Clearing her throat, Autumn began to read, eyes locked on the page to avoid her watching peers.
Her hands pull the pages from their binding, eyes scanning the directions, the measurements, the ingredients. She smiles to herself, setting them aside. She knows the steps by heart – no, in heart – but always checks anew. She is conscientious, precise. It must be perfect each time.
The vessel awaits: to what frontier will she steer it today? Its exterior cool against her palm, she reaches for her waiting materials. A pinch of this; a scruple of that. She is a mad scientist at a tea party for one, and it’s always two lumps. Her eyes dart wildly, each addition blended carefully, each flavour balanced as she constructs her courses.
She is feeling spicy; it sways in her hips. A jambalaya, then.
Tender morsels of meat marinate in stewing tomatoes and a healthy shake of cayenne. Rice, too: every dish needs a foundation of core energy, something relatable for all. Her lips curl mischievously as her aprons swish around her tan ankles. More sausage. The aroma fills the room, spilling forth from the borders of the simmering pot, the centre of the storm.
One last ingredient remains just out of reach. Deftly, she mounts a chair, poise of a ballerina even as it tilts halfway, threatening to cast her aside. She is a siren: no ship will surpass her song.
The guests gather now, hovering just beyond the entryway, hands outstretched. It is a scene from Oliver Twist, and everyone wants more, needs more. She is a witch, bubbling cauldron bewitching her admirers. Sweat-misted arms tie her long locks back at the nape of her neck. It permeates her pores as she stirs, blends, boils over. Another enters, pressing the lid down, but she shoves it away. Her talents cannot be contained.
She is the eye of a hurricane.
Again, she scans the pages, retracing the steps of hours. She has done it all again. All that remains is to serve her adoring public.
She bathes in their adulation as each spoonful slips down eager throats, scents and sights filling all with wonder. Cumin meets chiles meets chicken in perfect harmony. "One woman could not have possibly managed such a feat," they insist, but she has, and always does. The burn is intense: their tongues crave rushing rivulets of milk even as they continue to consume. They are insatiable. The lighting dims, spotlighting their chef against a wall unadorned, and all praise her wares while she dabs at the moist heat clinging to her limbs. She is spent, but satisfied.
"You’ve outdone yourself again," they coo appreciatively. "You’re a star, a constellation, even." She shrugs and laughs good-naturedly as they prattle on. "I could never do this!" another insists, and she is quick to chastise, to encourage her friend. "We all can do this," she maintains gracefully, tidying up her counters.
"There must be a trick!" the masses assert, surrounding her. "You do something specific. What is it?" The woman laughs, pulling her wavy locks free. "You managed the efforts of an entire team! Tell us," they plead.
With a shrug, she winks and replies:
“The secret ingredient is sharp.”
In her head, she could picture Veronica clearly: bouncing off the chair centre stage as she dazzled her peers with covering a quintet’s song on her own. It had been a brilliant little plot bunny that had bounced into her head. She’d have to show Veronica the drabble. Maybe it would boost her confidence with Evan?
Voices jolted her from her distracted thoughts, the discussion beginning. Cringing inside, she awaited the verdict.
“Okay, it’s not about cooking, right? I mean, that’s the metaphor?” Joey piped up.
George nodded. “You can trust that the student completed the assignment accurately. It is a metaphor – a well executed one. Any guesses as to what the writer was speaking of?”
Sarah’s hand flew into the air and was acknowledged. “I’m thinking something like a working mom. You know: juggling the kids, the housework, a job? The whole idea of ‘the work of a team’ stuck out for me.”
George looked pleased. “I have to confess: I thought the same thing when I read the piece. And it would be an excellent metaphor for a busy life pulled in all directions, wouldn’t it? Anyone else?”
Evan jumped in next without raising his hand. “A phone sex operator.”
The class – Autumn included – erupted in laughter as George stood puzzled. “Elaborate?”
