your name is?”

  “Autumn Brody,” she replied quietly.

  “A pleasure to have you in the program,” he replied, continuing on. “Creative writing endeavours were once so formulaic that we literally began each story with one of a series of clichéd openers. For the record: if you hand me a story with an earnest usage of such an opener, it’s an immediate grade level deduction in my class. Don’t do it. So, when we hear these sorts of lines, we assume we’re beginning a story, right?”

  A collective murmuring and a nod began.

  “Your homework assignment tonight will be to destroy convention. I want a 500 to 1000 word drabble of sorts, on any topic you choose, with any number of characters. The rough draft will be due at the beginning of class, and we’ll work towards a final version by the end of class. The only stipulation I have about your drabble is this: you must end the story with the phrase ‘It was a dark and stormy night’. There can be no other sentence afterwards, and it must be verbatim. You follow me?”

  Genius, Autumn thought, her mind instantly awash in a series of ideas for her piece. I have to get into the Media Studies building tonight. I need atmosphere. As chairs slid backwards and papers rustled, it dawned on her that class was already over – and she was disappointed. Packing up her belongings and slipping her black leather bag over her shoulder, she made her way towards the front of the room, where her professor was gathering his books and tucking them neatly into a worn briefcase on the desk.

  “Um, excuse me?”

  He glanced up and smiled brightly. “Autumn! Thank you for steering everyone in the right direction. How can I help you?”

  Autumn held out her note timidly. “I would take it to your office, but since you’re here...”

  “Of course.” He took the page and immediately unfolded it. “Let me guess: you have Kearney?” As she nodded, he added, “I introduced him to that video. It’s a mandatory presentation in my post-grad course, actually. I would be happy to bring it to the table in this class, though; it’s a very powerful concept, especially for writing of other cultures.”

  “That’s what I thought, too.” Autumn felt herself relax slightly.

  “It may take me until next week to tug us into that direction, but I’ll definitely get to the video soon. Thank you for suggesting it. I’ll see if I can dig up Adichie in my disaster of a library.” George ran a hand through his hair absently. “I look forward to your story tomorrow.”

  Mumbling thanks, Autumn slipped out into the hall, her head just a little higher now that the day was finished. I survived my first day at Casteel, she thought happily. And other than the jerk in Biology, no one besides Logan has pissed me off yet. She followed the herd of students down a wide staircase, taking the three floors to ground level and pushing out onto the street. Her homework in most classes was fairly minimal, so she’d have plenty of time to focus on her story for St. James. A dark and stormy night… I have to bring it to a dark and stormy night. Autumn was so lost in thought, she bumped into another student who’d halted in front of her to talk to friends.

  “Sorry,” she blurted out quickly. Then froze.

  He looked like…

  “No trouble,” the tall man before her replied, looking her over. “Hey, are you new?”

  It’s not him. But he looks so much like him. “Um, yeah. I’m sorry, I have to meet someone.”

  Run, little rabbit. Run, run, run.

  She hurried across the pavement, cutting into the quad and storming towards Ashbury, trying to talk herself down from a full-blown freak out. Not him, not him, it’s okay, it’s safe. The closer she got to her dorm, the safer she felt, and her mind steadied. He won’t get me here. She hadn’t even told Heather what school she’d transferred to, just in case he came around Jarvis.

  A memory: winter time, darkness. After sunset. A truck parked outside a familiar house. The sleet pounded the windshield as she watched a girl buckle forward in pain. She couldn’t save her. Head met dashboard. Blood grazed lips as teeth sunk into their delicate flesh.

  It was a dark and stormy night…

  ***

  Dinner with Veronica had soothed her frazzled nerves. They’d settled in over matching plates of Pad Thai, scribbling down the rest of their Math questions while chatting about musical theatre. Veronica’s dream was to be on Broadway. She was far less interested in Hollywood, although she was willing to work on films with less mainstream directors. Tarantino was as big as she insisted she’d go – “Only because his dialogue is phenomenal!” she’d explained. Autumn, being a voracious consumer of music, was fond of several musicals, including their mutual loves, Les Miserables and Spring Awakening.

  “I’m shocked we never met at all when Spring was in town!” Veronica declared, scrunching her nose at a word problem. “I rushed endlessly on weekends and even skipped class a few times for evening shows.”

  “And I saw it ten times, because
the stage seats and rush were so cheap,” Autumn added.

  “I got stage twice, but I wish I’d had it more often,” Veronica lamented.

