The Last Confession of Autumn Casterly

by Meredith Tate

  “Are you mad at me?”

  “What?” A hint of emotion flickers across my dad’s face. “Of course not. I’m glad you called the cops when you felt like you were in trouble.” He doesn’t have to finish the sentence for me to catch the even though you weren’t really at the end.

  I look out the window, watching the trees and houses sail past.

  “Look, Ivy. I’m sorry that happened.”

  I don’t know exactly what he’s apologizing for. Is he sorry my sister ran away and got me upset? Is he sorry I freaked out and called the cops for no reason? Or is he sorry he did literally nothing to back me up?

  “It’s okay.” I don’t know if it’s actually okay, but it seems like something I should say. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

  Dad’s still wearing his uniform from the auto shop. He left work early for this, which means he’ll have to work overtime at some point to make up for it.

  He stares straight ahead at the road. “I saw Patrick Perkins moved back. It’s been, what, three years?”

  “Four.”

  “Wow. You guys always got along really well.”

  “Yeah.” I fiddle with the zipper on my jacket. I wonder if Dad remembers the time he chaperoned our school field trip to the Boston Museum of Science and Patrick’s shoelace got caught in the escalator. I think he made a dad joke about it that made Patrick laugh and made me want to take the opposite escalator straight back downstairs and out of the room. Dad used to do stuff like that with me all the time. The year after Mom died, he went through this phase of almost overcompensating for her loss—like he wanted to parent us twice as much to make up for her being gone. It was short-lived and stopped when he started working overtime. Sometimes I miss him, even though he’s still here.

  “Look, Ivy, I want you to know . . . you can always talk to me. I realize I work a lot, but you can come to me with anything. I mean that.”

  “Yeah. I know.” It’s hard to feel like a priority when work gets all his time and I’m scrounging up the scraps. I hate that I’m even thinking that. I know Dad works hard because someone has to buy groceries and health insurance and all that stuff. But still. Sometimes the house feels lonely.

  “I think we should spend more time together,” he says. “You, me, and Autumn. And Kathy. As a family.”

  I’m pretty sure Autumn won’t agree to that, but it’s a nice thought. “Okay.” I don’t add that spending more time together would require him actually being around, but that’s another story.

  He’s silent for a while, then veers off onto the highway at the last minute, two exits from home.

  “Where are you going?”

  “You want to get a donut? Like the good old days?”

  The good old days. It’s so weird referring to three years ago as “the good old days,” but I guess that’s how fast everything can change.

  Honestly, all I want to do is go home and swan-dive onto my bed and pretend this whole day never happened. I force a smile. “Sure.”

  When we were kids, Dad would pick me and Autumn up from school on Fridays and we’d go to Dunkin’s and get donuts and hot chocolate. After he started working those ridiculous hours, I craved Fridays so bad, because it was the one time every week I got to hang out with him. We stopped when Autumn started high school and cut off all her hair and decided she didn’t want to be part of our family anymore. When Autumn stopped wanting donuts with me, I guess Dad did, too.

  Dad pulls into the Dunkin’ Donuts lot and puts the car in Park. He opens his mouth like he’s about to say something, but his phone beeps. I clench my jaw. Of course, now he figures out how to turn the ringer on.

  “Oh, Kathy’s across the street. She asked if we want anything from Wendy’s.” He doesn’t meet my eyes as he writes back. “I’ll tell her to meet us over here instead.”

  I press my lips together. Right now, I just want to go home and ignore everybody. “Okay. Sure.”

  We head inside, and of course, there’s a long line. I survey the donut selection, even though I already know what I’m getting. I’ve gotten the same donut here for forever—chocolate glazed.

  “Well, look who’s here.”

  I stiffen. Usually, Kathy doesn’t bother me, but I don’t feel like seeing her right now. I guess part of me was hoping to hang out with just my dad for a little while, like the old days. But I guess that’s the thing about “old days”—they’re long gone. Sometimes I feel like hanging out with Kathy is a betrayal to Autumn, since she hates our stepmom so much.

  I shake it off. Technically, Autumn betrayed me by disappearing and putting me through all this shit.

