After five minutes, her patience ran out, and mischief kicked in.
Sneaking up behind him, she watched the silent footage on screen, mesmerized momentarily by the bonfire centred in the frame. Orange-yellow flames licked at the lens, hungry and looming large as people warmed their hands, standing shoulder to shoulder in icy solidarity. It reminded her of nights at summer camp, marshmallows and whispered stories meant to spook them into sleepless sugar-high nights in the bunks.
Speaking of spooking… With a grin, she lunged, shaking his shoulders from behind and growling like a zombie. Startled, he ripped the headphones off, spinning and nearly toppling from his chair.
“Holy shit!”
“Braaaaaaaaiiiiiiiins!” Autumn moaned, shambling closer.
Laughing, Andrew feigned shooting her in the head and she crumpled, giggling on the floor. “Double-tap!” he declared, feigning a second shot and blowing at the barrel of his finger-gun. “Jesus, when did you get here?”
“A good five minutes ago. You’re absolutely right: you would be slaughtered in the zombie apocalypse while editing.”
His hand stretched down and she took it without hesitation, Andrew pulling her to her feet and reaching for his omnipresent coffee cup. He shook it at her and she declined. She’d come prepared with her own drinks from the dining hall this time. With a shrug, he hit pause on the footage and kicked his feet up onto the desk.
“So, how was your day at the elite collegiate environment of Casteel?”
“Same shit, different day. Veronica decided to analyze the possibility of carnal relations in the staff quarters and the awkwardness that might ensue. I’m grateful she chose a day where the lunch offerings were dismal.” Autumn reached down into her bag, retrieving her iPod. “Brought more music for you to ponder.”
“Awesome! Load it up.” Andrew gestured to his laptop, sliding his chair out of the way. “As for the staff, why is Veronica curious? Is she planning a student-teacher affair?”
“Oh, definitely not! We were specifically discussing Jesus Calculus,” Autumn replied, scrunching her face in repulsion. “Besides, she has her eye on a student. What about you, Mr. Daniels? Are you hot for teacher?”
“Definitely not interested in private lessons,” Andrew replied, cocking his head as Autumn shuddered, cursing under her breath. “What did I say?”
Autumn jacked her iPod in, transferring files to his music folder. “Ugh, there’s a movie by that name. Absolutely pedo-riffic as far as I’m concerned. And… okay, this is a bit of a long story. You sure you care?”
Andrew nodded eagerly. “This sounds juicy. You have to share now – it’s the law of Creative Writing. You are duty-bound to tell stories to everyone you meet. Wasn’t that in the welcome package?”
“Right under the line about avoiding Film students, should zombies descend on us,” Autumn replied, leaning against the wall. “Okay, once upon a time I wanted to watch Back To the Future. This was when I was young and VHS wasn’t a complete dinosaur yet. I dug out our taped-from-TV copy and hit play. It’s at the end of the movie, of course, since I’d probably watched it a week prior. Now, Marty McFly’s the third flick on the tape, and the one before it is Private Lessons. So be kind, rewind, and hit play again, and I’ve gone too far. What I see horrifies me so much, I still rage when I hear the song.”
“Song?”
“The plot of the film involves some maid or nanny or tutor – I never found out exactly what the hell she was other than gross – screwing a fifteen year-old boy. At least, I gather this much from the god-awful sight of his pervy smile and her getting down and dirty with him. Playing in the background? Rod Stewart’s equally wretched ‘heart and soul’ song. Gah!” She shuddered anew. “So much gross. If you ever play or sing Rod Stewart, I will hurt you.”
Andrew laughed, shaking his head. “You poor girl. I promise, no Rod in this suite. Rod-free zone. Wait: there’s a rod in here, but not that one.”
“Perv!” Autumn gasped, swatting his arm.
“I can’t help it: the English language is full of puns just waiting to be exploited. Now, Music Maven, what’s on the menu?”