  “I had four shows on stage, but it was only because I got wind of the stage seats being on sale even earlier than Mirvish subscribers were told. I pretty much had my pick.”

  “Jealous!” Veronica taped her pencil angrily on her page. “You done question E yet?”

  Autumn sighed. “I’m stuck there, too. My brain’s not remembering this at all.”

  “I know there’s a way to work it so we can get the missing angle over there,” she grumbled, pointing to it in Autumn’s book. “But I forget the damn rule to use.”

  “Screw it. He should have taught more,” Autumn decided, shutting her book. “Not like I didn’t try.”

  “Hell yes!” Veronica slammed her book shut. “I am free for the rest of the night! Wanna do something?”

  “I have more work to do,” Autumn admitted between bites of noodle. “Creative Writing drabble. Rough draft due in class.”

  “Yuck! That’s harsh for the first day.”

  Autumn shrugged. “Writing isn’t really work for me. I usually write for a while every night anyway. I just have to actually finish this in one day.”

  Veronica sighed dramatically. “I guess I will just go sulk in my room with the latest issue of Spin, or see if Dora’s willing to leave her easel and watch some TV. See you in Math?”

  “I’ll be the one coughing while you’re making smart-assed remarks.”

  Veronica’s hand gently brushed by Autumn’s shoulder, a friendly gesture as she carried her tray to the bins and departed. As much as she enjoyed the hyperactive blonde’s companionship, nights were hard for Autumn. Her thoughts grew louder when the sun set, a cacophony of voices from moments past as she struggled to focus.

  She needed to write. She needed to bleed them out, so she could rest.

  She stopped by her room to drop off the weighty Math text, clipping her shin off of a desk chair and cursing as she shoved it back into its proper place. Taking only her notebook and two pens tucked behind her ears, Autumn set out towards the theatre, her mind shuffling together characters as she inhaled the cool air. In a casual fishing expedition at dinner, she’d learned that the building was open to students via the main doors until seven, and a small locked side entrance until nine during the week – with special permissions added to Fobs by instructors for students requiring late access. Lights out and lockdowns were at ten, giving Autumn the choice of returning to her room or hiding out in the building. Tonight, she wanted to see what happened at closing to assess the odds of successfully sneaking in for the future, while she could still believably feign ignorance of policy.

  She slid through the main entryway at twenty to seven, and immediately headed upstairs in search of a quiet perch of some sort. She passed a group of departing students discussing some sort of light – Film majors, most likely – before finding a black leather loveseat near a corridor of what appeared to be tiny classrooms. From her vantage point, she could see out towards the administration building, the residence for the middle school male students, as well as a small man-made pond, beside which a couple lay intertwined on the grass. The sky was a rich navy blue, lined in a brilliant crimson.

  Perfect.

  Aside from a smattering of people and the occasional hushed whispering, Autumn was left undisturbed far beyond the general access restriction of seven. By the time she’d finished scribbling out her drabble, it was twenty to ten, with nary a security guard in sight.

  It would seem, for all of their exterior security, that Casteel assumed its measures were sufficient – and that its students were trustworthy.

  Glancing over her draft, she exhaled loudly. Finally, it was quieter. The bees thrummed in the back of her skull, but it was the usual white noise she’d come to live with. With any luck at all, she’d collapse into bed with a thump and pass out for at least a few hours of much-needed sleep.

  She slipped quietly down the main stairway, on guard for lingering school personnel. The corridors, she noted, were decorated with mounted posters of student productions past, as well as still shots of the players in action. Rent was performed two years prior; Jesus Christ Superstar was done in 2007 as a spring production. Autumn snickered as she thought of Professor Math-yew, wondering what he’d thought of the musical. Probably horrified him, she decided as she headed east, towards the student side entrance. Steps before the door, Autumn halted, a small smile upon her lips. Framed on the south wall was a black and white still of Veronica and several other students, snapped during a production of bare. Veronica’s character was listed as Ivy, which she committed to memory. Perhaps she’d look the show up and see what role she’d drawn once she was tucked away in room 308.

