The Last Confession of Autumn Casterly

by Meredith Tate

  My legs dangle off the edge of the roof, hanging limply against the siding. I can’t bear to be inside that wretched house right now. Ivy stormed into her bedroom and did the closest thing I’ve ever seen her do to a door slam, then Dad grumbled something about teenagers with PMS and went to bed. I have no clue what Kathy is doing, nor do I care.

  I stretch back, letting the rough rooftop scrape against my palms, and inhale a deep breath of fresh air. Silver stars twinkle down at me, embedded in a blanket of black. When Ivy or I got afraid of the dark, Mom used to say that without the night, we couldn’t see the stars.

  I never would’ve been able to sit on the roof when I was alive. We don’t have one of those cool houses with an upstairs porch where you can hop the rail to reach it. My regular body would need a long ladder to get up here. But this ghost body doesn’t come with the same restrictions.

  Nothing about it makes sense. Does everyone end up in this half-living, half-dead muddy middle? Or is it just me?

  Why me?

  Everyone knows they’ll die someday. But now that I’m on the cusp between life and death, faced with my own mortality, I’m terrified.

  When I was a kid, it was common knowledge in the Casterly household that people who die go to either heaven or hell. It was just a fact. There was no death—just a sort of passing on. Moving from one place to the next. When our first dog, Sebastian, died, Mom said he would wait for us on the rainbow bridge. After Mom died, I pictured her and Sebastian reunited. I thought they’d come visit me, maybe fly in through my bedroom window at night to let me know they were okay and watching over me. But they never came, and eventually I realized heaven and hell were just stories they tell kids to make us behave. If there were a God, he wouldn’t have let all this shit happen to me. He wouldn’t have taken my mom. He wouldn’t have left me dying alone.

  But now that I’m in this invisible, ghostly form, I don’t know what’s real anymore. Why am I here? Why aren’t I stuck in my body, waiting for the end to come?

  They say when you’re dying, your life flashes before your eyes. But right now, on the edge of life and death, all the things I’ll never get to do again pass through my mind instead. I’ll never get chocolate seashells from Granite State Candy Shoppe, or a choco-late turkey on Thanksgiving. I’ll never again sip a cappuccino at True Brew, listening to the musician strumming his guitar. I’ll never set foot in that crappy mall again—and I wouldn’t have predicted that fact would make me as sad as it does. I used to complain about Concord constantly. But now, more than anything, I wish I had more time here. I wish I had more time.

  I wonder what I’d be doing right now if I wasn’t stuck in this weird half life.

  On Tuesday, Becca Truman asked what I was up to this weekend. She was throwing a fund-raiser at Uno’s tonight for the animal shelter that got robbed last month; 15 percent of every dinner bill will be donated to them. I told her I didn’t know. Also, Becca’s a weirdo and I didn’t want people to see me talking to her. I kind of blew her off.

  But I was planning to be there. I even had an attack strategy: I’d pretend I really wanted mozzarella sticks so no one could say I was helping Becca.

  Looking back, I don’t know why I cared so much what other people thought. Everyone always tries to show off how little they care what people think, but it’s bullshit. Of course everyone cares.

  I wish I’d told Becca I’d go. I wish I hadn’t flipped her off in the middle of the hallway and told her to stop bothering me. I wish I could be there right now, eating mozzarella sticks until all the dogs have enough food to last forever.

  Something twinges in my chest. Pins and needles shoot through my body, like every inch of skin is going to sleep. My hands fade to translucent right before my eyes, showing the tree leaves rattling in the wind behind them. But as quickly as the color evaporated, it charges back into my skin, and I’m solid again.

  I press the heels of my palms into my eyes.

  “Why, why, why?” I raise my voice. “Why am I here?”

  The night sky doesn’t answer me.

  “What do you want from me?” I sniffle, wiping my eyes on my sleeve. I’m still here for a reason. Ivy can sort of hear me for a reason.

  This isn’t over. I still have time.

  I want to be in Ivy’s room, so when I open my eyes, I’m standing right by her bed.