Autumn flipped into iTunes, pulling up the newly added tracks. “Lots of nineties goodies await you. Old school Our Lady Peace, some Seattle grunge, a little Throwing Muses, Tea Party, Barenaked Ladies-”
“Hold up, hold up! Are you serious? My documentary’s about homelessness, not Chinese food and sprinklers on lawns.”
“Um, who is the expert here? Have you ever listened to their complete body of work, as opposed to the huge radio hits?” Autumn asked, indignant.
“Can’t say I have.”
“Well then, prepare to eat your words. They have depth, too, and I can prove it with multiple tracks. But for now, we’ll go with my favourite song of theirs.”
With a flourish, she hit play and immediately retreated to the couch, sinking into the leather and closing her eyes. In her mind, she could see Heather and Corrina, laughing in the Eaton Centre as they chose dresses for grade eight graduation. Her own smile, vibrant and relaxed, as she sipped her milkshake and agonized over blue and emerald green, as if it mattered. Once upon a time, it had mattered. Now, survival was the goal, the life she led.
The couch shifted beneath her, drawing her attention to Andrew, who had joined her. He listened attentively, fingers lightly drumming along, or perhaps tapping out chords – he did play guitar, after all. In its own way, music lived within him, too.
“What song is this?” he asked softly.
“‘What A Good Boy’. From their first album.”
The soft acoustic guitar and upright bass filled the room, the air thick with memories. She longed for the old days, before him, before everything she knew was lost, was wrong. Why couldn’t she just be normal, whatever that was? Why did she fear everyone?
Because I don’t trust me to be a judge of character anymore.
Veronica was safe, a friend whose loyalty ran deep in a scant few weeks. Had that not been a wise judgment of character?
He never talks to anyone, but he talks to me.
Andrew understood pain, understood death and loss acutely. And yet, he smiled around her. He offered her refuge, and expected only music in return. He didn’t steal kisses, or invade her space. He understood, like Steven Page – like her – what it was like to lie awake and wonder if things would ever change.
He was two inches away, still drum-chording on the arm of the couch. Even now, he was a friend – not a monster. In her racing mind, she remembered him, remembered how she’d found him attractive, but mistrusted his words inherently.
Andrew doesn’t make me feel that way. He doesn’t breathe candy-coated lies.
A taut thread snapped within her, and she collapsed, her head slumping to rest on Andrew’s shoulder. He hummed briefly, his body still but soft – comfortable. Closing her eyes, she willed her galloping heart to slow, willed her nerves to steel.
He’s not Chris. He’s safe, like Veronica.
God, how she wanted to believe it, to trust it. His head leaned slightly, gently resting against hers, but he remained motionless otherwise. He was calm, a still lake on a cool evening. He was the water of her beach, and she met him like the sand, hardened but open to sharing the shoreline.
Safe. I just want somewhere safe.
The song drifted to a close, Steven Page’s voice rich and bluesy, and she hesitated, the scent of him gentle and earthy. She could almost fall asleep right now, she was so at ease.
“You win. That was a beautiful song,” Andrew mused aloud.
“Told you,” she replied quietly, swallowing hard. “‘Call and Answer’ is great too, and so’s ‘Alcohol’, which might work out for you. It’s about addiction.”
“Duly noted. What’s this?” he asked as a new song began.
“Sounds like Veruca Salt. More music to entertain you rather than suiting the film. But, um, there’s another great one from a band you wouldn’t predict.”
Her resolve crumbled and she rose quickly, lunging at the computer and scrolling through the playlist. She dared not turn around, lest he be hurt by her rabbit-fear. He had no idea that he was the first since… And he could never know.
“Aha! Matchbox Twenty. Enjoy,” she declared, feigning cheer.
He was studying her when she spun around, his eyes questioning, questing for secrets best left untold. It wasn’t an anger, but… confusion? It reminded her of a child playing with a Rubik’s Cube somehow. With a heavy sigh, he suddenly reached into his pocket.
“I almost forgot: Gretchen wrote you a pass.”
“Huh?”
Andrew held out a folded slip of paper, which she took gingerly. “Remember how I said you technically couldn’t be here, but Gretchen could exempt you? I asked her and she did. You’re clear through the term now.”