  It was with weary legs that Autumn ascended the winding staircase she loved in her dormitory, her notebook slapping lightly against her thigh. Please let me sleep tonight, she begged to whatever force might exist, or perhaps her brain itself. I need sleep. I want sleep. Lots of sleep. To the left and down past all the other doors, she went slowly, jingling her key as she rummaged through her brain, choosing an album to sing to herself in bed. Her key turned in the lock reflexively and she stumbled inside, flipping the lock and kicking her Converse sneakers across the room. Changed into her pajamas, teeth brushed, she tucked into her bed with her laptop, doing a Google search of bare. Ivy was one of the leads – unsurprising – and, to Autumn’s delight, the soundtrack featured a Spring Awakening alumnus. It was also set in a boarding school, which surely pissed off Logan. With a shake of her head, she tucked the laptop under the bed and rolled over, humming Florence + The Machine as she closed her eyes and willed rest to come.

  Sobbing.

  Startled, Autumn’s eyes flew open, immediately drawn to the bathroom. And again: a high-pitched, soft cry from the right. Padding her way into the bathroom, she flipped the switch, cursing as the bulb flashed repeatedly before settling into a yellow glow. Their bathroom must adjoin mine next door, she thought, creeping closer to the wall. The crying continued, relentless.

  It was almost eleven now.

  “I just want to fucking sleep,” Autumn whined.

  Her fist knocked upon the wall urgently, a rat-tat-tat as she begged the crying girl to calm down. With a last gasping sob, all was silent. Satisfied, she returned to her bed, pulling the covers high over her head as she closed her eyes. Maybe tomorrow, she’d check on the sad student next door. Everyone needs a friend. Thinking of Veronica, she sighed. Even me.

  For the first time in months, Autumn slept through the night.

  65

  Change Of Season

  FIVE

  Oakville; September 9th, 2011

  It was precisely noon when Autumn knocked softly upon Dr. Stieg’s office door, her feet shuffling side to side as she bit her lip. She’d been up since eight that morning, having slept through breakfast. The mandatory wake-up call and breakfast seemed pointless to her on Fridays, given the varied schedules of the student body, but it was apparently about cohesion and peer bonding, as well as ‘establishing routines to carry forth into adult life’. Nauseating. She’d spent the morning finishing up a character outline for Creative Writing and walking around the campus grounds, steering away from all signs of student activity as she mulled over the notion of therapy. What the hell am I going to say? What can I say? Her secrets lodged in her throat, and she swallowed in vain.

  “Come in!” a cheery voice called through the door.

  “Shit,” Autumn mumbled as she turned the knob.

  She’d barely given the office interior a once over at her first appointment, but now, Autumn found herself studying it meticulously, as if the shelves of books and ornate candelabra-style lighting would provide some sort of guidance as to how to proceed. The colour scheme was a mix of earth tones – primarily shades of brown and cherry wood – although the carpet was, of course, the trademark Casteel blue. I used to like blue be
fore I got here, Autumn thought bitterly. For a moment, she was nostalgic for the tacky rainbow-coloured lockers of Jarvis Collegiate. At least there was variety, even if it was of the hideous kind.

  “Grab a seat, Autumn,” Dr. Stieg said, gesturing to the couch. “I’m just sending this email to get Logan off my back.”

  The music hummed low, but Autumn recognized it: Arcade Fire. She remembered my request. It was a definite credit to the shrink – it was a sign she actually listened. It was also a tremendous liability, as far as Autumn was concerned. She won’t be blown off easily. She pays attention. Sinking into the leather couch, Autumn’s legs kicked absently as she studied the nearby book shelf, scanning titles. Bodies Under Siege… Foundations of Counselling and Clinical Psychology… The Courage To Heal… and Stephen King’s Under The Dome. Autumn chuckled to herself at the juxtaposition of healing tomes and a writer who thrived on psychologically torturing his characters.

  “What’s funny?” Dr. Stieg asked.

  Autumn shrugged, gesturing towards the shelves. “One of these things is not like the others…”

  Emma nodded, smoothing out her cream silk blouse and charcoal skirt. “Everything is kind of just thrown on there. I don’t have time to sort it out. If I’ve read it or I’m reading it, it’s there.” With a nod towards a stapled set of papers on the desk, she continued, “So, I was a little surprised by your assignment. I was expecting more cursing and expletives directed at me.”

  “I was trying to be nice,” Autumn replied.

  “I can see why you’re in our Writing program: you have a gift for setting a scene and telling a tale. Or rather, not telling one.” Picking up the pages, she flipped through them slowly. “You’ve told me of how you feel about coming to Casteel, and of your parents, but you’ve taken great pains to avoid all discussion of why you’ve been placed in Behavioural Reform, or what led to your declining academic performance.”