  Ivy slouches against her headboard, her yellow comforter wrapped around her like a cocoon. Her open laptop sits on her legs, casting a blue glow around the otherwise dark room. Even by the light of her screen, I can see her red-rimmed, puffy eyes.

  “Okay, Ivy.” I crack my knuckles. “We need a plan.”

  I take a seat on her bed, and it’s surreal when the mattress doesn’t indent or squeak under my butt. Ivy’s eyelids droop heavily, her finger lazily scrolling down her touchpad.

  There has to be a clue I’m not seeing. I think through everyone I’ve ever seen at Liam’s house, anyone he could’ve recruited to do his dirty work. Anyone I’ve wronged who has an abandoned barn or warehouse or garage. All the people I’ve threatened for cash.

  The people I hang with are shady, but I guess I never thought I’d end up on the wrong side of it.

  The weird thing about being a victim is, no one expects it to be them. Victims are always someone else, someone tragically naïve who foolishly trusts the wrong person. I’d never make bad decisions like that. I was always careful. And yet, it wasn’t enough. A wave of vulnerability washes over me, and there’s nothing I can do about it. It’s all too familiar.

  * * *

  —

  My insides felt like a bowl of snakes, writhing and wriggling, threatening to burst out of my skin. I couldn’t take it anymore. None of my friends were speaking to me. I had to talk to someone.

  I slipped into Coach Bratten’s office after soccer practice. She’d ridden our asses in scrimmage for the past week, but I liked her. I trusted her.

  “Can I talk to you?” My sweaty brown hair stuck to my forehead. I’d played like shit during practice, and I was kind of worried Coach would call it out.

  “Of course. You okay, Autumn? Come in, sit down.”

  I took a seat across the desk, my hands wringing in my lap. I didn’t know how to say it. I didn’t even know what exactly I wanted to say. “I feel kind of . . . weird. About something that happened last weekend.”

  She watched me, concern written all over her face.

  “I went to a party. With my stepbrother.”

  I waited for the inevitable gushing, the usual Oh, you’re Chris Pike’s stepsister! He’s so great! But Coach Bratten didn’t speak. She just listened.

  I rubbed my upper arm. “I got drunk. Really drunk. And then we got home and . . . it just kind of happened.”

  * * *

  —

  I pull myself out of my memories.

  “All right, Ivy.” I snap my fingers. “C’mon.”

  I lean closer to see what she’s looking at. A minimized YouTube video is open on her screen, showing a recording of some guy playing a video game. His avatar prowls across the window holding a scythe. A CGI zombie pops out from the side of a building. The avatar chops it down to a sound effect I can only describe as slicing into a melon. Green blood spatters everywhere.

  Ivy grabs her phone off the side table. She opens a text with Patrick and types out, hey, I’m really sorry I didn’t get back to you earlier, I had a crappy night. Wanna hang out tomorrow? She watches it for a good thirty seconds before deleting it and retyping, hey, sorry, I had the worst night, ugh with a frowny emoji.

  When she deletes that one unsent, too, I full-on groan. “Can you send something already so we can figure out a plan?”

  Finally, she types out, Ice cream was good! and hits Send.

  “What, you can’t tell him you had a shitty night?” I snap. “You’re allowed to be upset, you kn
ow.”

  An eerie sense of déjà vu falls over me. You’re allowed to be upset, Autumn. I hear the words in my head, in my old soccer coach’s voice.

  Ivy opens Google in a new window and starts typing, what’s the punishment for breaking and entering in New Hampshire? I huff. She’s too distracted.

  Then she deletes it and types, What is the sentence for being an accomplice to breaking and entering in New Hampshire?

  My chest tightens. Ivy is the only person I know who’d be facing serious trouble and worry about her friends instead of herself.

  Maybe I don’t know enough good people.

  When prison sentences and felonies show up in the search results, she slams the screen closed, drowning the room in darkness. She shoves the laptop to the side. Something between fear and defeat clouds her features.

  Ivy can’t get scared and stop looking for me. I need her. I need a way to convince her.