“I’m serious, guys! Alternately, she’s a webcam girl. Look: an operator has to put on a role. She has to be whatever others want her to be – many women in one. She’s sexy and spicy. I’m not being a perv, here: I say a sex worker of some kind.” Evan flushed with embarrassment.
“Alright, that’s valid, then, and outside the box. Appreciated, Evan. However, as you all know, you submitted sealed envelopes with the story topic stapled to the assignments, so I can assure the class that neither of you have it yet. Any other guesses before I reveal the topic?” Met with silence, St. James continued, “This piece – the only one that fooled me completely – is about an actress, rehearsing the lines of many characters at once – giving each a unique voice.”
A chorus of “Oh!” and “Cool!” and assorted murmurings broke out, and Autumn felt herself flush alongside Evan. I fooled him? Only me? Wow…
“Now, does anyone have feedback for the writer? Compliments? Anything?”
Azure rose her hand shyly, then spoke. “I thought it was beautiful. I’m almost afraid to have mine read now, because the bar’s set pretty high.”
“Don’t think that way!” Jenna called out from the front. “Everyone’s voice is unique. You may just have a different style of expression.”
George nodded enthusiastically. “You beat me to it, Jenna. Azure, I have silly awards and whatnot, but I can always see room to grow, always find authors who blow my work away. Perhaps the writer will be in awe and envy of your piece. What else?”
Sarah chimed in. “Now that you told us what it’s about, I can clearly see it now. There was a part about being a star, even! But it was subtle, kind of slid in there.”
“Agreed,” the professor replied, walking towards the front of the class. “What does that say about the success of the writer in terms of the assignment objectives?”
“It was bang on, I think. I wish the writer would reveal his or herself; I’d love to chat about the piece some more,” Sarah added. “I also really love the ending. I wasn’t sure what it meant, but now, it makes perfect sense. Notes on a scale are sharp or flat. Brilliant.”
Autumn debated, then decided to tell Sarah privately. They hung out frequently at lunch with Veronica’s group and she wouldn’t mind confessing to her. Other students echoed Sarah and Azure’s compliments, noting that in an actual story, the final line might be too confusing – a fair assessment – but it was the final comment, from Evan, that really caught her attention.
“I think – and I stress think – I know who the subject might be, if she’s a Casteel student. And she’s really awesome to watch. Either way, it captures her talents perfectly.”
Autumn smiled, storing the comment away for Veronica. How she couldn’t notice that Evan stared at her as much as she stalked him at the pool, Autumn had no idea. Which reminded her: she needed to ask if he was single sometime soon.
“Well, in the mission of getting through twenty papers in two classes, let’s move forward.” Taking the paper back from Autumn, he whispered, “Head on out. See you Tuesday.”
With a nod, she slid quietly from her desk and out the back door, sighing in relief. I read aloud and didn’t faint! And they liked it! With a smile in spite of the growing pulse in her right eye socket, she made her way to the core administrative building, which also housed the campus medical clinic. An older woman – perhaps mid-fifties – sat at the desk, her bright yellow scrubs obnoxious.
Handing her slip to the nurse, she said, “My head hurts. I had to leave class.”
Examining the slip, she rose to her feet, gesturing to a series of doors behind her. “I’ll have the doctor check in after I set up your file. For no
w, let’s try lying down in the dark with a cool cloth.”
Her head sunk into the soft pillow on the cot with a contented sigh, the surface cool. Closing her eyes to shield against the laundry soap scrubs that seemed to glow in the dark, the nurse laid a damp cloth across her eyes, mumbling about rest and stress and something about the number 42. Sleep claimed Autumn as might a ravenous predator, snaring her in a mercifully dreamless void…
***
“Autumn?” A hand, brushing her cheek beyond the dreamy ether. “You okay?”
“Hmm?” Sleep… Oh sleep, don’t leave now…
“Babe, it’s four. The clinic’s gotta close up.” A gentle voice. Familiar. Veronica?
Autumn startled, the cloth tumbling to her lap as she bolted upright. “Huh? V, what are you doing here?”
“I came to grab you after class for some food, but St. James said you went to see the nurse. You’ve been comatose-sleeping; I’ve tried waking you twice already.”
