Change Of Season (44 page)

Opening her laptop, she checked her email quickly.  Aside from a short message from her Mom about the holidays, it was empty.  With a few clicks, she navigated to the website for Casteel Preparatory Academy, suddenly intrigued by Andrew’s comments.  Was Grant a former student?  Opening up the faculty directory, she clicked the profile for Paul Grant.

A Beep. 
You could sneak out, I suppose.  Live dangerously
.

Autumn bit her lip.  So tempting.

Not tonight. Grant’s probably outside waiting for me.

Speaking of the devil, she scanned his profile:  Biology professor, blah blah blah.  Papers, awards.  Research interests included heart disease, apparently.  That triggered an uneasy feeling she couldn’t quite put her finger on the cause of… Another text arrived, distracting her.

Not tonight means an eventual  yes.  Validated!

Autumn giggled, sending her reply: 
Stop being all One Tree Hill and get some sleep.  Breakfast?

Response: 
Absolutely.  Gotta keep the gossip mongers in business.  Goodnight, Wendy.

With a final reply to her self-proclaimed ‘Lost Boy’, she returned to the novel that Grant had unabashedly composed for his profile.  More boring drivel about his research with words that were far too complex this late at night… No family – shocker.  And then, she saw it, listed under education:

Casteel Preparatory Academy, With Honours.  1980
.

Suddenly, it all clicked.  His hatred of her from moment one…  His constant staring… The pursuit in the tunnels that was more likely him than not… And then, there was the page Nikki had left her in the library:  a diagram of
the heart,
Grant’s research focus. 

More disturbing:  he’d gone to school with Mary Kennedy, the Polaroid girl.  The one who looked uncannily like her.

Autumn slammed the laptop shut, her gaze drawn to the drawer beneath her bed. 
Class of 1980
.  For the first time in her tenure at Casteel, Autumn very much wanted to talk to Professor Paul Grant.

TWENTY-FOUR

Toronto; December 24
th
, 2011

“Stop fidgeting.  It’s contagious.”

“Easy for you to say.  You’re not the one about to meet the parents.”

Autumn rolled her eyes, swatting Andrew’s arm.  “I told you that my parents are cool.  My dad’s a smart-ass like me, and my mother’s just incredibly smart and somewhat goofy.  She’ll probably bake your favourite cookies on demand if she gets wind of what you like.  You have nothing to worry about.”

The train rocked gently as it pulled away from Union Station, headed east. 
Ten minutes away from our stop
.  Autumn was in full-force poker face.  She, too, was unsure of how her parents would behave over the weekend.  Her mother had immediately empathized as Autumn gave the Cliff notes version of Andrew’s orphan life, but her father had been very choosy with his words.  In Neil Brody’s world, this meant scrutiny.  Even Chris had been flustered at his first meeting with her father.

“Wait a minute:  if they’re so relaxed, why did we take the train?  I heard you decline a drive.”  Andrew’s leg continued to bounce up and down erratically, his anxiety reaching a fever pitch.

“No matter how nice Dad is, did you really want to spend an hour in a car with no escape?”

Andrew nodded.  “Good point.”

“I’m the brains of this operation, Daniels.  I can’t promise that bodes entirely well, but it can’t go too awry.”  Autumn glanced out the window beside her, twirling a lock of hair as houses and billboards flew by. 
Please be kind, Dad.  He’s so fragile, like I am
.

“No matter how bad this goes, it can’t diminish my unhealthy glee over Grant’s sudden illness,” Andrew said, chuckling.  “Serves him right for stalking around in the winter cold, being a jerk.”

Autumn nodded.  “I still can’t understand why he’s so damn rude.”  Silently, she added,
I also can’t stand having to wait until January to try and get some answers about Mary from him
. 

“Now, key question:  is he truly the Severus Snape of Casteel Preparatory Academy, or is he the Dolores Umbridge?”

Autumn laughed.  “Last I checked, Grant doesn’t wear pink.”

“But Snape is redeemable!  Umbridge is pure evil and literally devotes her life to torturing Harry at every turn.  Can’t you see Grant doing that?” Andrew asked.

“Hmm, maybe.  But then again, Dolores is an idiot, whereas Snape is rather gifted academically.  Grant has a slew of awards and whether or not he’s miserable, he does know his biology.”

Andrew shrugged.  “Snape stands, I guess.  Unless we want to call him Voldemort.”

“I reserve that title for our lovely Headmistress, Elise Logan,” Autumn grumbled. 

“Ah, the
Harry Potter
generation!  Proud member.  What will the
Hunger Games
generation compare their fandom to?”

“Our federal government?”

Andrew smiled.  “Yep, pretty much.  Give it until 2020 and the massacre will be televised and streamed worldwide.  Speaking of commercial, what’s Christmas like at your place?”

Autumn shrugged.  “We hate it because it’s such a consumer bullshit day now, and my parents are lapsed Catholics, so needless to say, the religious aspect drives them bonkers.  We seldom celebrate with the extended family because of our cynicism, so it’s usually movies, booze and far too much food, with a few presents in the mix.  Oh, and Scrabble.”

“Scrabble?”

“It’s tradition.  I’ve won all but one of the last five years.  Benefits of being a writer.”  Autumn winked.  “It’ll be nice to have fresh meat at the table.”

Fists raised, Andrew feigned a jab and an uppercut.  “It’s on!  You’re going down in the first round!”

“Ha!  Let’s see you pull off 138 points in a turn – twice in one game.” 

Autumn, being an only child, was fiercely competitive and a very sore loser, and she knew it.  She’d sulked for two hours when her mother won four years prior.  Her mother had made an apple crisp to console her.

