Change Of Season (26 page)

Stop it!  Dreams are dreams; this is real life!  And real life is…. not friendly.  Not safe.

Neither are zombies.

Grr!

Knocking lightly on the door to the suite, she opened the door, smiling slightly as Andrew obliviously clicked the mouse and spun dials, headphones firmly planted on his ears.  Shutting the door gently, she sank into the impossibly comfortable leather couch, curious as to how long it would take him to notice her. 

After five minutes, her patience ran out, and mischief kicked in.

Sneaking up behind him, she watched the silent footage on screen, mesmerized momentarily by the bonfire centred in the frame.  Orange-yellow flames licked at the lens, hungry and looming large as people warmed their hands, standing shoulder to shoulder in icy solidarity.  It reminded her of nights at summer camp, marshmallows and whispered stories meant to spook them into sleepless sugar-high nights in the bunks.

Speaking of spooking
…  With a grin, she lunged, shaking his shoulders from behind and growling like a zombie.  Startled, he ripped the headphones off, spinning and nearly toppling from his chair.

“Holy shit!”

“Braaaaaaaaiiiiiiiins!” Autumn moaned, shambling closer.

Laughing, Andrew feigned shooting her in the head and she crumpled, giggling on the floor.  “Double-tap!” he declared, feigning a second shot and blowing at the barrel of his finger-gun.  “Jesus, when did you get here?”

“A good five minutes ago.  You’re absolutely right: you would be slaughtered in the zombie apocalypse while editing.”

His hand stretched down and she took it without hesitation, Andrew pulling her to her feet and reaching for his omnipresent coffee cup.  He shook it at her and she declined.  She’d come prepared with her own drinks from the dining hall this time.  With a shrug, he hit pause on the footage and kicked his feet up onto the desk.

“So, how was your day at the elite collegiate environment of Casteel?”

“Same shit, different day.  Veronica decided to analyze the possibility of carnal relations in the staff quarters and the awkwardness that might ensue.  I’m grateful she chose a day where the lunch offerings were dismal.”  Autumn reached down into her bag, retrieving her iPod.  “Brought more music for you to ponder.”

“Awesome!  Load it up.” Andrew gestured to his laptop, sliding his chair out of the way.  “As for the staff, why is Veronica curious?  Is she planning a student-teacher affair?”

“Oh, definitely not!  We were specifically discussing Jesus Calculus,” Autumn replied, scrunching her face in repulsion.  “Besides, she has her eye on a student.  What about you, Mr. Daniels?  Are you hot for teacher?”

“Definitely not interested in private lessons,” Andrew replied, cocking his head as Autumn shuddered, cursing under her breath.  “What did I say?”

Autumn jacked her iPod in, transferring files to his music folder.  “Ugh, there’s a movie by that name. Absolutely pedo-riffic as far as I’m concerned.  And… okay, this is a bit of a long story. You sure you care?”

Andrew nodded eagerly.  “This sounds juicy.  You have to share now – it’s the law of Creative Writing.  You are duty-bound to tell stories to everyone you meet.  Wasn’t that in the welcome package?”

“Right under the line about avoiding Film students, should zombies descend on us,” Autumn replied, leaning against the wall.  “Okay, once upon a time I wanted to watch
Back To the Future
.  This was when I was young and VHS wasn’t a complete dinosaur yet.  I dug out our taped-from-TV copy and hit play.  It’s at the end of the movie, of course, since I’d probably watched it a week prior.  Now, Marty McFly’s the third flick on the tape, and the one before it is
Private Lessons
.  So be kind, rewind, and hit play again, and I’ve gone too far.  What I see horrifies me so much, I still rage when I hear the song.”

“Song?”

“The plot of the film involves some maid or nanny or tutor – I never found out exactly what the hell she was other than gross – screwing a fifteen year-old boy.  At least, I gather this much from the god-awful sight of his pervy smile and her getting down and dirty with him.  Playing in the background?  Rod Stewart’s equally wretched ‘heart and soul’ song.  Gah!”  She shuddered anew.  “So much gross.  If you ever play or sing Rod Stewart, I will hurt you.”

