“No. I’ll find out on my own.” I always do. Another valuable lesson my mom taught me before she died: don’t depend on anyone but yourself. “As for this one . . .” I nod at Kaitlyn, who cringes. My friends tighten their grip on her arms.
“I told you what you wanted!”
“Yes, you did.” I twist the heavy rings on my fingers. “But it’s not enough.” I swing my fist like I’m about to punch her, but stop an inch short of breaking her nose; she winces and closes her eyes. Fake-outs are very effective—they spread fear without leaving marks. I lower my voice to a whisper and get right up next to her ear. “Don’t mess up again.”
On cue, Jaclyn and Abby rip the towel off her. Before she can cover up, I’ve already snapped a photo. I flip my phone around so Kaitlyn can see a clear shot of her tits. “If you do, not only am I going to break your face, but this picture is gonna make the rounds all over Twitter. Reddit. My entire email address book. Every number in my phone. Instagram, until they flag it. The bulletin board in Panera.” I count off the locations on my fingers. “Your church on Green Street.”
I learned this tactic last year. This girl Kasey Muller was talking shit behind my back, so we snuck a photo of her drinking beer at a party. Her parents are super strict and would’ve grounded her forever if they knew she drank. I told Kasey I’d make sure her parents saw the picture if she didn’t cut it out. Never had trouble from her again, and then her family moved to Maine. Oh well.
My girls shove Kaitlyn away. When no one’s looking, I covertly delete the photo. I’m a bitch, but I’m not a monster.
She throws her clothes on, her face flushed pink, and practically bowls through us to get to the door. Her shirt buttons aren’t even and I’m pretty sure her fly is only half zipped. That’s good—it means she’s more afraid of me than of being seen half undressed at school. Jaclyn and Abby laugh.
A pang of guilt thrums to life inside me, but I swat it away. I know this looks bad, but Kaitlyn had it coming. They always do. It’s not like I actually want to hurt anyone or take joy in it or something. But if I get caught dealing, they’ll throw me in prison and I can’t let that happen.
“Pleasure doing business with you, Kait.” I smile. “See you around.”
Kaitlyn pauses, one foot out the door, like she’s contemplating whether getting in the last word is worth being in deeper shit with my girls and me. She takes a breath, her eyes burning with hatred. “This’ll come back to bite you one day, Autumn Casterly. Someday you won’t have your minions with you and you’ll be all alone. You just wait. You’ll never see it coming, and then you’ll be sorry.”
“Kait. Honey. Two things to know about me.” I hold up my index finger. “One, I don’t give two shits about your threats. And two?” I raise another finger. “I’m never sorry.”
Jaclyn and Abby’s laughter drowns out whatever Kaitlyn says next. But from the way her lips move, I catch it anyway, the moment before she plows out the door.
“You will be.”
AUTUMN
I drop Jaclyn and Abby at Dunkin’ to get us fuel while I stop at home for cash. There are too many Kaitlyn Kennedys at school to risk leaving money lying around there.
I pull into Dad’s ugly cracked driveway and climb out. My ancient Civic reeks of pot. I used to Febreze it after every ride so Dad wouldn’t get suspicious, but I stopped caring last year. If he doesn’t give a shit, why should I?
I grab the wad of mail stuffed into our metal mailbox. The screen door slams behind me with a reverberating crash. Pumpernickel runs over to me, his claws clicking against the tile. I don’t know if dogs can smile, but I swear, he always looks like he has the biggest grin on his face every time I come home. It’s the only reason I come home, to be honest.
I scratch his ears, keeping my back to the wall. “Hey, boy. You have a good day?”
He wiggles in response. A hint of a smile twitches on my face.
It quickly vanishes.
A Maury rerun blares from the TV, and the scent of cigarette smoke permeates the room. Growling snores rip from the couch. Kathy’s feet dangle off the armrest, sporting chipped pink nail polish. Our musty old afghan is wrapped around her like a cocoon. My mouth tightens.
“Kathy!” I slap the back of the sofa. “Get up.”
My stepmother startles awake so suddenly, she nearly knocks over the mug she’d left balancing between the cushions. “Oh. Sorry. Hi, Autumn.”