Autumn bit her lip, overwhelmed. “You… You didn’t have to-”
“I told you, the rules are bullshit anyway, and Gretchen’s like a mom. You’re helping with my film. It’s fine.”
“Thank you,” she said quickly, tucking the slip into her jeans. “The last thing I need is more crap from Logan.”
He moved past her, settling into his editing desk and gulping his coffee. His words struck her then: Gretchen’s like a mom. In light of Veronica’s revelations in the dining hall, the statement took on a heavier meaning. At least he has someone, even if his aunt is not there, she thought sadly.
“Hey, Autumn, can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Did anyone introduce you to the over-hyped but still entertaining, if only for people watching, Halloween dance?”
A lump formed in her throat at the very word. Five simple letters that could strike terror into her very soul. She’d abandoned all of her instincts about him at that dance, shoving away hesitation and becoming one more obedient lamb trotting off to slaughter on a tether. What was with this fucking school and dances?
“Veronica’s going,” she managed, her voice hoarse.
He’d noticed the shift in her demeanor. His face clouded over, eyes studying her suddenly rigid posture. Don’t ruin this, she pleaded inwardly. You’re supposed to be safe. No expectations. No fear.
“But you’re not?”
“I don’t do dances,” she replied, averting her gaze. Not even with you.
“Oh. I just… well, you know…”
He lost his words, choked on them as her body began to shudder. In her ear, he whispered about how beautiful she was, how he wanted to taste her skin, and her stomach turned in revulsion. She knew the signs: panic attack looming. I have to go, I have to go, now-now-now.
“I’m sorry, I forgot I have this Math thing…”
Her hand seized her bag abruptly, slinging it over her shoulder with a loud slap against her side. She couldn’t bear to let him see what happened when the winds blew down the house of cards, how her insides howled and fierce storms ravaged her hungry frame. Go now! Distantly, she heard him ask something, but she shook her head, darting out of the suite and down the nearby steps. Sneakers pounded the tiled stairs as she ran, heart pounding in rhythm with her frantic footfalls. Room, room, gotta get to my room. She reached desperately into her mind, struggling to find a melody to anchor her, to keep her from slipping into memories of lips and hands and a fist connecting with her body.
It was a blur, time falling away until she jammed the Ativan beneath her tongue and coiled into a ball upon her bed. Over and over, she sang a Janis Joplin song in her mind, just as Emma had suggested she do when the world spun away, sang until the medication steadied her breath and the waves of nausea subsided. She was a smart therapist. She understood that only music could speak to her when even her own words failed.
Lyrics are language…
It was nearing ten now, she noted – over an hour had been lost. It could be so much worse – often was so much longer. Rubbing her eyes, she struggled to sit up and pawed her laptop, waking it from its electronic slumber. Emma had asked her to journal after attacks now and bring the entries to sessions; reluctantly, she complied, if only because it did seem to help her stay present when the synapses misfired in her cerebral cortex. With a click iTunes shuffled up an old Treble Charger song as she pounded the keys mercilessly.
I only lost an hour so I guess that’s something, right? Progress, good doctor? But I shouldn’t do this at all. It’s pathetic, ridiculous. It was nothing. It’s a five letter word. Dance. It’s something I enjoy doing alone in my room, something I like to watch on stage. But mention it and me and a gaudy school gym with chaperones and spiked punch and I turn into some sad strange little girl sobbing and begging for mercy.
I know why. I know why I hate them and it doesn’t matter because it doesn’t change that I’m a freak and a basket case. Shit like this is why I need a shrink, why I need to be locked away at a boarding school and not allowed to venture home. This is why I don’t make friends. I’m not normal. Not anymore. And that’s my big damn mistake, isn’t it? I made friends. I trusted that people could be friends.
I trusted that I could be a friend like any other human being. Instead, I… what? Lead people on? Let people down? I don’t even know. And why should this be my burden, anyway? Why should a stupid goddamn ritual of adolescence make me feel so shitty? Why can’t people let sleeping, bleeding dogs lie? Just leave me in my corner, licking my wounds.
