Change Of Season (4 page)

Racing words, racing thoughts:  it never stopped these days.  Buzzing and whispering, vicious accusations and revelations spun webs around her until she was hog-tied to her misery, relentlessly squirming as the insects infested, laying their angry word-eggs in her ears.  There was no peace when the hornet’s nest was stirred; it never slept, but only fed upon her mind, her memories, moths eating holes in her joys long gone.  Biting her lip to ground herself, Autumn sang quietly into her pillow, hoping her sister in sadness would find solace in her solidarity, and that perhaps she would soothe the ceaseless whispers in madness’ wake.

31

Change Of Season

THREE

September 18
th
, 2010 10:13 p.m.

My apologies, journal; it’s been a really strange and hectic week around good ol’ Jarvis Collegiate.  I only managed to find this time by bailing on Heather for our usual movie night by exaggerating my headache into a migraine.  White lies, white lines?  Fuck, now I’ve got that song in my head.  Might as well dig out the
Shaun of the Dead
DVD now. 

For the record, journal, the second album I ever bought for myself was Arcade Fire’s
Funeral
. 

But I’m going off track here, which is a bad thing, since I really need to sort this all out on paper fast, before my teenage hormones take charge of matters.  Monday was cheerleading and football try-outs – second week of the school year, without fail, and since it’s our grade ten year, Heather’s eligible to shoot for junior varsity.  Now, I love Heather – we’ve been best friends for years, and will likely be those obnoxious girls who are each other’s bridesmaids and crap – but cheerleading is painfully dull to watch when done poorly and frankly, Heather had no competition.  So I was tucked up on the bleachers, working on this short story idea I have involving a homeless teen girl’s typical day, when suddenly, I had company.

“Taking notes for the paper?” I heard behind me.

I spun around, slamming the notebook shut, and well... Holy shit!  Extreme hotness ranking a full Johnny Depp on the sex appeal scale standing there, smiling at me.  I couldn’t even answer him at first.  ME.  I never shut up.  It’s what I’m known for, and what I love to do (talking, I mean).  I finally managed to mumble about it being recreational or some other vague and ridiculous reply, and he didn’t go away. 

The way he stared... It was a Heather moment.  I’m the friend, every guy’s female buddy, the wing-gal to Heather and Corrina.  Even the sunlight was framing him in this angelic hue.  I was starting to feel delusional, and then he sat down beside me.

“Grade ten?” he guessed, to which I nodded. “I’m in eleven.  Moved here from Calgary.”

“What’s Calgary like?” I asked, as calmly as I could.

“Harper’s from Alberta.  Guess.”  Hottie rolled his pale blue eyes (which were like quicksand, since I kept getting stuck staring into them) and I giggled. Our illustrious Prime Minister Harper is the biggest bastard in politics
.
“At least people are a little more open-minded and a little less infatuated with Nickelback here.”

“Ugh, fuck, don’t get me started on Nickelcrap and their crimes against music,” I snarled, scanning the crowd below for Heather.  “So, did you come here to cheer?  Spirit finger it up?”

I was joking, of course.  My social skills had engaged again, and I was back to good old witty Autumn, casual and cool in the face of extreme panty-dropping stress.  Hottie laughed and grinned.

“Only if I get to hoist you over my head,” he replied coyly.

“Alas, I am gross motor skill challenged,” I sadly mused.  “I have long dreamed of being the top of a pyramid of women, but the lesbian in me will have to wait for a college feminism seminar.”

“So you’re trying out for football, then?  I have to say, that’s pretty bold.  Of course, looking at the place kicker down there, I’m sure you’ll make the cut for at least second string.”  Hottie pointed to a scraggly excuse of a kicker, chuckling at his epic failure of a field goal attempt. 