Andrew laughed, shaking his head.  “You poor girl.  I promise, no Rod in this suite.  Rod-free zone.  Wait: there’s a rod in here, but not
that
one.”

“Perv!” Autumn gasped, swatting his arm.

“I can’t help it: the English language is full of puns just waiting to be exploited.  Now, Music Maven, what’s on the menu?”

Autumn flipped into iTunes, pulling up the newly added tracks.  “Lots of nineties goodies await you.  Old school Our Lady Peace, some Seattle grunge, a little Throwing Muses, Tea Party, Barenaked Ladies-”

“Hold up, hold up!  Are you serious?  My documentary’s about homelessness, not Chinese food and sprinklers on lawns.”

“Um, who is the expert here?  Have you ever listened to their complete body of work, as opposed to the huge radio hits?” Autumn asked, indignant.

“Can’t say I have.”

“Well then, prepare to eat your words.  They have depth, too, and I can prove it with multiple tracks.  But for now, we’ll go with my favourite song of theirs.”

With a flourish, she hit play and immediately retreated to the couch, sinking into the leather and closing her eyes.  In her mind, she could see Heather and Corrina, laughing in the Eaton Centre as they chose dresses for grade eight graduation.  Her own smile, vibrant and relaxed, as she sipped her milkshake and agonized over blue and emerald green, as if it mattered.  Once upon a time, it had mattered.  Now, survival was the goal, the life she led.

The couch shifted beneath her, drawing her attention to Andrew, who had joined her.  He listened attentively, fingers lightly drumming along, or perhaps tapping out chords – he did play guitar, after all.  In its own way, music lived within him, too.

“What song is this?” he asked softly.

“‘What A Good Boy’.  From their first album.”

The soft acoustic guitar and upright bass filled the room, the air thick with memories.  She longed for the old days, before
him
, before everything she knew was lost, was wrong.  Why couldn’t she just be normal, whatever that was?  Why did she fear everyone?

Because I don’t trust me to be a judge of character anymore
.

Veronica was safe, a friend whose loyalty ran deep in a scant few weeks.  Had that not been a wise judgment of character? 

He never talks to anyone, but he talks to me.

Andrew understood pain, understood death and loss acutely.  And yet, he smiled around her.  He offered her refuge, and expected only music in return.  He didn’t steal kisses, or invade her space.  He understood, like Steven Page – like her – what it was like to lie awake and wonder if things would ever change.

He was two inches away, still drum-chording on the arm of the couch.  Even now, he was a friend – not a monster.  In her racing mind, she remembered
him
, remembered how she’d found him attractive, but mistrusted his words inherently. 

Andrew doesn’t make me feel that way.  He doesn’t breathe candy-coated lies
.

A taut thread snapped within her, and she collapsed, her head slumping to rest on Andrew’s shoulder.  He hummed briefly, his body still but soft – comfortable.  Closing her eyes, she willed her galloping heart to slow, willed her nerves to steel.

He’s not Chris.  He’s safe, like Veronica
. 

God, how she wanted to believe it, to trust it.  His head leaned slightly, gently resting against hers, but he remained motionless otherwise.  He was calm, a still lake on a cool evening.  He was the water of her beach, and she met him like the sand, hardened but open to sharing the shoreline.

Safe.  I just want somewhere safe
. 

The song drifted to a close, Steven Page’s voice rich and bluesy, and she hesitated, the scent of him gentle and earthy.  She could almost fall asleep right now, she was so at ease. 

“You win.  That was a beautiful song,” Andrew mused aloud.

“Told you,” she replied quietly, swallowing hard.  “‘Call and Answer’ is great too, and so’s ‘Alcohol’, which might work out for you.  It’s about addiction.”

“Duly noted.  What’s this?” he asked as a new song began.

“Sounds like Veruca Salt.  More music to entertain you rather than suiting the film.  But, um, there’s another great one from a band you wouldn’t predict.”

