Change Of Season (11 page)

Logan wavered slightly, a flicker of unease in her icy blue eyes.  “I am, yes.  It won awards, this show?  I’m sure you’ll all be rather busy with your rehearsals for the next while.”

Veronica nodded firmly.  “Of course.  The production is of tremendous value to the Drama program’s success, and an excellent launch for our future studies at the post-secondary level.  I can’t recall:  how much revenue did
bare
generate last year?”

Autumn’s eyes widened, her torso slumping lower in the chair as she studied her friend.  Was she… She had to be mad, to call out the Headmistress of Casteel.  But there was no mistaking it: as wonderful an actress as Veronica surely was, her tone was a little
too
saccharine to be genuine.

This was war, being waged in her defense.

“I think it was close to eighteen hundred dollars, if I recall the figure correctly.  It was in the student quarterly newsletter last year,” Logan replied brusquely.

“That’s right!”  Veronica gasped dramatically.  “And it was such a boon, too, what with the set and costume costs being only a hundred and fifty, since we were able to use our school uniforms.  We even added an extra show, due to demand.”

“We did,” Logan reluctantly concurred. 

They had an audience now:  several Drama students were huddled nearby, whispering as they watched the verbal repartee.  Autumn pressed her eyes shut. 
It’s okay, Veronica; don’t get yourself in trouble for me
.  Her arms wrapped around her trembling frame, as if to hold in the tears threatening to free-fall from her eyes.

“Well, it was lovely seeing you, Headmistress, but Autumn and I need to locate sheet music for my audition pieces.  I hope you’ll stop by and watch the auditions; I value your support, as I’m sure my mother values it.”  Veronica tossed her tote over her shoulder casually, extending a hand to Autumn.  “Let’s go!  I don’t want to keep your folks waiting.”

“I will see about coming by, Miss St. Clair.  Try not to keep Miss Brody from her own studies for too long.  Good day.”

Check and mate
.  With a soft squeak, she pivoted upon her heel, storming out of the auditorium in an obvious huff.  Shakily rising to her feet, Autumn stared at Veronica in confusion, with a large helping of awestruck.

“You didn’t have to-”

“That cow
knows
it’s your birthday, and there is nothing that forbids you hanging here with us.  I will
not
sit by and watch her harass you.”  Veronica was seething, her hands curling into fists at her side.  “And considering the money
my
mom pays, and considering the alumni donations
our
productions draw out, she can go sit on a croquet stick and spin.” Turning behind her, she called out, “I’m gonna bail.  Can someone slot me in for tomorrow afternoon at some time?”

“I’ll get you down,” a slight raven-haired girl replied, heading for a posted calendar on a nearby wall.  “And that was brilliant, V.”

“It was what the bitch deserved.  I hope Hurst
does
do this by the book, and makes sure Logan gets a face full of bare ass during the ‘I Believe’ sequence.  Come on, Autumn.  Let’s go find a party favour.”

She pulled Autumn along, her blonde waves flying wildly across her face as they crossed the road to the quad.  With a glance each way, she nodded to herself and headed straight for the Athletics complex, dress shoes sinking slightly into the damp grass.

“Veronica?”

“Hmm?”

“Thank you.”  It was scarcely more than a whisper, but it was all she could choke out past the grit in her throat.

Veronica halted, facing her with a smile.  A genuine one, not the Mary Poppins fake one she’d fed Logan. 

“You’re my friend.  Friends have each other’s backs.  Now, I just saw my buddy Keenan head behind the pool, which means he has something herbal.  Shall we get hungry for our birthday sushi?”

Autumn found her lips curling up of their own accord.  “Hell yes.  Lead the way.”

***

It was with a pulsing temple and a groan that Autumn’s right eye opened slowly, cursing her alarm clock.  Her hand fumbled and swiped wildly at her phone, slapping the keys until the snooze function engaged.  Burying her face in her pillow, she whimpered in pain.