Heather turned to look for me then, and I almost ran onto the field and slapped her face for how obvious she was being.  Like this guy would ever be sitting next to me because he wanted ME!  I started to wonder if maybe he’d seen me with Heather earlier in the day.  It made a lot of sense.  I waved, glaring at my best friend as she stepped up for her second round of auditions.  Rah rah, blah blah blah.  If I were ever a cheerleader, I would be Eliza Dushku in
Bring It On
: all last resorts and insults about spirit fingers. 

“I take it that’s your friend?” Hottie asked.

Yup.  He was into Heather. 

“My best.  I’ve been punching guys out for her since third grade.”

This made the guy laugh, his dark brown waves suddenly tousled by the wind.  It was so Hollywood I wanted to hurl, but he was still so pretty.  Bastard.

Heather nailed her cartwheels and flips with a smile, and I applauded wildly, if only to get them to hurry up and choose her.  I wanted to get away from her latest secret admirer and practice being happy for the two of them as they sucked face. 

“So really, why are you loitering after school when you could be doing so many other things?  I hear watching paint dry is a fulfilling afternoon activity, or there’s always CNN to watch.”  Yes, I was bitter.  I wanted him to go away and stop using me.

“Some of the guys in PE said that the hottest girls in school would be here today,” Hottie replied nonchalantly. 

“See any around?” I asked abruptly, tucking my notebook into my backpack.

And then, he did the last thing I would have ever guessed: his hand grazed my cheek, tilting my face towards his.  A hormone grenade went straight to my crotch.

“Just one,” he whispered.

Hollywood! So damn Hollywood!  A part of me was waiting for Zac Efron to appear and sing it up through my So-Called High School Musical life.  A part of me desperately wanted to be kissed by the soft, full lips just inches away.

“Have you seen your doctor about your deteriorating vision?” I joked weakly.

“What’s your name?” he asked, his hand falling to my knee and triggering filthy thoughts I’d first started having at age eleven while watching – shocker! – a Johnny Depp movie.

I couldn’t speak.  It was absolutely pathetic.  Lucky for me, and I say that sarcastically, Heather bounded up beside us.

“Autumn, I’m on the squad!” she squealed, her brown hair fluttering across her face as she did what I assume was a victory dance.  “I might even be a co-captain! I… Oh!”

Heather’s brain had finally delivered a message to her mouth:  “You are ruining this for your friend, so shut the fuck up.”

“Autumn?”  Hottie murmured.  “Very fitting.”

Fitting is a polite term for lame.  I’m tempted at times to change my hair colour to jet black, or blue, just to ruin the cutesy image of the redhead named Autumn.  My dad still owes me a really nice car for my endless humiliation.

“I’m Heather,” my friend blurted out quickly, giving me a quick slide glare.  “I don’t think I’ve met you before.”

“You haven’t. I transferred here this year.  Chris Miller.”  He leaned back from me slightly, nodding to the field below the stands.  “Good job out there.”

“Thanks!” Heather was blushing, and I shot her a look screaming, “See?!”  He was criminally hot… Boy next door features, but mature, somehow.

“We should get going.  I have that assignment,” I blurted out nervously, rising to my feet in a hurry.  I needed a cold shower.  I needed to run away and get Heather’s opinion on the whole damn conversation. 

“We can’t have you failing school,” Chris interjected, grinning.  “I hear there’s academic requirements for being a cheerleader.  How else will I get to see you in the uniform?”

“I’m terminally uncoordinated.  Lesbian college orgy, remember?”  I was grasping desperately.  Cool Autumn had checked the fuck out again.  Bitch.

“Lesbian what?” Heather gasped.

“I’ll explain later,” I pleaded.  “Nice meeting you, Chris.”

I swear, on the wind, I heard him murmur about the pleasure being his.  It was excellent fodder for my nightly shower fantasies.