Her resolve crumbled and she rose quickly, lunging at the computer and scrolling through the playlist.  She dared not turn around, lest he be hurt by her rabbit-fear.  He had no idea that he was the first since… And he could never know.

“Aha!  Matchbox Twenty.  Enjoy,” she declared, feigning cheer.

He was studying her when she spun around, his eyes questioning, questing for secrets best left untold.  It wasn’t an anger, but… confusion?  It reminded her of a child playing with a Rubik’s Cube somehow.  With a heavy sigh, he suddenly reached into his pocket.

“I almost forgot: Gretchen wrote you a pass.”

“Huh?”

Andrew held out a folded slip of paper, which she took gingerly. “Remember how I said you technically couldn’t be here, but Gretchen could exempt you?  I asked her and she did.  You’re clear through the term now.”

Autumn bit her lip, overwhelmed. “You… You didn’t have to-”

“I told you, the rules are bullshit anyway, and Gretchen’s like a mom.  You’re helping with my film. It’s fine.”

“Thank you,” she said quickly, tucking the slip into her jeans.  “The last thing I need is more crap from Logan.”

He moved past her, settling into his editing desk and gulping his coffee.  His words struck her then: 
Gretchen’s like a mom
.  In light of Veronica’s revelations in the dining hall, the statement took on a heavier meaning. 
At least he has someone, even if his aunt is not there
, she thought sadly.

“Hey, Autumn, can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Did anyone introduce you to the over-hyped but still entertaining, if only for people watching, Halloween dance?”

A lump formed in her throat at the very word.  Five simple letters that could strike terror into her very soul.  She’d abandoned all of her instincts about
him
at that dance, shoving away hesitation and becoming one more obedient lamb trotting off to slaughter on a tether.  What was
with
this fucking school and dances?

“Veronica’s going,” she managed, her voice hoarse.

He’d noticed the shift in her demeanor.  His face clouded over, eyes studying her suddenly rigid posture. 
Don’t ruin this
, she pleaded inwardly. 
You’re supposed to be safe.  No expectations.  No fear
.

“But you’re not?”

“I don’t do dances,” she replied, averting her gaze. 
Not even with you
.

“Oh.  I just… well, you know…”

He lost his words, choked on them as her body began to shudder.  In her ear,
he
whispered about how beautiful she was, how he wanted to taste her skin, and her stomach turned in revulsion.  She knew the signs:  panic attack looming. 
I have to go, I have to go, now-now-now
.

“I’m sorry, I forgot I have this Math thing…”

Her hand seized her bag abruptly, slinging it over her shoulder with a loud slap against her side.  She couldn’t bear to let him see what happened when the winds blew down the house of cards, how her insides howled and fierce storms ravaged her hungry frame. 
Go now!
  Distantly, she heard him ask something, but she shook her head, darting out of the suite and down the nearby steps.  Sneakers pounded the tiled stairs as she ran, heart pounding in rhythm with her frantic footfalls. 
Room, room, gotta get to my room
.  She reached desperately into her mind, struggling to find a melody to anchor her, to keep her from slipping into memories of lips and hands and a fist connecting with her body. 

It was a blur, time falling away until she jammed the Ativan beneath her tongue and coiled into a ball upon her bed.  Over and over, she sang a Janis Joplin song in her mind, just as Emma had suggested she do when the world spun away, sang until the medication steadied her breath and the waves of nausea subsided.  She was a smart therapist.  She understood that only music could speak to her when even her own words failed.

Lyrics are language
…

It was nearing ten now, she noted – over an hour had been lost.  It could be so much worse – often
was
so much longer.  Rubbing her eyes, she struggled to sit up and pawed her laptop, waking it from its electronic slumber.  Emma had asked her to journal after attacks now and bring the entries to sessions; reluctantly, she complied, if only because it did seem to help her stay present when the synapses misfired in her cerebral cortex.  With a click iTunes shuffled up an old Treble Charger song as she pounded the keys mercilessly.