  Dad and Kathy hug and chitchat behind me, dredging up my awful afternoon at the vacant lot.

  I slap my hands on the counter. “A chocolate glazed donut and a medium hot chocolate with whipped cream, please.”

  Dad and Kathy order after me, and Dad pays the bill. I grab my food, keeping my eyes down.

  A skinny thirtysomething woman waiting for her order won’t stop watching me. I fidget, her stare hot against my skin. I can’t stop feeling like she’s judging me because I got a donut. Like because I’m fat, I should do anything I possibly can to lose weight, and how dare I even think about touching something that’s not a salad? Sometimes I hate eating junk food in public. I’m not usually self-conscious about my size, but often I feel like I’m supposed to be. My weight doesn’t bother me, so why does it seem to bother everyone else?

  I grab a table outside her line of vision before pulling my donut out of the bag.

  Kathy takes a seat across from me, hanging her purse over the back of her chair.

  Dad runs to the bathroom, leaving Kathy and me alone. I’d rather not rehash this afternoon, so I take a giant chug from my hot chocolate instead and immediately regret it. Holy shit. Bad life choice. Oh my God, it feels like swallowing Mordor.

  “Are you okay?” Kathy’s eyebrows draw together.

  I cough into my elbow. I’m pretty sure my entire mouth is on fire. “Yep.”

  Okay, fine. I need to let it cool. I blow on the surface, not meeting Kathy’s eyes.

  “I’m worried about your sister,” she says.

  “She’s probably fine.” I don’t know if I believe the words as I say them, but I don’t want to talk about it. Especially not with her.

  We sit in silence for a few minutes. Ugh. Why does Dad have to pick today to take forever in the bathroom?

  “Hey, Ivy?” Kathy swirls her straw through her iced tea. “I’ve been . . . meaning to talk to you about something.”

  Oh God, I hope she’s not going to ask about bringing Chris home for Thanksgiving again. “Yeah?”

  She takes a shaky breath, her eyes fixed on something outside. “Do you . . . think I handle her wrong?”

  “Handle who wrong?”

  “You know. Autumn.”

  I’m taken aback. Could Kathy do more for Autumn? I guess. I mean, maybe she could set some boundaries—the whole smoking-weed-in-the-driveway thing would be a good start.

  If Kathy feels guilty for the way Autumn turned out, she’s never said anything about it to me before. She’s too needy sometimes, always digging around for reassurance.

  I shrug. “I don’t think so, no.”

  Something about the way her body relaxes makes me wonder if we’re actually talking about the same thing.

  But before I can ask, or Kathy can clarify, Dad comes back to the table, and we both pretend the conversation never happened.

  AUTUMN

  The scream rockets out of my mouth, draining my invisible lungs of air. I kick the trash can at Dunkin’, kick Dad’s tire, kick the wall. I shout obscenities at the police station window, stand in the middle of the road and scream, cursing out the cars that drive straight through me. I curse out every member of my family, every guy who ambushed me at that
damn warehouse—literally any person I can think of, I curse them out.

  And. It. All. Does. Nothing.

  By the time Ivy, Dad, and Kathy get home, I can barely see straight. I storm through the front door, plowing through everyone, and they don’t even notice. I don’t know what pisses me off more: that the cops didn’t listen, that Ivy didn’t push, that Dad did nothing, or that Kathy had the nerve to ask Ivy that question.

  I turn my back to the wall and try to heave the TV off the stand; obviously my hands go right through it, but I picture it shattering against the hardwood and sprinkling glass all over the room.

  Kathy flicks a couple lights on. Dad promptly shuts one off, mumbling about giving money to the electric company.

  Pumpernickel slips past me and gives a happy bark before leaping onto the armchair. My heart cinches. I wish I could pet him, hold him, feel his soft fur beneath my fingertips. I didn’t pet him enough. I should have held him more. He probably thinks I abandoned him, and the thought makes fresh tears spring to my eyes.

  Kathy collapses on the couch, her legs strewn over Dad’s lap. They’re talking about dinner. They’re literally talking about what to make for dinner.