I got all the way to today, thinking it was a one-time deal.  Heather wanted me to dress sexy and go hit on him in the caf, but I was not that kind of girl.  Plus… well, why would he want me?  Now that I was painfully aware of him, I noticed the gaggle of giggling girl-geese that surrounded him at all times.  I’m plain, except the hair.  Average-sized tits, average waist and hips.  It would be like buying a Honda Civic when you were a millionaire: absolutely ridiculous.  But then Friday came along on the calendar, and with it, Chris at my locker after school.

“My favourite season,” Chris murmured in my ear as I stuffed books onto the top shelf.  “Haven’t seen you in a few days.”

I jumped, colliding with his chest and cursing my pathetic inner swooning.  “I’ve been here.  I’ve got the Trig homework to prove it.”

I turned around and he was right there, just like on the bleachers.  Too close.  Danger!  Alert!  Again, I waited for a director to yell “Cut!” because this could not be my life. 

“I hope you don’t have too much homework,” Chris replied.  “I was hoping you were free tomorrow.  That Sixth Sense director guy’s new movie is out; I figure it’ll make for a great comedy.  Or that Emma Stone one.”

“
Easy A
?”

Chris grinned.  “That’s the one.”

“You know, the way you’re smiling, it sounds like you’re wishing for it.”  I was shocked at my boldness for a moment, but kept it up.  “There are no easy A’s around here.”

“That’s okay.  I like to earn my grades.”

Behind us, I heard a popular bitch, one of those girls who thinks she’s the next Lauren Conrad, call me a slut.  Well hey there, jealousy!  I then got the damn Gin Blossoms song stuck in my head, which made trading witty comments far more difficult.

“Grades are earned when you turn in an assignment, or pass a test,” I managed.

“So give me an assignment,” Chris countered.  “Challenge me.”

“Who said you were in my class?” I fired back, wishing Heather would hurry the hell up and save me.

“Touché,” Chris said.  “Autumn, please, let me take you out.  As a friend, even.”

I stuffed my homework into my backpack, forcing myself to stop staring into those panty-dropper eyes that were so goddamn unfair to fight against.  “I really don’t know.  Besides, there are plenty of other willing women stalking you around the halls.  You’re hardly lonely.”

He seized my backpack from the ground, pulling me to meet his eyes.  “I already told you: I only see one woman around here.”

From behind me, mercy came in the form of a perky brunette:  “Hey, Autumn! We going?”

“Coming, Heather!”  I shrugged my arm into my back pack.  “I have to go.  I’ll see you.”

Slamming my locker, I didn’t give him a chance to reply.  Heather immediately called me a lunatic when I told her that I’d refused a date with Chris, but she just didn’t get it.  Guys like him dated girls like me for one reason:  sex.  And although I was hardly saving myself for marriage, I was saving myself for a longer-term relationship.  Why get my heart broken again?  The last guy I’d dated had dumped me after seventeen days for not putting out – in grade eight.

He’s now the father of a nine month-old baby girl named Desiree, by the way.  Corrina told me that last week.

By the time we’d hit my place, it was obvious that Heather was determined to get us to date.  Which, of course, is why finding that damn note he’d somehow slipped into my bag sealed my pseudo-illness tonight.  Heather stole his damn phone number, with every intent of inviting him over (along with her boyfriend, James) for our movie night.  I dodged a bullet for now, but the barrel’s still locked and loaded.  Heather is stubborn as hell, and determined to have a double wedding fresh out of high school.  Chris is her knight in shining, perfectly aligned teeth.

Ugh.  I swear to God, journal, this really could be a movie.  Or a book.  Fuck, I even write like I’m creating a novel in here.  If I script a solution in here, will it play out in real life the same way?  Is it actually possible that this extremely good-looking guy is interested in me?  Should I listen to Heather and just go for it?