  “Okay, they’re not going to turn you in. You do not have to worry.”

  She lies awake, staring at the ceiling. It’s weird being here, watching. Like I’m creeping on her through the window. Seeing all those little bursts of emotion she doesn’t think anyone witnessed.

  I remember when Ivy called the police, she didn’t know how to answer any of their questions. I’m learning all about Ivy, but she doesn’t know anything about me. I’ve spent years building a steel cage around my heart, not letting anyone inside. Not even my sister.

  “I drive to Sewall’s Falls, park my car by the river, recline the driver’s seat, and sleep.” I twiddle my fingers, not daring to catch her eye even though she can’t see me. “Sometimes I go to the big parking garage downtown and drive to the top floor. I sit on the roof of my car and look out at the city—I mean, if you can call it a city.” Everyone does, and I’ve never understood it. “I don’t know. I guess it’s kind of comforting.” I fidget. “Now you know. That’s where I go when I run away. It’s probably not what you’re expecting.”

  Ivy doesn’t react.

  It strikes me that I’ve spoken to my sister more today than in the past three years combined. Weird that dying would be the catalyst to make us talk. Maybe it doesn’t count because she can’t actually hear me.

  I swallow hard. “I’m really scared, Ivy.”

  She rolls to the fetal position on her right, but her open eyes still twinkle from the moonlight pouring through the window.

  I lean back, resting my head against the wall. “Remember the last time we went trick-or-treating? I was a leopard, and you were . . . oh my God, wasn’t that the year you went as a bar of soap? You had those giant silver balloons taped all over you, the bubbles.” She won best costume at our church Halloween party that year, and used her prize—a gift card to Target—to get me the Advent calendar I’d wanted, with plastic jungle animals inside every box. “It was really cool of you to get me that calendar. I still have all the animals. I should get them out and line them up on my dresser, like I did at our old house.” The moment I say it, I mentally take it back. I don’t want those in my room.

  For some reason, that memory evokes something, and I remember the exact moment we last talked—really talked. It was three years ago.

  * * *

  —

  I was sitting in the kitchen, working on my bio homework and tapping my pencil against the table. I couldn’t focus. I kept replaying the party, the music, the taste of vomit in my throat.

  It wasn’t a big deal. It was just sex.

  I shouldn’t have told Coach Bratten. She probably thought I was over-reacting—I was overreacting.

  My eyes kept darting to the clock, because I wanted to be in my room with the door closed by five thirty, fifteen minutes after football practice ended. I twisted my short hair around my fingers, still adjusting to the length. My knee bounced against my hand.

  Ivy wandered into the room. She was still just a seventh-grader, sheltered by the buffer of middle school. There was no way she would know . . . would she? I’d reported the Instagram post and it was taken down about two hours after it went up. Maybe my sister had heard about it. The thought froze me to my seat, like my feet had grown roots into the floor beneath me.

  Before I could open my mouth, the words flew out of hers.

  “Leah Breyers’s sister is in your grade. She said you hooked up with Chris at that party.” Her mouth contorted into disgust. “Is that true?”

  Hearing it straight from my sister’s mouth was like getting smacked. That meant it was flying through the Concord grapevine faster than the time Jenn Butler got her period onstage during the school’s production of Oklahoma!

  I don’t know what got into me, but before I could stop myself, I sprang off the chair and got right up in her face.

  “You don’t know anything. Why don’t you mind your fucking business?”

  Her eyes grew wide. “I was just asking.”

  “Well, I wish you’d leave me alone. I wish you weren’t here. In fact, I wish you weren’t even my sister.”

  * * *

  —

  Even now, three years later, I can still feel the shock waves passing through our tiny kitchen. After that, I always imagined her looking at me and seeing only that rumor. I hated how everyone coddled her but acted like I was a walking train wreck who couldn’t keep my shit together. I hated it. I hated her.

  “I shouldn’t have said that to you.” I fix my eyes on the dark floor. “About wishing you weren’t my sister.” I reach out to grab her hand, but end up retracting it at the last minute. “I’m glad you’re my sister.”

