Change Of Season (17 page)

Autumn chuckled weakly.  “You’re probably still smarter than me.  But yeah, I think I get it.  And maybe that would work, I guess…  Like a compromise?”

“Yeah, I suppose it is.  The history’s not going anywhere, so we can visit it whenever you’d like to.”  Emma reached for a mug of coffee as she continued, “So, in the time we have left, can we talk about your obvious lack of sleep?”

Autumn sighed. 
Maybe I should… no.  But she might know more about Nikki…
 

“I’m having a hard time sleeping,” she admitted.  “My room… it’s hard to sleep there.”

No reaction.

“Why do you think that is?”

Autumn shrugged.  “I’m not sure what bothers me.  I just… get the creeps in there.  Bad vibes.  Anxious.”

Nothing.  If Emma knew anything about the history of room 308, she had an amazing poker face that she ought to take down to the nearest casino. 

“It could just be the adjustment,“ Emma suggested.  “Boarding school is hard for a lot of students, even repeat attendees.  Plenty of your peers struggle to sleep.  Have you tried yoga or deep breathing before bed to settle in?”

Autumn shook her head.  “I usually listen to music, or write until I’m tired.  Most of the time, it works for me.  This week, not so much…”

I’m just staying awake at night, listening for crying that’s suddenly stopped happening and wondering what exactly it’s my turn for, that’s all.  Deep philosophical questions of life after death.  Wondering how my dead look-alike died.  Y’know, teen stuff.

Emma rose slowly.  “Hopefully, you can sleep in this weekend a bit, with the holiday and all.  Maybe take the Ativan before bed?”

Autumn grabbed her backpack off the floor. “Oh, joy.  I’m sure I’ll sleep fine, what with being trapped here while almost everyone goes home for the holidays and wonders why I’m not.  My grandmother’s coming from Buffalo, too, not that Logan cares.”

Emma frowned.  “You can go home Saturday.  Didn’t Headmistress Logan tell you?”

Autumn froze, struggling to remember. “I think she said something on the first day, but it was kinda vague.  Like she was saying yes for appearances, to get my parents out the door.  She’s said nothing since.”

Emma sighed, shaking her head.  “I already cleared you for a pass last week.  You can go home Saturday after lunch, but you have to return by Monday at 4pm.  Sound good?”

Autumn smiled in relief. 
Pandora!  My own bed!  My mom’s cooking!
  Nodding enthusiastically, she exclaimed, “That sounds wonderful!”

“Good, I’m glad!  Have a wonderful Thanksgiving, Autumn, and I’ll see you next Friday.”

“You too.  And thank you.”

Autumn nearly found herself skipping out of the office, even managing a pleasant goodbye to the receptionist as she stepped outside.  But then, full daylight struck her eyes and she winced in pain, suddenly cognizant of an impending migraine. 
Ugh, of course this happens before the one class I actually love!
  Shielding her eyes, she hurried across the street towards class, her mind racing with the possibilities of two whole nights at home, warm in bed with a loving feline.  Maybe she could even find a way to smuggle her back to Casteel.

Distracted, she collided hard with another body, her stomach dropping as she recognized the person she’d bodychecked as her Social Studies instructor, Professor Kearney.

“Oh God, I’m sorry!” she blurted out quickly.  “I’m running late and the sun hurts and-”

“Oh, it’s fine, Miss Brody!” Professor Kearney interrupted, smiling.  “No harm done.  I trust your assignment on Japan is coming along well?”

“Oh, sure.  I outlined it the other day.  Now, if I could get Biology under control, I’d be great.”

He eyed her quizzically, walking with her in the direction of Senior Academics II.  “Do you need some remedial help?  I could recommend someone for you.”

“Oh, it’s not that,” Autumn replied.  “Professor Grant just doesn’t seem to think much of me, I guess.”