Why am I asking you?  It’s not like you’re going to go all
Harry Potter
and write back to me.  Screw it.  If he wants an assignment, he’s got it:  convince me you’re not out to fuck and run, Chris.  Ready, set…

39

Change Of Season

FOUR

Oakville; September 6
th
, 2011

Headmistress Ratched
, as Autumn had dubbed her, was in her usual miserable spirits when she reported to her office at five minutes before nine.  Being part of her precious Behavioural Reform program, Autumn assumed that
Ratched
expected her to ditch, or show up late, and had made an effort to drag herself to the administrative building a little early.

Judging by the scowl complimenting her icy stare, Autumn had assumed correctly. 
That’s right, Ratched: I’m your very own McMurphy.  And I’m pretty sure my parents won’t consent to a lobotomy, so stuff it
!

She was led down a winding series of corridors and a short flight of stairs to an office, upon which she noted a small golden nameplate: 
Dr. E. Stieg, Psy.D. 
Autumn tossed her damp hair over her right shoulder and smoothed her blue plaid kilt as
Ratched
knocked then stepped into the office, ushering Autumn in behind her. 

“Dr. Stieg, I present your new client.  This is Autumn Brody, the student I advised you of.”

Autumn grimaced at the French knot securing greying auburn locks at the nape of the doctor’s neck. 
Stuffy shrink.  Lovely
.  But when she spun around, her evaluation shifted.  A loose tendril of hair drifted beside fine-rimmed glasses, behind which a set of pale blue-grey eyes scanned her.  She smiled warmly and it reached her eyes, light laugh lines apparent.  The slightly rumpled blouse also betrayed a relaxed attitude. 
Maybe not so stuffy
?

“Autumn!  Very nice to meet you.  Thank you, Headmistress Logan.” 

There was a slight stressing of the word headmistress, as if Dr. Stieg were mocking her.  Autumn’s eyebrow raised slightly and she swore the middle-aged woman before her winked as Autumn’s nemesis spun on her heel and retreated, shutting the door firmly behind her.

“Have a seat,” the shrink offered, gesturing to a large leather chair and matching couch.  “Do you like music?”

Autumn hesitantly took the couch, stretching her legs along the cushions.  “Music?”

“Yes.  Will It bother you if we listen to music in the background?  I find it makes sessions much easier for my clients, as a rule.”

Autumn shrugged. “Have anything good?”

“Define good,” Dr. Stieg replied, pulling up iTunes on her computer.

“Keep it CanCon, but nothing jazzy or Anne Murray.  And definitely not Bieber.” 

The shrink’s laugh was as genuine as her smile.  “I have a strict rule against Bieber.  He’s a creepy little bastard.  How’s this?”

Autumn’s lips curled into a smile as an older Metric song softly pumped from the speakers on the desk.  “I approve.  So, how does this work?  Do we play Twenty Questions until you decide which label fits me best, and then drug me up so I’m befitting the mighty standards of Casteel?”

Dr. Stieg spun her chair to face Autumn, reclining backwards as she loosely crossed her legs.  “Do you want to be medicated?”

“Do I have a choice?” she fired back.

“You’re sixteen, Autumn.  That means you have the right to confidentiality of medical treatment, including medication.  The only limits to that confidentiality are if you threaten suicide, threaten to harm another, or report that any child has been or is being abused.  To me, that means you’re old enough to have a say in how we approach your problems.”

Autumn shrugged, sighing.  “I’d like to avoid daily meds.  But then again, the problem is a grand mystery.  Two doctors have yet to reach consensus.  Do you think you’ll fare better?”

Dr. Stieg smiled.  “If I’m right, and this is more engagement than you’ve shown with them, then yes.  But only you can dictate that success.  We need to work towards a partnership.  That’s what good therapy should be:  a collaborative endeavour.  We each bring our own expertise to the table.”

“And what expertise do I have?  My ability to journal as if my life depended on it?  My ability to barely scrape by in school?”

“You are the expert on yourself, Autumn.  I am not you.  You know your history, your feelings, the way you think.  Without that, I’m shooting in the dark.”  Leaning forward, the doctor added, “You have the power in this room.  You have choices.  For example, let’s take a look at your class timetable and my schedule, and find a time for our sessions that doesn’t have you skipping Biology every Monday.”

