Deciphering Autumn’s rumor mill is like playing two truths and a lie, but in this version of the game, there could be one truth, or two, or three, or zero, and I’d never know which. In the past week, I’ve heard that Autumn (1) blew off AP Euro to smoke weed in the teachers’ lot, (2) was responsible for Carly Quince’s ankle brace, and (3) sold painkillers to one of the school secretaries. All I know is, she vanishes constantly, and I don’t even want to know whose bed she’s sleeping in when she doesn’t come home.
With her reputation, I wouldn’t think guys would fall at her feet like they do, but Autumn’s beauty is like the rush of the ocean in a hurricane. From far away, she’s mystifying and beautiful, like waves crashing on a stormy shore. However, the closer you get, the wilder and more dangerous she becomes, capable of pulling you under until you drown.
“Not meeting at my house, and you’re not getting near my sister,” I tell Jason. Basically, Autumn would eat him alive, spit out his bones, and pick her teeth with them. Some of these board games require six people, so I need him to not be human floss.
“Okay, I have to ask.” Alexa leans toward me, lowering her voice to a whisper only we can hear. “Did you ever get confirmation if that rumor about her is true?”
“You’re going to have to be more specific.”
“About, you know.” She smiles deviously. “Her and your stepbrother?”
Jason and Kevin huddle closer to me to hear. Ugh. I thought everyone would have dropped this by now. That dirty little secret people felt the need to constantly ask me about back in seventh grade. My friends thought it was hysterical at the time.
“What, that she slept with Chris? I guess.” I shrug. “I don’t keep tabs on what or who she’s doing.” I mean, it’s not really a secret around here. I was only in middle school at the time, but it got through the grapevine pretty quickly, and everything at home got super uncomfortable afterward, so I’m guessing it’s true. It kind of skeeves me out. She couldn’t have picked anyone else?
Time for a subject change.
“Jason, how about we go to your place for the next meeting?” I ask. “I haven’t hugged your mom in, like, a week.” Jason’s house is really cool. They have a game room with a foosball table.
“I think you like my parents more than you like me.”
“That’s accurate. But it doesn’t answer my question.”
He thinks for a moment. “Maybe. My brother might have people coming over tomorrow, though. I have to check.” The funny thing about Jason and his brother is, in photos they look nothing alike; Micah is a clone of their blond Irish father, while Jason’s the spitting image of their dark-haired Filipino mother. But when Jason and Micah are standing side by side, the resemblance is uncanny. They could pass as fraternal twins, even though they’re five years apart.
Sophie takes her turn, drawing two cards. “We can go to my place.”
“Sold!” I slap down my train tracks, accidentally knocking a few pieces off the board. Last time we met at Sophie’s place, her dad made us say grace before eating our Taco Bell takeout. But Sophie’s house is always full of these awesome strawberry cookies from her grandparents in Seoul, and it’s way better than camping out in the cafeteria after hours.
“Hello, everyone.” Coach Crespo strolls through the cafeteria, giving us a jolly wave. A whistle hangs from a lanyard around his neck. It bounces against his crimson Concord Football windbreaker with every step.
Jason and Sophie snicker.
“Hey, Coach.” Alexa smirks. “What’re you up to?”
“On my way to a meeting with Ms. Bratten.”
“I’m sure you are,” Sophie mutters under her breath. Jason snorts.
“Gotta get the field hockey team in fighting shape this year.”
Jason buries his face in his elbow, half a second away from bursting, while Kevin and Alexa are grinning like six-year-olds on Christmas morning. In other news, I’d like to submit an application for some less embarrassing friends.
“You kids enjoy your game.” Coach Crespo heads into the hallway, his footsteps fading into nothing.
The table erupts in laughter.
I shake my head. “Could you guys be any more obvious?”
“Creepo’s on the prowl,” Jason says. “Hide your daughters.”
Alexa snorts. “More like hide your mothers.”