Professor Kearney nodded, shuffling his briefcase to his other hand.  “Paul can be a bit grating to everyone.  Thinks he knows everything,” he added, somewhat angrily.  “You’re an exceptional pupil, Miss Brody, and your participation in extra credit experiments has been a great help to my post-graduates.  Try not to let him bother you, and if you ever need an ear or some assistance, feel free to ask.  I did a little Biology in my undergraduate years, so I do know what I’m talking about – sort of.”  He laughed warmly and gestured to the main doors.  “Best get to class, then.”

Autumn smiled through the pulsing in her skull.  “Thanks, Professor Kearney.  I’ll see you in class.”

Aside from Professor St. James –
George
, she corrected herself; he hated formality – Professor Kearney was her favourite instructor at Casteel.  His lectures were always loosely constructed, with plenty of room for class discussions.  Her history teacher at Jarvis had all but ruined the subject for her: he was racist, rude, and droned endless dates and rote facts.  Kearney was the complete opposite.  He made her laugh, and always took time to point out the positive, just like George.  But writing was her passion, and George challenged her with every assignment, and for that, she was endlessly grateful.

In his usual cheery mood, her Creative Writing instructor was already organizing a stack of papers on his desk.  He nodded to her as she entered and tossed her bag on her customary desk near the rear window.  Wincing as her temple throbbed anew, it was undeniable: she wasn’t going to make it through this class with a migraine like this.  Shyly, she approached the front, feeling disappointed at her weakness.

“Um, George?”  It was still strange, addressing a teacher so informally.

“Autumn! You don’t look very well,” he observed immediately.

At least I look ill
.  “Yeah, a migraine that won’t die.  I took Advil but it’s just not going away.  I really don’t want to miss class-”

“If you’re not well, you need to rest.  We’re just reviewing our metaphor assignments and offering constructive feedback in anticipation of the midterm story.  Can you hang on for maybe fifteen minutes?”

Autumn nodded.  “I think so.”

George smiled warmly.  “Good.  You’ll know your cue to duck out.”  Reaching into his briefcase, he hummed triumphantly as he located a small blue note pad that she recognized immediately. 
Excuse slip
. 
Even those come in blue at Casteel
.  Scribbling down a few lines, he folded it neatly, passing it across the desk.  “Go swing by the nurse; maybe she has something to help that head of yours. And do me a favour?”

“Sure.”

Leaning forward, he whispered, “Look: you’re one of the strongest students I’ve had in years. But even us geniuses need downtime.  Please rest up over the weekend? Eat turkey ‘til you pass out, or yams if you’re vegetarian.  Alright?”

Autumn’s lips curled into a genuine smile – the first one all week.  “Deal.”

“Okay, sit! Time to begin!”  Louder, he added, “Alriight! It may be a holiday weekend, but we still have class, so you can pretend to listen.”

With a flurry of hushed whispers and giggles, the room settled into its usual rapt attention.  Professor St. James was well loved; he didn’t need to fight to command his classroom. 

“Today and Tuesday, we will be doing something a little fun, but also helpful to your midterm assignment, which we’ll discuss next week.”  Amused at a groan near the front of the room, he added, “Joey, you won’t die. I’m sure you can spoof another episode of 90210 on the hurry.”  Laughter erupted as the professor reached for a stack of papers, shuffling the pile as he slowly paced the aisles.

“Now, then: you will all recall your metaphor assignment, wherein you attempted to write about the mundane in a way so mysterious, I wouldn’t be able to determine what you were talking about.  The odds were stacked against you, being as I have been teaching for years and was a fan of Pink Floyd in my teens, if you know what I mean.”  He paused, allowing for knowing grins and chuckles.  “However, kudos: two of you almost stumped me entirely, and one of you actually managed to keep me guessing to the very end.  I’m impressed.  It means you’re learning, which is the goal.”

Strolling towards the back of the room, he continued.  “I’m going to hand a story to each of you in turn – names have been removed from these copies, and they are not marked up in any way.  You will read aloud a classmate’s story at random, after which we will offer constructive feedback to the mystery writer.  Please keep it centred on the positives. Imagine yourself as the writer of every one of these stories, and how your comments would sound to you.  Fair enough?”  Arriving at Autumn’s desk, to her dismay, he added, “Your reading aloud is an easy boost on that big ol’ scary participation part of the grade, as well as the comments, of course.”