  I look over to see if she’s watching me, but Ivy’s already fast asleep.

  SUNDAY

  IVY

  I’ve never been drunk, but I’m pretty sure this is what a hangover feels like. When morning sunlight seeps through my blinds, a headache is already pounding behind my forehead. I wince, pulling the covers back over my face.

  I was half hoping I’d wake up and last night would be a bad dream, but I’m not that lucky.

  My eyes burn like I rubbed sand in them. Ugh. I blink at my digital clock on the desk. It takes me a second to register the clear numbers staring back at me, broadcasting 10:25.

  Oh shit. I slept in my contacts.

  That jars me awake. I roll out of bed, stumbling into the desk, which impales me right in the thigh. This is not my finest moment.

  I rip open the door and plow into Autumn’s room, my heart in my throat.

  The single flame of hope inside me is extinguished like a snuffed candle. Her empty bed looks almost gloomier today, the sheets exactly as I left them yesterday.

  She’s not here.

  After practically scraping the lenses out of my eyes, squirting half a bottle of eye drops into them, and putting on my glasses, it’s time to face the inevitable. I grab my phone, mentally preparing myself. For all I know, they’ve already texted me with restraining orders. Cringing, I unlock the screen. Seventeen texts.

  Alexa: Good morning sunshine, you okay?

  Alexa: That was some awesome window-diving last night, I’m so proud.

  Sophie: IVY! My love. How are you feeling?

  Sophie: I’m sooo tired. Need caffeine. Dunkin’ later?

  Ahmed: Just checking in to make sure you got some sleep! Next time I call one of the masks.

  Kevin: I thought we actually did a pretty good job acting last night—they didn’t suspect a thing until the very end!

  Jason: Gonna spam you with GIFs until you’re not frowny anymore.

  I find GIFs of otters eating, people tripping, and Darth Vader yelling. He totally knows me, because he was right; it does make me smile.

  I open a new window and add the entire Nerd Herd to a group chat.

  Hey guys. I just wanted to say I love you and owe you a ton. No sign of Autumn yet, but hoping she’ll show up today. Thanks for be
ing awesome. I’m really sorry. Glad you don’t hate me. xx

  I leave my phone on my side table next to Autumn’s and head downstairs in my pajamas. Dad’s standing over the kitchen table, his phone pressed to his ear.

  “All right. Thanks. I appreciate it.” He hangs up.

  My ears perk. “Was it Autumn?”

  “No.” He collapses into the chair. “That was the police.”

  I jolt.

  “I called to see if they had any updates. They don’t.”

  I let out a heavy breath. Okay, I shouldn’t be relieved to hear that, but I am glad they weren’t calling to say I’m being thrown in jail or that something unspeakable happened to Autumn. “Have they been trying, at least?”

  He props his elbows on the table and rests his head in his hands. “I don’t know.”

  Two things I inherited from my dad: his metabolism, and his allergy to confrontation. Really hoping that doesn’t mean I’m also doomed to get a giant bald spot.

  I open the fridge and pull out a strawberry yogurt. “Well, are they gonna look for her? Call them back. Let’s bug them.”

  “They think she doesn’t want to be found.”

  “She’s only eighteen, Dad. She’s your kid.” I peel off the lid and shove a spoonful into my mouth. “They’re treating her like a criminal.”

  Dad doesn’t respond, but I can almost hear the unspoken because she acts like one.

  I finish my breakfast and dump my spoon in the sink. “Can we track her somehow? Does she have a credit card or an account or something?”

  Dad’s shoulders hunch. He takes a swig of his coffee and sets the mug back down, harder than necessary. “She has a bank card, and I checked it already. Hasn’t been used in two weeks. I’ve also been tracking that emergency Uber account I set up for you girls, and nothing.”

  “Are you going to—”

  The back door swings open, cutting me off. Kathy bustles into the kitchen with a stack of pink paper. “I hung these up all over town.” She holds up the top sheet. Autumn’s senior portrait smirks back at me in black and pink.