A speaker crackled overhead, jarring the duo.  “
Now arriving at Danforth Station.  Danforth Station, this stop
.”

“They’re playing our song,” Autumn murmured.  “Come on.”

Bags slung over their respective shoulders, they disembarked, shivering at the cold wind that greeted them.  With a silent prayer for parental mercy, Autumn led Andrew to the parking lot, where her father had promised he’d be waiting.  If there was a Christmas miracle, her mother would be there instead.  Hers was a gentler touch when it came to her dating life.

A familiar balding form waved thirty feet away and she immediately winced. 
Damn
. 

“He seems happy to see us.  Does he enjoy boyfriend dismemberment that much?” Andrew whispered.

“Nah, he’s a bamboo reeds under the nails kind of guy,” Autumn joked weakly.

Andrew paused at the bottom of the stairs.  “Before we meet him, I just wanted to say that… Well, this is the kindest thing anyone’s done for me in a long time.  You continue to amaze me and, well, thank you for inviting me home.”

Autumn flushed, bowing her head.  “I couldn’t let you spend the holidays alone.  It wasn’t right.  And for the record, I threatened to not come home if they said no, so keep that in mind.”

His face immediately sank into one of gloom.  “I’m dead.”

“Autumn!  Hurry up!” her father shouted across the lot.

“Coming!” 

With a furtive glance at Andrew’s blanched complexion, she made her way around parked cars and lamp posts, arms outstretched to meet her father’s bear hug. 
Daddy’s girl through and through,
as her mother often said.  Her father kissed her cheek and stepped back, scrutinizing her.

“You’re not sleeping enough, Autumn.”

“Exams, Dad.  You’re the ones who want me to pass.  That means endless studying.  Nice to see you too, by the way.”

Neil Brody smiled, tousling her hair.  “Oh hush, kid.  You know I’ve missed you terribly.  Teasing your mother is not nearly as fun without you there to join in.”  With a clearing of his throat, his hand stretched out towards Andrew.  “I’m Neil Brody, Autumn’s father.”

Andrew’s quivering hand met his, managing a firm shake.  “Andrew Daniels.  Thank you, sir.  The dorms aren’t pleasant over the holidays.”

“I can’t imagine they are.  Come sit up front with me.”  Neil held open the passenger door, staring pointedly at his daughter.

“Daddy, I know you’re bitter I’m not a lesbian yet, but do you have to be all Robert De Niro with him?”

“That PFLAG t-shirt was expensive,” Neil replied, not missing a beat.  “What are you so afraid of, Autumn?”

“It’s okay.  I can sit up front,” Andrew insisted, determined to appear agreeable.

“Dad!  Seriously?  Can’t you wait until the house?” Autumn protested.

Neil chuckled sinisterly.  “I suppose I can use the time to contemplate my methods.  Jump in, darling daughter!”

Rolling her eyes, she yanked open the back door and shoved Andrew inside before sliding into the passenger seat with a huff and crossing her arms over her chest.  Still laughing, her father closed her door, walking slowly around the van.

“He likes you.”

“I doubt it,” Andrew mumbled, slinking down in his seat.

“No, he does.  If he already hated you, he wouldn’t be laughing about this act of his.”  As her father opened his door, she stuck her tongue out at him.  “Look, you’re scaring the crap out of him.  Not everyone gets your sense of humour, you know.”

Her father smiled, checking his mirrors and pulling out towards the road.  “Autumn, I am simply a concerned father who likes to find out more about the people with whom his child associates.  Is that so wrong?  For example,” he continued, glancing back at Andrew, “political views?”

“Leftist libertarian by nature, NDP by vote?” 

“She prepped you, didn’t she?”

Autumn groaned.  “I did not!  You ask different ridiculous questions each time.  This is why we can’t have nice friends, Dad.  You’re incorrigible.”

Andrew nodded.  “She didn’t prep me.  I did my final documentary on the Occupy movement and homelessness in St. James Park.”

“You don’t have to prove yourself,” Autumn said.

“I’d like to hear more about that.  You study Film, then?  Who are your influences?” 

Autumn glanced at the dashboard clock. 
Five minutes more of this.  Oh my God, why didn’t I insist on taking the TTC to our front door
?

“Well, I’m interested in fiction and documentaries, so my influences are broad.  My documentary style is highly informed by Mark Achbar, Kirby Dick and Michael Moore, with a healthy dose of Morgan Spurlock’s humour.  In terms of fictional work, I love David Fincher’s style.  Michel Gondry’s work on
Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind
is pitch-perfect.  Tarantino is a mad genius.  Peter Jackson is flawed in not knowing when to close a film or scene at times, but his visuals are beautiful.  Rob Sheridan works with concerts, but damn, I love his eye.”  Andrew paused, looking sheepish.  “I tend to get carried away when discussing film.”

Neil grinned, signaling for the turn onto their street.  “Passion about one’s work is nothing to apologize for.  Ask Autumn about her favourite authors and she’ll go on for hours if you let her.”

“It was an hour and ten minutes, and I was pissed that my cousin Erin had the audacity to call Stephenie Meyer the greatest author of the last century,” Autumn explained.  “So Andrew, welcome to our lovely street.  Doesn’t it look like a gigantic Lite Brite barfed on all the neighbours’ houses?”

“Um, yeah.  I take it that ‘all out’ is the watchword here?”

Neil groaned.  “What a goddamn waste of electricity!  Sheep, the lot of them.  And here we are!”

“Home sweet light-free home,” Autumn enthused.  “Is Pan pacing at the door?”

“Pacing
and
chirping.”  The van parked, her father killed the engine and glanced back at Andrew.  “Sarah’s been baking all morning.  I hope you’re not diabetic, although when she’s done with you, you will be.”