“Crap,” Autumn mumbled, rubbing her eyes. “I thought the doctor was coming?”
“He did. You were dead to the world. Diagnosis: exhaustion. Prescription: sleep.” Veronica was jittery, shuffling side to side. Something had her ready to explode in her typical tornado of words. “You feel better?”
Tilting her head, Autumn realized that the pain in her head was only slight now – easily ignored. “Pretty much. Why?”
“Because I NEED to talk to you, and also, they’re closing up the clinic. You hungry?”
Autumn shook her head. “Not really. Migraines kill the appetite.”
Veronica held out a hand, pulling Autumn gently to her feet. “Wanna come hang at the theatre? We’re all discussing set design for Spring and you know the production as well as anyone. Plus, I need to yap your ear off.” She smiled sheepishly. “I wouldn’t bug you if it weren’t eating away at me, and I can’t tell anyone else.”
Autumn smiled wearily. “Only for you, V. Anyone else, no way.”
“I’ll get your bag,” Veronica announced. “Least I can do.”
“Hmm, I could like this.”
“Only the best for you! At this point, I’d carry you over my shoulder to the theatre if I were capable of it. I am that desperate for advice.”
Autumn thanked the nurse on their way out, the once obnoxious yellow now pale pastel post-migraine. She shivered slightly as they stepped outside, curving left along the pathway towards Media Studies. The day had chilled significantly since lunch, but she didn’t mind. It was waking her up, and given Veronica’s controlled panic, she’d need all brain cells firing.
“So, what’s the big dealio?”
Veronica sucked in a deep breath. “So, I went to grab you at class, right? Almost everyone had cleared out, but a few people were left, including Evan, who looked so hot today! Anyway, after St. James told me where you went, Evan followed me out of class and talked to me.”
“Really?” Her theory on Evan’s compliments simply had to be right!
“Yes! He was asking me about Spring and when it starts playing, so I told him. He also asked why I wasn’t the lead, so I explained that I wanted to be Ilse, and he was happy for me. But then, he asked me if I read your metaphor assignment for class. I said no, and he said that he was pretty sure it was read in class today by you, even though it was all random?”
“Yeah, St. James had us reading random papers without names, but because I felt like shit, he had me read my own so I could participate and get feedback.” Oh, will you two just hook up?
Veronica halted a few feet from their destination, lowering her voice. “He then says that I should read yours, because it was beautiful. I asked what it was about, and he said, with the cutest smile ever, ‘You.’ Autumn, I DIED! In a good way, of course.”
“He said something in class after I read it to that effect – that if it was about who he thought it was about, it was perfect at capturing her talent. What else?”
“I had to bail! I didn’t know what to do, so I thanked him, and told him I’d make you give me a copy, then said I had to check on you. Ah! You must let me read this. Also: you wrote about me?” Veronica flushed.
“Oh totally. It was a metaphorical expression of our lesbian love affair,” Autumn quipped.
“Autumn!”
“Oh hush, V! I had to write a metaphor capturing something from the day to day, and I got inspired watching you sing ‘The Bitch Of Living’. I compared it to cooking a jambalaya. It even stumped St. James, which made my headachey day better.” Autumn held out her hand. “If you let me dig through my bag, I can show you the draft in my notebook. It’s not the final version, but it’s pretty close.”
“You’re the best!” Veronica bit her lip as she passed the backpack. “Do you think-”
“Absolutely. Hurry up and make out already.” Retrieving her notebook, she flipped hurriedly through the pages, halting on her assignment draft. “There. Please don’t read beyond these two pages, okay?”
“Swear.”
As Veronica scanned the drabble, Autumn’s gaze wandered over the quad. Several students were lugging large bags towards the bus pick-up, while others hung out on the grass, lazily stretched out and chatting. Distantly, she could see Moran and Allan, friends of Veronica’s roommates from Visual Arts who had been dating since grade six, tossing a ball back and forth with intentionally wild throws that each dove to catch. Typical movie scene, she mused, her eyes drifting to the Media Studies building, where she found herself squinting at a familiar form on a bench out front. Edging closer, she confirmed her suspicions: Film Suite Guy. Ugh, awkward.