Coach Crespo—more commonly known as Coach Creepo—has quite the reputation. And I’m not just referring to the line of trophies outside the gym. Apparently the female coaches will only go into his office in pairs. And back in March, someone left an anonymous note under the principal’s door, swearing Creepo was peeping on girls in the workout room, but nothing came of it. Last year, someone Photoshopped his yearbook pic into a meme that said variations of Who wants to see my bat? It made the rounds on Tumblr for three months. He was my stepbrother’s coach back in the day, and he was creepy then, too.
It’s pretty messed up, and I don’t think it’s funny. I want to tell them to stop laughing about it. I open my mouth, but my jaw just kind of hangs open.
There’s a big part at the end of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone where Dumbledore gives Neville points to Gryffindor for standing up to his friends because it’s just as hard as standing up to his enemies. I like to think I’m more of a Ginny than a Neville, but I felt that scene so hard.
I take a deep breath. “Hey, guys?” I peep, barely louder than a whisper.
“Your turn, Ivy,” Jason says, having not heard me.
I close my mouth and draw a card. I would not get points for Hufflepuff today.
“Where the hell is Ahmed?” Alexa checks her phone. “He’s my ride home, and he’s missed the whole game.” She barely finishes her sentence before our sixth member strolls into the cafeteria. “Jeez, he’s like the Babadook—you say his name, and poof! He appears.”
“Ha-ha. You’re hilarious.” Ahmed groans when he sees our game board. “Ticket to Ride again?”
“Well, if you’d been on time, you could’ve had a say in what we picked,” Alexa says. “But alas.”
“We’re almost done anyway,” I say. “Kevin’s kicking our asses.”
Ahmed sets his backpack on the floor and takes a seat beside Sophie. “I wasn’t trying to be late. I was showing this new kid how to put money on his ID card. I actually invited him to join us, if that’s okay.”
“It’s not a seven-person game,” Jason says. He’s always so overprotective of our little club.
I take a swig from my bottle of Cherry Coke. “It’s fine. The more the merrier.”
“He’ll fit right in, I promise—he’s got a BB-8 backpack.”
“Sweet,” I say.
“One of us, one of us,” Alexa chants.
Ahmed waves. “Here he is!”
I look up right as the newcomer walks in and nearly choke on my drink.
“Whoa.” The guy grins and runs a hand through his light hair. “Hey, Ivy. Long time no see.”
There, standing right in front of me, is a several-years-older Patrick Perkins.
AUTUMN
I lean against the locker room door, sliding on my rings—two on each finger. Field hockey practice ended a while ago, and players are slowly trickling out, their hair cemented to their foreheads with sweat.
No one snitches on me.
Scratch that. Some people do. But no one snitches on me twice.
A criminal record would ruin everything. Not even the worst college wants a drug dealer, no matter how good their SAT scores are. Last year, I found out Amanda Carlson told our pre-calc substitute that I had pot in my backpack. The sub didn’t do anything—I’m 90 percent sure he was high himself—but it scared the shit out of me; if anyone had checked my bag, they would’ve learned Amanda was telling the truth, and I would’ve been suspended. It was a good lesson for me and Amanda, though.
I haven’t carried drugs to school since, and Amanda’s brand-new Hyundai got an introduction to my house key.
“You sure she’s still in there?” Jaclyn asks. She’s wearing bright red lipstick today, which is too severe against her pale skin and platinum-blond hair.
“She’s there.” I throw on a coat of gloss and smack my lips together. “She always showers after every practice.” Before Kaitlyn, I don’t think anyone had used those nasty gym showers since, like, the eighties. “But she won’t do it when her team’s still around. I know Kaitlyn—she won’t even change in the same room as them.” Back in the day, when everyone went to sleepovers together, the rest of us put on our pj’s in the main room, but Kaitlyn would go into the bathroom and shut the door. You never know when tidbits like that will come in handy.