I wish I could be Veronica. I wish I could be Miraj.
I wish I could be the old me. Then again, she was stupid, so maybe not.
With a heavy sigh, she shut the laptop and crawled back under the covers, pulling them over her head. Like a five year-old, she knew what lay hidden in the shadows. She knew that monsters were real, knew the feel of their teeth, the stench of their breath. The only security was in remaining out of sight.
“Dreams never come true,” she whispered.
There were no princes in castles, no knights on white horses. She was foolish to even entertain the notion.
She fell into a medicated, dreamless sleep, echoes of earnest sobs chasing her into blackness.
SIXTEEN
Toronto; January 11th, 2011
She waited for it every day. Waited for him to show up, to embrace her as if he hadn’t broken her heart. Waited for candy hearts or red roses or other bullshit expressions of love, empty apologies and promises to never do it again.
Of course he couldn’t do it again: she didn’t have another dog to run over with a truck.
Autumn sat in the library, stationed in a study cubicle besides a fire pull station. If he came… if he… she could pull it. She could make noise, make the world scream as it had when the vet had sadly told her and her father that there was nothing that could be done for Persephone. She could make the sirens sing the shrieking of her soul as they’d buried her beloved pet, have them testify to the purple bruises that faded after nine days.
For now, he was vapour. Mist. Unseen. Not since the day he struck out with his rage and vows of retribution, should she disobey.
Was this part of his game?
Heather and Corrina assumed that her melancholy and jumpy bones were heartbreak over his disappearance, and she allowed them that illusion. She could never tell them the truth behind the smiling façade. They loved Chris as if he were a movie star. Perfect smile of a perfect man.
A perfect lie.
Her science homework wasn’t doing itself, though, and with reluctance, she forced her eyes back to the textbook pages. Mitosis and osmosis and neurosis – why did any of these things truly matter?
Twenty-nine days. Why?
Cell division. Cells divided and multiplied, conquered themselves and arose anew. If only she could muster such an army to shield herself. Blood cells had divided, tissues refreshing as she’d healed. In her mind’s eye, the imprint of his fist remained, a blackberry stain upon her stomach.
“Autumn?”
Pencil flew to the ground as she startled, a deer trapped in headlights. Fiona
stood before her, face weary, limbs far too thin. She was a paper doll ready to blow away. Her white sweater and black jeans seemed far more dramatic against the pallor of her flesh.
“Fiona.” It was scarcely a whisper.
Settling beside her, Fiona sighed deeply, running a bony hand through her hair. She imagined the joints clicking, nothing to cushion them.
He broke her bones.
“I did it.”
“What?”
“I called the cops,” Fiona mumbled. “When you left, I knew I had to do something. I told my mom the next day.”
“Oh.”
Autumn felt stupid, but what could she say? The next day, she was covered in blood in the backseat of a van. Her mother’s white sweater was also spoiled. Maybe she should warn Fiona about hers.
“He has a record. In Alberta.” Fiona paused, biting her lip. “I guess he has a taste for what he does.”
She remembered their first conversation on the bleachers: the sun streaming down; cheerleaders praising their school with a ra-ra-ra. He’d mentioned transferring from Alberta then. He’d never said why.
“Did they... arrest him?”
Fiona shook her head. “He bolted when they knocked on his door. He’s breaking parole by not remaining in Alberta, so I guess he ran to avoid being put in jail. There’s a warrant, but they said they can’t find him.” Venom tinged her words. “Not like they’re trying very hard.”
Autumn folded her arms around herself, her heart racing. Now what? Did she just wait for him to find her again? Did Fiona want her to say something too? Autumn knew far better from the political blogs she followed: violence against women didn’t matter to police. Without evidence, there was little point. Inner scars didn’t count for shit.
“So, now what?”
Fiona shrugged. “I guess I just wanted to tell you that for now, we’re safe… I mean, Toronto’s on a high alert and the only thing he enjoys more than control is his freedom. Go us, I guess.”
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