Autumn found herself toying absently with a lock of hair, weighing her new shrink’s words. 
I have the power
.  In so many ways, she’d been powerless.  Having even a modicum of it now would be a very welcome change.  Taking the paper offered to her by Dr. Stieg, she hummed along with the music while scanning the schedule.  It was pretty easy to follow:  Monday through Wednesday, she had a set four class schedule with a lunch period in the middle.  On Thursdays, the day was shortened to three classes; on Friday afternoons, she had only Creative Writing, from 1:30 until 3:00.  During orientation, the academic advisors had explained that schedules were a little strange to accommodate the arts programming that often ran in three-hour blocks, to ensure students from all streams were able to blend into the core classes.  Autumn was happy: if there was any class she’d prefer to have holding her back from an early Friday, Creative Writing was it.

“Now, I am available until five most days, but I know that after a full day of class, the last thing anyone wants to do is talk about serious stuff,” Dr. Stieg began.  “We could book you in for a lunch session, but that’s up to you.”

“How long are these sessions?” Autumn asked.

“One hour, although usually, if it’s been a hard one, we close off a few minutes early.”

Autumn tapped the page.  “What about Friday… like, before class?”

The doctor scanned her calendar.  “Fridays at noon?  Gives you half an hour to get a snack and get to class.  Professor St. James is very relaxed, so he’ll let you eat during class, anyway.”

“Okay.  Noon it is.”  Autumn paused, biting her lip as her eyes wandered the office.  “So, um, what else are we doing today?”

“This is only a planning session.  No heavy emotional lifting today,” the doctor quipped, hitting save on Autumn’s appointment slot.  “If you have any other questions, I’m happy to answer them.  Otherwise, if I could have your writing assignment, I’ll sign off on your late slip and you’re on your way.”

Autumn handed her a flash drive from her purse.  “I didn’t get my printer set up yet,” she explained apologetically.

“Not a problem!”  Autumn watched as she made quick work of printing the file out, stapling the pages together neatly.  “I look forward to reading it.  I’m always curious as to how clients will react to the exercise.”

“What’s the point of it?”

“What do you think the point was?”

“Pissing me off?” Autumn replied sweetly.

“In a way, absolutely.  It forces you out of a comfort zone, encouraging free association.  Sometimes, clients are very frank about what their needs are, while some demonstrate how they think.  Some just write colourful language on a page and turn it in.  Those are some of my favourites.”  The doctor winked as Autumn laughed in surprise.  “Which will you be, I wonder?”

“You’re fifty shades of fucking weird, Dr. Stieg.”

“Call me Emma,” she corrected.  “And thank you.  I try my best.  Here’s your slip.”

Autumn fanned the small square around, pleased that the reason was listed as “Advisor Appointment“.  Nice and generic.  Nothing screamed crazy about that.  She murmured her thanks as she collected her book bag from the couch, tucking the strap over her shoulder before heading for the door.  As her hand connected with the knob, she paused to turn back towards Emma.

“Have any Arcade Fire on there?” she asked, pointing to the computer.

Emma nodded enthusiastically.  “All three albums.  I love them.” 

“Next session, queue up
The Suburbs
.”

Emma laughed.  “Have a great week, Autumn.  If you need anything before Friday, come see me.”

With a little nod to the receptionist on her way out, Autumn examined her timetable, checking the mounted map outside the Administrative Building for the location of her first class.  Maybe this therapy business wouldn’t be so bad.  If nothing else, she could stubbornly refuse to speak to a wicked soundtrack each week.  Perhaps Headmistress Bitchy-Pants was the exception to the rule at Casteel Prep; after all, Emma had said her Creative Writing professor was nice.  Inhaling the warm air deeply, Autumn sauntered off to Biology, optimistic for the first time since Jarvis Collegiate had suggested their brand of alternative schooling.