Abby lazily flicks her lighter, watching the flame burst up and shrink back down. “How do you know it was her, though? It could’ve been—”
She stops abruptly as another field hockey player saunters out of the locker room. The poor girl’s eyes widen when she sees us. She’s short and scrawny, probably a freshman, but everyone knows who I am. Hell, even kids at the community college know who I am—maybe even at the middle school, too. I can see conflict crossing the freshman’s face. Should she be a hero and warn Kaitlyn? Or get the hell out of here while she still can? I arch a brow, inviting a challenge. The girl scurries away, her eyes glued to the floor.
I continue. “Cops were at my locker with Principal Greenwich.” Three hours later, I’m still pissed about it.
Abby snorts. “So? You don’t keep your shit there. Anyone could’ve tipped them off.”
“My locker, Abby.” I roll my eyes. “If it was Sarah Solomon, the cops would’ve been at my car. If it was Derek, they’d be checking my cubby in the bio lab. But they were at my locker, and that has Kaitlyn’s paw prints all over it.” The best way to learn who you can trust? Plant some fake seeds. See which ones sprout.
“Let’s make this quick,” Abby says. “I don’t wanna be late to meet the guys.”
“They can wait.” It’s a stretch; our supplier and his guys will probably get bored and leave if we don’t show up on time. But this needs to be done first.
A sophomore strolls past—I don’t remember her name. I think she’s on cheer squad or something. Her eyes light up when she sees me. “Hey, Autumn!”
I nod, not bothering to wipe the bored look off my face.
“You going to the football game against Central next weekend?” She’s grinning so wide, it’s like she’s storing acorns for winter.
“Nope.” I hate football. “Not my thing. Sorry.”
Her face falls. “Oh.” The girl hovers a moment, shuffling her feet.
I pretend to check my phone, hoping she’ll leave.
That’s a funny thing about being popular; everyone wants to say they know you, even tangentially. I can picture this sophomore expecting me to say I was going to the game like everyone else. Then at the game she’d tell all her friends that I told her I’d be there, like we’re friends or something. Last year, this super-annoying girl, Lily Howell, loaned me a pen in physics when mine ran out of ink; after class, I overheard her telling her friends that she didn’t have an extra pen because she loaned it to Autumn Casterly.
They taught us the trickle-down theory in economics. Our teacher drew a tree on the board, each branch with a bird on it. As the bird on the top got the most fruit, it started dropping fruit for the birds on the lower branches, and the birds on the bottom got the least. This kid Brad, who is always a giant shit to everyone, said, “So the bird at the top poops, and it lands on the heads of the little birds below it?” He was being a smartass, but he had a point. I don’t want to be the bird with shit on my head. I want to be on the top branch, deciding who gets the fruit.
“So I’ll see you guys later?” the girl says.
I position my body slightly to the right, facing Abby and Jaclyn with my back to the girl. She gets the message and keeps walking.
When her footsteps fade, I press my ear to the door. The rushing shower water mingles with Kaitlyn’s muffled singing voice. She thinks she’s alone. This will be good.
Holding my finger to my lips, I slink through the locker room door. Jaclyn and Abby follow, their footsteps not as stealthy as mine. Steam clouds the room, hot and foggy against the mirrors. A pair of jeans and a button-down shirt are neatly folded on the bench, waiting for Kaitlyn to get out of the shower.
Abby gently pushes them to the floor. “Oops.”
Jaclyn snickers into her hand. They’re loving this.
I take a moment to adjust the tiny silver hoops in my ears in the bathroom mirror. It crosses my mind to remove them in case things get physical, but I don’t. They look cute on me. Besides, I’m the one with the upper hand here.
A balled-up sock lies abandoned on the floor. I kick it into the corner and approach the showers.
The water cuts off with a squeak.
Kaitlyn slides the shower curtain open, a towel wrapped around her body. She sucks in a sharp breath, nearly stumbling over herself when she sees us.
I grin. “Hey there.”
She tries to run, but Abby and Jaclyn have already grabbed her arms and pinned her to the wall. Kaitlyn’s practically got muscles growing on her muscles, but my girls are tougher. A scream rockets from her mouth.