“Were you smoking in here?”
I already know the answer; wisps of smoke curl from a fresh butt in the ashtray on the coffee table. I hate the smell of cigarette smoke. Maybe Dad and Ivy let her get away with this shit, but not me. If she had lit the house on fire and killed Pumpernickel, I would have murdered her.
“I just needed one.”
“You fell asleep with a lit cigarette in the ashtray.” I slap the pile of mail onto the coffee table. “Go outside if you have to do that.”
“It’s not always easy to go outside, honey. It’s very cold out there now.”
“Well, here’s an easy solution: move out.” The wooden crucifix hanging on the wall glares down at us. If Jesus is real, he’s totally judging me. I’m going straight to hell for this, but I can’t even make myself care. And Dad is nowhere to be found—big surprise.
“I know you smoke in your bedroom, Autumn. And I know it’s not tobacco.”
“You wanna know the difference?” I slam my finger on the TV power button, right before a paternity-test reveal that Kathy will now never see. “This is my father’s house. You’re a freeloader. No pay, no say.” It’s not entirely true. Kathy got some money six years ago, before we met her, when her father died and left her eighty-five thousand dollars. She’s milked that money as long as humanly possible, and still forks over a couple hundred bucks a month for rent and stuff. But it’s not enough to make me care. I grab a can of seltzer off the counter and stomp upstairs.
I slam my bedroom door and lean against it. I hate this—I hate her. Every time I see her, it’s like a demon takes over my body, flooding me with rage. Sometimes I worry I’ll freak out and punch her.
Punching Kathy doesn’t scare me. What scares me is, I don’t know if I’d be able to stop.
I press my hands to my forehead, fighting back the urge to scream. Through my half-closed eyes, I can make out the tattoo scrawled across my left wrist. It goes on, says the brushy black script, from a Robert Frost quote: “In three words, I can sum up everything I’ve learned about life. It goes on.” The tattoo does its job; it calms me down. I take a deep breath.
Something in the hall jingles, and I open the door. Pumpernickel takes a seat in my doorway, looking up at me in silent question.
“I’m okay, buddy.” I scoop him up and carry him to my bed. It’s not actually a bed—it’s an air mattress covered in sheets. We’re not too poor for beds or anything. I just sleep better on a plain old air mattress, when I sleep here at all. I threw out my old bed when we moved, along with most of my other junk.
My bedroom looks like it belongs to a fifteen-year-old goth boy. That’s because it probably did. When we moved into this shithole, I didn’t do a damn thing to the existing room. Some little emo jackass wanted to paint the walls gray and obscure the broken blinds with black curtains? Fine. Chunks of gray paint are chipped off at four corner points, as if the person ripped their posters off the wall in a fit of rage and didn’t bother fixing the damage. Dad told me to cover them with my own posters, but I didn’t care enough.
I keep a wad of cash and a stash of pills in the bottom of a tampon box in my closet. Ironic, I know. But it’s the best hiding place. Dad will never look there, Kathy doesn’t give a shit, and Ivy knows I’ll kill her if she comes into my room.
I take the fifty I earned at school today out of my back pocket and add it to my existing cash wad. $7,052 total. It’d be a lot more if I didn’t owe Liam a giant cut after every sale or h
ave to split my share with Abby and Jac. I also do one of those monthly sponsor-a-panda things, which I probably shouldn’t spend cash on when I’m trying to save, but they’re pandas, and they’re endangered, and they send me a free calendar every December. Still, I’m nearing $10K. It’s good money, but not enough. I’ll need to pay college tuition, and for textbooks, and rent, and whatever it costs to move out of state. When graduation rolls around, I’ll get the hell out of here forever. Eight months to go.
Sometimes the way people at school talk about college makes me mad. Oh, your mommy and daddy are paying, no loans required? How nice that must be for you. Meanwhile, my “mommy” is dead and my “daddy” can barely afford his own living expenses, let alone mine when I move out. So if selling pills gets me out of this house, then I don’t give a shit.