  I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing back the tears.

  This isn’t happening.

  I never wanted to die. Not seriously, at least. Sometimes, driving on the highway, I’d picture running my car off the road and plunging into the Merrimack. It got so vivid, I could almost feel the water sluicing over me, consuming me. I’d drown in the blackness, floating and airy and peaceful.

  In my imagination, Jaclyn and Abby would go on a rampage at school, screaming at everyone who messed with me. Riddled with guilt, Dad would dump Kathy. They’d all come to my funeral and cry, thinking about how they should’ve treated me better.

  But now, all I feel is terror as I listen to Dad and Kathy talk about whether they want chicken noodle soup or eggplant Parmesan, and what food would comfort Ivy after her ordeal, and oh no, we have to make stuffed mushrooms because Ivy fucking loves stuffed mushrooms.

  “We could order pizza,” Kathy says mischievously, like she just suggested eating candy for dinner. I hear the hidden thought hanging at the end of her suggestion—because Autumn’s not here.

  Dad ponders a moment. “Yeah. We could do that. Papa Gino’s? I think I’ve got a coupon.”

  “Sure.” Kathy shakes her head. “Still can’t believe that girl won’t touch pizza. What kind of teenager doesn’t like pizza?”

  This is what it would be like if I never came home. Everything would move on. Everyone would live and exist and not care that I don’t anymore.

  Ivy drapes her coat over the rack in the den and comes back into the living room. “I’m gonna lie down.”

  “Yes, by all means, please go lie down and rest,” I shout. “It’s not like I’m dying out in the cold somewhere.”

  “Okay, honey,” Kathy calls. “Let us know if you need anything.”

  “Fuck you,” I reply.

  Ivy trudges up the stairs. I follow, stomping my feet without making a sound. The silence makes me stomp harder.

  Ivy pauses at the top of the stairs.

  “That’s right, Ivy, go lie down. You’re good at that. Lying down and forgetting your problems, pretending they’ll just go away.” I know she can’t hear me, but it feels good to say it, so I do. “Just like you did with the cops this afternoon, huh? They tell you it’s no big deal, so sure! You stop trying!” I throw my hands up and let them clap back down at my sides. “Because it’s not like it’s your life on the line, am I right?”

  Ivy slogs down the hall to her room. I follow, shouting in her ears.

  “You can’t stand up for anyone. You can’t even stand up for yourself.” It’s extra cruel and I don’t care. “You’re just gonna let everyone walk all over you forever. Hell, you’re totally in love with that Jason kid. It’s so obvious, and you don’t even try.”

  Ivy stops outside her doorway and looks right at me. I go still. Holy shit. Can she . . . can she see me?

  “I-Ivy?”

  But my sister isn’t looking at me; she’s looking through me. Ivy tiptoes toward my bedroom door. That’s not what I was expecting.

  Her hand hesitates over my doorknob.

  I never let anyone into my room. But I want her to look for me. I need her to find me.

  “It’s okay. You can go in.”

  Ivy twists the knob. The hinges squeak as she pushes it open, carefully, like a wild animal might be waiting behind the door. I hold my breath and follow Ivy inside.

  A layer of stillness coats the room, like we’re walking into a place untouched by time, even though it’s only been a day. Ivy brushes her hand along my dresser, leaving streaks in the dust.

  She takes a seat on my air mattress and fluffs my pillow. Then she grabs the nest of sheets hanging off the end and tucks them neatly around the bed. I roll my eyes. My sister is seriously making my bed, because of course she is.

  “What happened to you, Autumn?” Her words come out softer than a whisper, but I hear them anyway. “Where did you go?”

  Ivy stands. She rips open my top drawer and riffles through my underwear.

  “I’m not in there,” I snap.

  She opens the next drawer, and the next, pulling out my clothes piece by piece, as if a clue will be hidden in the linings.

  Ivy huffs and slams the drawers shut. A purple shirtsleeve hangs out of one of them. She gets down on the floor and pulls my laptop out of its hiding place, in the crevice beneath my dresser. This is pointless; there’s nothing important on there. Still not thrilled my sister’s snooping around in my private shit.