Well, she’d just have to conveniently walk with Veronica between them. She pulled her hair forward, obscuring her face, as Veronica handed back her notebook.
“That was amazing, Autumn… You have such a gift! Can I have a proper copy to keep?”
“Um, sure, if you want?”
Veronica beamed, hugging her around her shoulders as they walked on. “I do want! Oh, I hope Meg brought those art prints she promised! She says they’re in style with the framed images used in the formal productions.”
Veronica rattled on, but Autumn’s focus lay on the mysterious guy who’d busted her on the weekend. As they drew closer, she noticed that he was playing a guitar, strumming softly and singing to himself. His face looked as worn as her own, and a pang of sympathy struck her in the gut. He doesn’t sleep, either. It was only within a few feet of the doors that his song carried across the wind: he was playing an old Elton John song she loved, "Someone Saved My Life Tonight".
Grr! Stop thinking of him! she ordered herself, forcing herself back into Veronica’s stream of consciousness.
“I still don’t know how we’ll manage the seat on the wall, but we have to! I’m hoping our construction gurus from Visual Arts have a plan.”
“Art students?” Autumn asked, confused.
“The ones who specialize in sculpture or assembling found items tend to be a huge help for things like this,” Veronica explained. “Casteel is one big happy dysfunctional family that way. When the Vocal Music students need accompaniment for recitals, they often ask Drama Majors with a specialization in musicals, like Meg and I. Film majors have the Vocalists perform songs to soundtrack their projects, and they handle our video portfolios. In turn, we donate old scrap sets and random shit to the artists.”
“That’s incredible,” Autumn replied, pushing open the theatre doors and holding them for her friend. “Jarvis Collegiate was a mess of factions at war with each other. It was so melodramatic. Different groups sat in different spots in the cafeteria.”
“Oh my God, that’s so Mean Girls! Did you have Plastics?”
Autumn groaned. “Oh god, yes. But we called them Gossip Girls.”
Veronica giggled, shaking her head. “That’s hilarious! Hey, my Drama peeps!” she called out to the small group seated near the stage. “Status update!”
Lucas, the stage manager for the production, immediately launched into a meand
ering assessment of progress, ideas and set-backs. Autumn struggled with the information overload, opting instead to observe the discussion and jump in when able. Settling into a seat near Veronica and Matt, the grade twelve cast as the male lead, Melchior, she watched a dizzying exchange of ideas, rebuttals and in-jokes, all while Lucas scribbled on a clipboard. It seemed that things were far more under control than Lucas thought: there was a plan to construct the mounted wall perch crucial to the second Act; art students had donated pieces that captured elements of the plot, just as the Broadway production employed; and costume searches were underway, with cast members seeking items in their own closets first to save funds. The biggest debate seemed to be the unique predicament Spring Awakening posed: the official productions employed on-stage seating as a device. The cast seemed to have a mixed opinion on whether to have general audience seated on stage as per tradition, or to have it restricted to cast only.
“We already have fairly limited room!” Meg chimed in. “We still need a spot for the platform for the hayloft sequence, never mind the band.”
“Unless we pre-record the music,” Shantelle suggested, earning immediate vetoes from most students.
“Nah, we need the music live,” Matt insisted. “It allows for variance, should someone stumble over a line or improvise. My concern is that during major ensemble numbers where the audience-plant swings would perform, the barren chairs would look stupid.”
“I agree,” Veronica said firmly. “Plus, half the fun of the experience is having action happen around you. I love stage seating, and it seems to add something extra for the performers as well.”
In her notebook, Autumn began sketching from memory, mapping out the seating charts for the Toronto production. Okay, rows on both sides… About what, 25 audience seats or so around the cast? Eyeing the stage, she shook her head: the performance real estate was a little sparse for that. But what if they went smaller?
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