Under my pillow I find the buck knife I stole from Target last year. I slide it into the front pocket of my black hoodie. The guys would never screw me over, since I’m Liam’s best customer, but I always take precautions.
My phone buzzes—Liam. You wanna make a few thousand bucks tonight?
Typical Liam, sending me cryptic texts.
Me: How?
Liam: Remember when I worked at the corner store? My buddy just told me their new security code. They stock the ATM every Thursday night. $$$
I read his text over and over.
Burglary is some serious shit. When I was thirteen, I started shoplifting—little things Dad couldn’t afford, like a heavy-duty phone case and a set of AirPods after I lost mine. Sometimes I got new clothes. I even stole a pair of sunglasses for Ivy when she was going on a school trip to the beach and kept bitching about not having any. I didn’t tell her they were from me; I just left them in her drawer. It’s kind of thrilling, stuffing something in my pocket and walking out of the store with it. I never really needed the shit I stole—I just wanted it. But I really, really need this money.
Still, my fingers hesitate over my phone screen. Breaking in after dark to crack open an ATM would mean serious jail time if we’re caught.
But it’s fine. The corner store is an easy target; they get hit all the time. Plus, if Liam knows the alarm code, that’s easy money. I need to get over it and just do it.
Me: Fine, but if you want my help I want twenty extra of whatever you’ve got. For free.
He replies within seconds. V and K this week. You can have ten.
Valium and Klonopin. Not a bad haul.
Me: Deal.
The second after I hit Send, I delete the texts; I know people joke about CIA agents watching our phones, but I can’t be too careful.
I store my gloves in the sweatshirt pocket with my knife. Skinny jeans, black hoodie, black boots, a tiny bar in my septum piercing. I look like a punk, but not a criminal. I tuck a lock of short brown hair behind my ear. There’s still a streak of platinum blond in the front, but I need to re-dye it soon. Long sleeves hide the tattoo on my arms, and my piercing may be a little conspicuous, but it’s small. I run my fingers through my hair, throw on some silver liquid eyeliner and black mascara, then dab some sparkly shit on my cheeks. Funky makeup gives me confidence sometimes, and right now, confidence is what I need.
Before I leave, I always give Pumpernickel a squeeze and a kiss. When I go out, there’s always a tiny chance that I won’t come back. People assume that I’ll end up dead in a gutter someday, and part of me thinks they’re not wrong. I guess it’s better than a jail cell.
Pumpernickel’s the only one who’d miss me anyway. Hell, he’s probably the only one who’d even know I was gone.
Kathy’s eyes are glued to some trash on MTV. When I enter the living room, her hand immediately retracts from the cigarette on the table she was obviously planning to light.
I clench my jaw. “I’m going out.”
“Where are you going, honey?”
Every time she calls me honey, I want to slap her. “None of your business.”
“Your father will ask.”
I plow out the door before she can get another word in. She doesn’t come after me. I fight off the sinking feeling in my stomach, forcing myself to believe I don’t care.
IVY
Jason’s SUV takes a wide turn out of the school parking lot. Some indie band I don’t recognize booms from the speakers. His car always smells like four-day-old McDonald’s. I don’t dare peek over the seat behind me to see what’s lurking in the back.
We head down to Main Street, the old brick buildings and tiny storefronts sailing past us. Every five seconds, Jason slams on the brakes for a pedestrian crosswalk and we all lurch forward.
I can’t stop staring at Patrick. It’s super awkward, because we’re in the back seat together. Jason reluctantly agreed to drive Patrick home once he realized the new kid lives three streets down from him. He would’ve looked like a megadouche to say no, and I would’ve killed him basically.
My fingers drum against my thighs. Patrick’s got his arm draped over his BB-8 backpack, which is sitting in the middle seat like a fifth passenger, separating us. His blond hair has gotten so long now, it’s the perfect length for me to imagine brushing my fingers through it.
“So, what was Baltimore like?” Sophie asks from the front. She always claims shotgun and this is the first time in history I didn’t complain about being relegated to the back.
Patrick shrugs. “It was fine. Good food. We went to DC a lot.”
“What’s DC like?”
Patrick starts talking about monuments and cherry blossoms and museums, and in the rearview I can see Jason rolling his eyes.