  Ivy opens the screen and sets it on her lap.

  “Okay, let’s keep moving.” I snap my fingers. “C’mon.”

  She keeps staring at the locked screen, her fingers poised over the keyboard.

  “Really?” I groan. She’s obviously not going anywhere until she gets on my computer. I can’t let her give up. “Pumpernickel—no capitalizations.”

  As if on cue, Ivy types in my password. Her eyes grow wide when it works.

  “All right, hurry up. Come on.”

  She opens Chrome. Of course I left, like, a bajillion tabs open. I never remember to close anything.

  Ivy clicks on the first one—University of Virginia Veterinary Medicine. I rub my forehead. This is so embarrassing.

  Her brow creases. She clicks the second tab—Colorado State.

  “Jeez,” she mutters. I kind of see her thought process, because it’s so obvious. No one expects a girl like me to care about the future. Sometimes it pisses me off that everyone assumes that about me. A badass reputation is a double-edged sword.

  I cross my arms. “Happy?”

  She clicks the next tab and winds up on Facebook. I never update my profile; I just use it to stalk people. Ivy must notice the lack of information, because she clicks to the next tab, going through Tumblr, then a random Wikipedia page I forgot I had open. Finally, she gets to the last one—my Gmail.

  Ivy scrolls through my recent messages. My skin is crawling because she’s going way too slow and I need her to stop screwing around.

  Ivy scans my emails, finding nothing but spam, and her shoulders slump.

  “Told you,” I mumble.

  She tabs into my Instagram account and starts looking through my photos. I don’t post very much—mostly selfies when my makeup is cute (sometimes) and pictures of Pumpernickel when he’s cute (always), but she pores over each image like they hold some secret code to my whereabouts. I zero in on the photos and it brings back a memory.

  Chris had passed me in the hall on the way back from econ. He smiled and nodded, and it felt weirdly distant, considering the past weekend. I kept wondering if this was how everyone felt after their first time. None of my friends had lost their
virginity yet, so I had no one to ask.

  I slammed my locker shut, grabbing my phone. I sent a quick text to my friends in the group chat.

  Me: you guys wanna blow off last period English later? I’m falling asleep

  I wasn’t really tired, but I couldn’t focus. I knew skipping class was bad, but I’d cut Spanish before and the world didn’t end. The message went out to Kristin, Dani, Crystal, and Radha—surely one of them would cut with me. Maybe grab some snacks at the Irving station or walk downtown. I felt kind of bad because I’d avoided their texts and hadn’t opened their Snapchats all week and kept dodging them in the hall. I guess I’d needed time to process everything, but in that moment, I just wanted someone to tell me I was normal and everything I was feeling was just a regular part of having sex. Maybe they were mad at me because they’d all gone to the pottery-painting place Saturday night; I’d lied and told them my dad wouldn’t let me go out because I wanted to go to the party instead.

  I stuffed my phone in my pocket, waiting for a reply as I ambled to geometry, when I noticed Warren Marden and Kurt Corriveau from the football team staring at me. I hadn’t even known their names until the party, which was at Warren’s house, so it was weird they were creeping near my locker. I brushed past them.

  “Hey, Autumn,” Warren called. “You feeling okay? You were pretty trashed last weekend.”

  Kurt snickered. “Chris had to practically carry you to his car.”

  This was so embarrassing. Chris had promised to keep an eye on me at the party, but he’d gotten trashed and subsequently let me get very, very drunk. Which, okay, was my choice, but still. Now I felt like a giant joke.

  “I’m fine,” I muttered.

  “I bet you are.”

  I rolled my eyes and kept walking.

  “We’ve been looking for a team bus, if you’re interested,” Kurt added.

  Team bus? I didn’t get the joke, but I had a feeling it was probably gross. I stopped and whirled around. “What do you mean?” I asked coldly. They were seniors, and I was only a freshman, but they were pissing me off.

  “You know, the team bus.” Kurt’s eyes raked up and down my body. “Everyone gets a ride.”