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
My girls grit their teeth but don’t relinquish their grip on Kaitlyn’s arms.
“Would you shut the hell up?” Jaclyn snaps.
The scream echoes around the hot room. No one will hear her unless they’re creeping around the basement after hours, but I don’t take chances. I pluck the dirty sock off the floor and cram it into Kaitlyn’s mouth.
I step back and smile. “There. Much better.”
Abby smirks. “You’re awfully quiet now. Too bad you couldn’t have kept that mouth shut around the cops, huh?”
Fear flashes across Kaitlyn’s face. She makes muffled sounds behind the gag, like a sick animal or something. Probably begging. Why do they always beg? If you need to beg for mercy, it’s too late—mercy’s not coming.
Kaitlyn’s panicked eyes flick between me and the girls pinning her. But karma’s a bitch, and I’ve got no sympathy for snitches.
“You know, I liked you, Kaitlyn.” I step closer to her. “Trusted you. Considered you a valuable customer, like I value all my customers.”
She blinks back tears, mumbling something that sounds suspiciously like Please, Autumn.
I wag my finger at her. “I’d have thought the captain of our varsity field hockey team—seventeenth in the nation, am I right?—would have more stones than this. Woman up, please. You’re making yourself look bad.”
Jaclyn and Abby cackle.
“Now, what should I do with you?” I tap my chin, pretending to ponder. “Would suck to play the championships next month with a broken arm, huh?”
She whimpers.
“Nah.” I shake my head. “I’ve got school pride. Can’t let you get your asses kicked by Central . . . again.”
I really should win an Oscar for dragging this out so much.
“Now, if you can promise to stay quiet—not that anyone’s coming to save you, anyway—I’ll take this out.” I lazily point at the gag in her mouth.
Kaitlyn nods enthusiastically and I remove the wet sock, tossing the gross thing far away.
“I’m a forgiving person.” I anchor a hand on my hip. “But you ratted me out. That’s not cool.”
“Not even a little bit,” Jaclyn adds. She’s got several inches on Kaitlyn.
“I didn’t tell the cops anything!”
I tsk at her. “Kaitlyn, Kaitlyn. You know I know when you’re lying, right?”
“I swear it wasn’t me. I wouldn’t tell the police—why would I?”
>
“Then you told someone who did tell the cops. You’re not supposed to tell anyone about me, no matter what.”
She blinks. “Don’t you want new customers?”
“I have plenty of customers. You know my rules. If you want to refer someone, you give me their name and I’ll get in touch with them if I trust them. You don’t just go waving my name around like a fucking flag.” I swear, information leaks through this school faster than a damn sieve. “Because shit like that is why the police spent an hour searching my locker today.”
“I didn’t mean to.” Kaitlyn’s voice shakes. “I swear. Someone asked me where to get Ativan, and I told them to talk to you—that you keep a stash in your locker. I didn’t know she’d tell.”
“Oh? And who would this someone be?”
She hesitates.
I sigh. “Guess she wants to rock a cast for a while.”
“No! No. Okay. It was Hailey Waters.”
I’m taken aback. Hailey’s literally the last person I’d expect to be sniffing around for pills. That girl is like a walking billboard for the Catholic Church. I’ve never even spoken to her, and for good reason. Still, no one’s perfect, and Little Miss Hailey probably has dirt like anyone else. If I find out she’s the reason those cops were sniffing my tampons, that dirt might accidentally find its way onto the morning announcements.
Abby laughs. “No way.”
“I swear. She must have told someone.”
“I’m not surprised,” Jaclyn says. “I’d get high too if I had to be in marching band.” She nods at me. “Doesn’t your sister play an instrument? Bet she knows Hailey.”
I think for a moment. My useless sister, Ivy, could come in handy for once. Between her and the merry band of losers she hangs out with, someone’s got to know Hailey well enough to have insider information. But it seems risky dragging her into this. She’d tell our dad in half a second.
The Last Confession of Autumn Casterly Page 2