Autumn soon found, however, that her
Nurse Ratched
was not the only member of staff with a stick lodged in the rectal cavity.

In spite of her official slip from Emma, her Biology instructor, Dr. Paul Grant, was an absolute ass about having to spend a whole three minutes catching her up, correcting attendance and handing her the syllabus and textbook.  Having shown up late, she found herself stuck at the very front of the room, seated next to the sort of prissy blonde she loathed at her old school – the kind that thought the
Jersey Shore
orange skin glow was somehow attractive. 
Maybe if you’re looking to bump uglies with an Oompa-Loompa
, Autumn snickered to herself. 
“Preppy want smoosh-smoosh!”
 

It was the first class of the first day back and the jerk was already yammering away about cell structure as if anyone was actually listening.  Autumn absently made notes from the textbook version of things, ignoring the curt voice of a guy who’d apparently attended the Severus Snape School of Teaching.  He even resembled the surly potion guru of the
Harry Potter
films – so much so that Autumn couldn’t resist muttering
Avada Kedavra
under her breath as she headed to Math next.

This whole business of not allowing pets was really pissing her off now.  Hogwarts without animals?  Completely unfair.

Luck was on her side for second period:  the classroom was in the core building next door and Autumn, without friends to delay her arrival, was able to secure a seat in the back row beside the window.  Math wasn’t one of her strongest classes – she had to work at it to get an A – but it was at least predictable and logical.  There was a methodology to each and every question and once she’d learned it, it was time for auto-pilot.  Some of her best poems during her last year at Jarvis were written during Math lectures.  Flipping open her writing journal, she began jotting down her impressions of Dr. Stieg for journaling later. 

“Hey!” a familiar voice called out to her right.  “I was wondering if you were in any classes with me.”

You have got to be fucking kidding
, Autumn thought in exasperation.  Turning her head and slamming her book shut, the mystery blonde she’d bumped into the night before plunked down in the seat beside her and tugged a notebook from a canvas tote.  Today, her accidental stalker wore her hair in wild waves, her kilt hiked up just enough to showcase her slender thighs for the ogling jock at the front of her room.  Noticing his stare, the blonde shook her head, mouthing the words
Not a chance in hell
at him.  Defeated, the burly gawker pouted and took his seat.

“New here?”

“Yeah.”  Autumn struggled to think of how to blow the girl off kindly, tapping her pencil furiously.

“I’m Veronica Laurel St. Clair, and I swear I’m not a snooty socialite for spelling it all out. I just love telling people about my middle name’s backstory.”

“Your middle name has a story?” 

“I’ve been an inmate here since 2006.  Drama program.  We like monologues.  Anyway, my mother is a huge fan of Francesca Lia Block, and a recovered anorectic.  Laurel’s the anorexic character in one of Block’s books, which is a weird way to pick a name for your child, but it’s pretty.”  Veronica dashed on clear lip gloss with a swipe of an applicator, then tossed the tube into her bag. “You’re not Drama, though; I can tell.  Hmm… Writer.  Yep.  Definitely Creative Writing.”

Autumn tilted her head askance.  “How-”

“The journal,” Veronica interjected.  “It has lines, so you’re not Visual Arts.  You’re too shy and withdrawn for Vocal Music or Drama and the band geeks seems to carry their gear constantly.  That left Writing and Film Studies.  Took a good guess.” 

Her smile was sincere, like Emma’s.  A part of Autumn longed for an ally in her isolation, and Veronica was everything good about Heather, or so it seemed.  But, as she well knew, people were usually anything but.  Venom lurked in the veins of the seemingly docile.

“I’m Autumn,” she said quietly. 
Maybe acquaintances, but no friends
.

“I love it!  I’m sure you hate it by now, but it’s beautiful,” Veronica added, her eyes drifting towards a commotion near the front of the room.  “And here comes Jesus Calculus.”