Her birthday had become far more than sushi dinner with the parents.  Sufficiently stoned after their rendevous with Keenan (who was, as Veronica later babbled in Autumn’s room, the best friend of Evan Kowalczyk, the swim team’s star and the crush of half the senior grades), they changed out of their uniforms, located rough tabs for Veronica’s audition piece, then stumbled giggling onto the steps of Ashbury.  By the time Autumn’s bewildered parents pulled up, the two of them were in the middle of a laughing rendition of a
Les Miserables
number, blissfully unaware of students passing by.  Dinner went well – her parents loved Veronica, whose ability to charm only intensified when “in the company of Mary Jane” – and they returned to the dorm with a bevy of goodies from the nearby gas station.  Said goodies become barter for a small bottle of tequila from one of the post-grad students Veronica dated briefly last year, and next thing Autumn knew, she was tipsy and watching
The Breakfast Club
on Netflix.

“Fucking Jose Cuervo,” she mumbled weakly.

A squealing door jolted Autumn awake.  Her heart leapt into her throat as she spun, sighing in relief as Veronica sashayed into her room, clad in a towel and a yawn-smile.

“I swear I left you hot water,” Veronica murmured sleepily.  “How’s the hangover, birthday bitch?”

Autumn shook her head.  “Vodka.  Next time, it’s vodka.”

In her groggy stupor, she’d forgotten that Veronica had opted to stay the night.  Neither of them were coherent enough to risk being spotted in the halls.  She pushed up to her feet, stretching her arms overhead and shuddering as her joints clicked.  Autumn had an irrational loathing of the sound.  It made her stomach turn every time, even if it was someone else’s joints.  She’d always hated how
he
would crack his knuckles on purpose –
No.  Don’t go there
.

“Hey babe, what’s with the chick next door?”

“Hmm?”

Veronica combed her hair roughly, jerking her head towards the adjoining room.  “I swear I heard her crying through the walls.  Is she always sobbing, or did she just get dumped last night or something?”

Autumn frowned.  “I’ve heard it almost every night since I moved in here.  I keep meaning to talk to her, but I never seem to see either of the two in there.”

“Oh!” Veronica bounced as she tossed her towel aside, tugging on her bra. “Speaking of crying:  did you hear that they found that old movie from Nickelodeon this summer,
Cry-Baby Lane
?  You’ve read the Creepypasta on that one, right?”

Autumn twirled a strand of hair absently, still thinking of the mystery of the girl next door.  “Vaguely.  People were freaking on Twitter, I think.  Wasn’t it banned and lost for twenty years?”

“Mmhmm.  Someone found it on an old VHS in their house and soon we all had a crap video file to torrent.  An urban legend comes to life.  It’s not scary, by the way; I watched it the other night.  I don’t get the big ol’ ban.”  With a shimmy, Veronica tugged her skirt up over her hips.  “I’m going to get dressed, go change at my room, then head for breakfast.  Want me to wait for you?”

“Ugh, food sounds like death right now.  I’ll pass and meet you at the theatre, okay?”

“Cool!  Bring your writing homework if you want.  Endless scales and repetitions get dull.  I promise we’ll have time to chill before I hit the bus to Toronto.”  Veronica yanked a tank top over her head, then kissed Autumn’s cheek.  “See ya soon!  By the way, your shampoo rocks!”

Autumn laughed as Veronica skipped out the door, bursting with energy. 
She’s the Tigger to my Eeyore
, she thought wryly.  Feet unsteady and head still throbbing, Autumn stumbled down the hall into the bathroom and prepared to steam the hangover out of her pores.

The shower was the perfect cure for the woozy feeling in her legs, the accompanying Advil chased with a coffee in the dining hall putting a swift end to her headache.  Trudging through dew-kissed grass towards the Media Studies building, Autumn pondered her latest writing assignment.

Write a 500-word piece that takes something routine and allows it to transcend to the mysterious and divine.  Strive towards avoiding direct description of the task or activity depicted.  Metaphor is your friend.
  Autumn enjoyed the challenge of St. James’ assignments.  They always pushed her to think beyond her basic creative notions, and given her stellar grades thus far, he enjoyed where her mind took him.  She had to be cunning with this piece.  It had to avoid the obvious or easy-reaches, like a flowery detailing of brushing her teeth.  Slipping into the theatre, Autumn inhaled deeply.  Inspiration lived here; she could taste it in the air.  She simply had to open her mind and wait.