Sophie cranes her neck to the back seat, giving me a Why the hell are you staring at him like a creep instead of talking to him like a normal person look.
I try to communicate Because this is weird as hell and I honestly thought I’d never see him again and he has a little bit of stubble on his face now and it’s so cute and you know I turn into an idiot around hot guys, remember the Aaron Dunlap incident? with my eyes. I don’t think the whole message gets through.
I’m busy making hand gestures at Sophie when I realize Patrick stopped talking and is now returning my stare.
I blink at him. “What?”
“Oh, I just asked what you’ve been up to the past four years.”
I feel like I shouldn’t be this awkward. Why am I always so awkward? “Not much. Nerd Herd stuff mostly. I’m in band, too. I play the trumpet but I suck at it. Mr. Warner gave me a solo for the spring pops concert, but I think he only did it because he hates me.”
“Living the dream,” Jason says. I kick the back of his seat.
“What’s this Nerd Herd stuff?” Patrick asks.
“It’s our club . . . ish. Group.” Sophie ponders, tugging at her chin-length black hair. “Gang?” She’s going to get a crick in her neck from twisting toward the back seat for so long.
“We play board games and video games and talk about geeky stuff,” I say. “Sometimes, when we’re bored, we film parody videos on our phones and post them on YouTube. It’s not as exclusive as you’d think. We do occasionally talk to other people—if they make it through the hazing.”
I said it as a joke, but by Patrick’s expression, he took it seriously.
“That’s . . . cool.”
“You have a girlfriend back in Baltimore?” Sophie asks.
What the hell? I pretty much want to rip open the car door and barrel-roll outside, because I’m guessing I have a better chance of surviving that than this conversation.
Patrick shifts in his seat. “No, nothing like that.”
Sophie very obviously wiggles her eyebrows at me and I want to shrivel up and die. Thankfully, Pat changes the conversation topic.
“You guys ever do cons?”
Sophie laughs. “Well, we epic failed at one last April.”
“I maintain it was a valiant effort,�
�� I add. Last year, Kevin’s mom drove all of us down to Boston Comic Con in her minivan. We had wanted to go as the Avengers—Infinity War–style, so we could fake-fight on the judging stage and be badass. We even planned to do a mock “Thanos snap” and throw fake ashes all over the stage. Six main Avengers, six of us, works perfectly, right? Jason went out to get a set of Avengers action figures for costume inspiration, but he couldn’t find Black Widow anywhere—and Alexa was practically born to play Black Widow, maybe even more than ScarJo. All the toy packs were just the five dudes. So in boycott, we decided to all go as lesser-known Avengers instead. I went as Ant-Man. I swear, Ant-Man is the most underrated Marvel hero. “Let’s just say, the judges didn’t recognize our creative costumes.”
“Low-budget costumes,” Sophie corrects.
“Hey!” I pretend to look affronted. “They were innovative.”
“Would’ve helped if we’d had an Iron Man and a Cap,” Jason says.
Sophie nods. “And a Hulk. You can’t not recognize a big, green, snarling Hulk.”
“Next year,” I say. “We’ll plan better.”
“That’s cool. I dressed as Lee Adama for Baltimore Comic-Con last year,” Patrick says. “I didn’t enter the judging, but they probably wouldn’t have recognized me, either.” The fact that he cosplays Battlestar Galactica characters literally melts my insides.
“You’d need someone to play Starbuck for that to work.” Sophie winks at me. “Hey, Ivy, you’d make a great Starbuck.”
I shoot her the deadest deadpan I can muster. Could she be any more obvious than to suggest I play Lee Adama’s sort-of girlfriend? “I don’t look anything like Starbuck, Soph. I’m not skinny, blond, a viper pilot, or covered in tattoos.”
“You could pull it off,” Patrick says. He smiles at me, then quickly looks away.
Before I have a chance to overthink that statement, Jason pulls into my dad’s driveway and jerks the car into Park. “Okay, freeloader, get out.”
“So kind.” I blow him a kiss. He pretends to be disgusted and swat it away.
The Last Confession of Autumn Casterly Page 3