And then, he handed Autumn a paper with a determined look.  Glancing down, the fifteen minutes request made sense:  he’d handed her a copy of her own story. 
He wants me to get my feedback and participation in
.  With a reluctant smile, she scanned the page, refreshing herself on the content.

“Miss Brody will start us off today with our first anonymous tale.  Please give her the courtesy you’d want for yourselves, and also, try and determine what the writer is describing.  That’s half the fun of the discussion.”

Clearing her throat, Autumn began to read, eyes locked on the page to avoid her watching peers.

Her hands pull the pages from their binding, eyes scanning the directions, the measurements, the ingredients.   She smiles to herself, setting them aside.  She knows the steps by heart – no,
in
heart – but always checks anew.  She is conscientious, precise.  It must be perfect each time.

The vessel awaits:  to what frontier will she steer it today?  Its exterior cool against her palm, she reaches for her waiting materials.  A pinch of this; a scruple of that.  She is a mad scientist at a tea party for one, and it’s always two lumps.  Her eyes dart wildly, each addition blended carefully, each flavour balanced as she constructs her courses. 

She is feeling spicy; it sways in her hips.  A jambalaya, then.

Tender morsels of meat marinate in stewing tomatoes and a healthy shake of cayenne.  Rice, too: every dish needs a foundation of core energy, something relatable for all.  Her lips curl mischievously as her aprons swish around her tan ankles.  More sausage.  The aroma fills the room, spilling forth from the borders of the simmering pot, the centre of the storm. 

One last ingredient remains just out of reach.  Deftly, she mounts a chair, poise of a ballerina even as it tilts halfway, threatening to cast her aside.  She is a siren: no ship will surpass her song. 

The guests gather now, hovering just beyond the entryway, hands outstretched.  It is a scene from
Oliver Twist
, and everyone wants more,
needs
more.  She is a witch, bubbling cauldron bewitching her admirers.  Sweat-misted arms tie her long locks back at the nape of her neck.  It permeates her pores as she stirs, blends, boils over.  Another enters, pressing the lid down, but she shoves it away.  Her talents cannot be contained.

She is the eye of a hurricane.

Again, she scans the pages, retracing the steps of hours.  She has done it all again.  All that remains is to serve her adoring public.

She bathes in their adulation as each spoonful slips down eager throats, scents and sights filling all with wonder.  Cumin meets chiles meets chicken in perfect harmony.  "One woman could not have possibly managed such a feat," they insist, but she has, and always does.  The burn is intense: their tongues crave rushing rivulets of milk even as they continue to consume.  They are insatiable.  The lighting dims, spotlighting their chef against a wall unadorned, and all praise her wares while she dabs at the moist heat clinging to her limbs.  She is spent, but satisfied.

"You’ve outdone yourself again," they coo appreciatively.  "You’re a star, a constellation, even."  She shrugs and laughs good-naturedly as they prattle on.  "I could never do this!" another insists, and she is quick to chastise, to encourage her friend.  "We all can do this," she maintains gracefully, tidying up her counters.

"There must be a trick!" the masses assert, surrounding her.  "You do something specific.  What is it?"  The woman laughs, pulling her wavy locks free.  "You managed the efforts of an entire team!  Tell us," they plead. 

With a shrug, she winks and replies:

“The secret ingredient is sharp.”

In her head, she could picture Veronica clearly: bouncing off the chair centre stage as she dazzled her peers with covering a quintet’s song on her own.  It had been a brilliant little plot bunny that had bounced into her head.  She’d have to show Veronica the drabble.  Maybe it would boost her confidence with Evan? 

Voices jolted her from her distracted thoughts, the discussion beginning.  Cringing inside, she awaited the verdict.

“Okay, it’s
not
about cooking, right?  I mean, that’s the metaphor?” Joey piped up.

George nodded.  “You can trust that the student completed the assignment accurately.  It is a metaphor – a well executed one.  Any guesses as to what the writer was speaking of?”