Veronica, dressed now in flared jeans and a black halter top, was poring over sheet music with a lanky young man that Autumn recognized as part of the Music program.  Several other students scuttled in and out, flipping script pages or scribbling in Moleskin books as if their lives depended upon ink seeping into the fibres.  Slipping into the fifth row, Autumn watched as her friend kicked the stage, flailed her arms then stormed to centre stage, biting her lip.

“Run me through it, Ken!”

A thumping piano line.  Recognition:  this was one of the big numbers of
Spring Awakening
, "The Bitch of Living".  With eyes closed, Veronica’s neck rolled, and she launched into the song with gusto.

Other Drama students froze, smiling and mouthing along as Veronica took on a five-character number and somehow managed to not miss a beat.  With each character change, her mannerisms and inflection altered, each part with its own flavour. 
Musical jambalaya
, Autumn thought briefly, then scurried for her notebook. 
Hello, Muse!
  Veronica’s rehearsals: that would be her writing assignment.

“Yes!” she whispered to herself, jotting down words and phrases.

Veronica was so at home on a stage:  her eyes twinkled mischievously as she ran through several numbers from the musical, playing up the characters of each with gusto.  The thumping rock piano and acoustic guitars were a pulse, circulating her friend from stage right to left.  Her voice and the accompaniment were eloquent call and response, a harmonic
pas de trois. 
Two hours slipped by in a stream of writing and wonder, Autumn’s bladder finally shattering the spell cast by Veronica with a dire clenching that signaled imminent release.  With a hesitant biting of her lip, Autumn approached another Drama major, with whom Veronica had been alternating stage time.

“Hey… um, Meg, right?”

The petite brunette nodded quickly.  “Yep!  God, she sounds amazing.” Meg sighed sadly, twirling a wavy strand about her finger as Veronica hit a series of high notes that had a trio of guys hooting in the back of the theatre.  “I don’t know why I’m bothering to try for Wendla.”

Autumn smiled slightly, shaking her head.  “Don’t say that.  When did Veronica say she was auditioning for Wendla?”

Meg tilted her head askance, eyes narrowing.  “Are you saying-?”

“I’m just saying not to count yourself out,” Autumn interrupted.  “Anyway, I’m about to do the leg-crossing hop.  Where’s the nearest bathroom?”

Meg pointed backstage.  “If you take the steps up and head straight along the corridor, it’s the fourth door.  It’s unlocked today, and it has toilet paper for a change!”  From her sarcastic glee, Autumn sensed this was an ongoing gripe with the female Drama majors.

“Must be my lucky day.  Thanks.”

Autumn shrugged her purse strap higher upon her shoulder as she jogged briskly up the small stairwell through the crushed velvet curtains to her right.  Her sneakers slapped lightly upon the polished steps, stray beams of spotlight casting blinding reflections off the waxed flooring.  A part of her wondered if this was the built-in “break a leg” system of Casteel, a sick way of ensuring a stellar opening night.  Even her trusty Airwalks were skidding slightly. 

The lighting grew dimmer beyond the second steel door, tiny pot lights dotting her way towards her bladder’s promised land.  Thick ropes hung vine-like from the rafters overhead and she danced her fingertips along them, humming to herself as her feet echoed beneath her. 

A familiar scent drifted past her and her heart stopped. 
Eternity.  Calvin Klein
.  She knew it well; she’d bought a bottle of it with points she’d saved at the local drug store as a Christmas gift.  A present she’d returned in January in exchange for obscene amounts of candy and caffeine pills to keep her awake in class.

It was
his
favourite scent.

Her back pressed instinctively into the wall as her eyes darted wildly in both directions.  No one there.  Just the smell of
him
, filling her nostrils.  She gagged and edged closer to the bathroom, palms sliding shakily along the cool cement walls. 
Locked door.  Safety. 
But
he
couldn’t be here:  the only footsteps were her own hesitant shuffles, the only breathing her ragged gasps and choked-back tears.