Change Of Season (6 page)

Casteel definitely hires the best,
Autumn mused.  Professors teaching high school students?  That was an oddity. 
Then again, with the post-grad program, they kind of have to, I guess
.  Like many boarding schools, Casteel offered a finishing year program, wherein students could take courses bridging to university for more thorough preparation.  In some cases, credits could be transferred to a post-secondary institution.  Ryerson, one of Autumn’s ideal universities, accepted the Writing courses offered at post-grad.

“Alright, grab your seats, stuff the gossip, and let’s get down to work!” the professor declared with a grin.  “I’m George St. James, but you are all free to call me George.  I have several degrees, which do not interest anyone outside of the administrators of Casteel and Ryerson, where I teach part-time during the summer.  What matters to you, as future writers, is the fact that I am a repeatedly published author, with ten years of experience teaching the craft.  In plain English:  I know my shit, so trust me.”

The class tittered as Autumn smiled. 
He even works at Ryerson?  Taking the post-grad credit sounds better by the second
.  With a flourish, George St. James passed out the single page syllabus, quietly greeting students he presumably knew from previous years.

“For those of you new to the program, you’ll notice something different about this outline from the packages you’ve received all day.  There is no week-by-week breakdown of topics.  In fact, aside from my name, contact information and the standard academic honesty policy disclaimer I’m forced to include as if you were all five year-olds, there’s very little.  Simply put:  I cannot begin to predict what you bring to the table, and what skills you seek to refine.  I firmly believe in the class dictating direction,
within reason
.”  At this, he glanced slyly at an incredibly tall male student upfront.  “So no, we cannot discuss how to write erotica, Mr. Hall.  Not even in grade eleven.”

“I still feel it is a valuable form of literature that serves a great purpose in society, and is therefore worthy of study,” Hall countered playfully, to the amusement of the friend behind him.

“Study it on your own time,” George replied casually.  “Don’t forget lubrication.”  The class laughed as he continued, “Eventually, we will cover all of the core elements of this class as dictated by the oh-so-glorious provincial standards from the Ministry of Education.  The order, however, is up to you.”

Autumn skimmed the outline, noting the listed grade components and their weighted worth.  There was an exam, worth 15% of the final grade, which seemed low until she noted the final novella, due in class, that was worth 40% overall when combined with the oral presentation of it. 
Shit!
  If there was anything Autumn loathed, it was public speaking.  Veronica hadn’t been wrong when she’d determined her to be too shy for Drama; Autumn often threw up before
and
after oral presentations.  The remaining 45% was split into assignments and class participation – again, public speaking. 
Maybe Emma can write him a note
? Autumn mused.  Her grades needed to be stellar this year, both for her future aspirations and to keep her parents and Headmistress Logan off her ass.

“What’s the participation about?” a petite Japanese girl asked upfront.

“You’re new; what’s your name?” he asked.

“Azure Amaya,” she replied.  “I transferred from Film.”

“Welcome, Azure!” George replied with genuine warmth.  “For those who are beginning to panic, participation is graded on several factors, including attendance, contributing to discussions, and offering to read pieces aloud.  However, I also have a slot in my office door, wherein you can slip written suggestions for class writing prompts, or any additional thoughts you might have about a class.  People, relax:  I’m not out to fail you.  It’s honestly a cushion for those of you whose writing needs work, if you follow me.”

Autumn was immediately relieved, and smiled as she flipped open her book. 
I should suggest discussing that video from last class!  Maybe we could even critique Adichie’s work somehow?
  Excited at this prospect, she quickly scribbled down the suggestion on a page, then tore it out and folded it into a neat square.  

A discussion began of introductions, and their structure or purpose.  Sarah, whom Veronica had introduced to her at lunch, was one of the more active participants in the light-hearted banter.  Autumn envied her the poise and confidence with which she spoke.  Her words commanded the entire room’s attention, and George obviously regarded her highly.  Subtly, their instructor began tossing in side comments, intent on drawing out something in particular.  Autumn felt as if something obvious was being overlooked, but couldn’t pinpoint it.  Judging from the furrowed brows of a few of her classmates, she wasn’t the only one stumped.

“You’re giving me devices, giving me themes, and some incredibly important tips on the development of a good introduction versus a boring one that makes the reader toss your book aside in a rage,” George said.  “But you’ve missed one key thing that traditional storytelling has often employed in the past, but tends to avoid now.”

“Cliché,” Autumn suddenly said aloud, her stomach sinking as heads turned.

“Elaborate,” George said with a smile.

“Um…  Well, fairy tales began with ‘Once upon a time’, for example, or ‘There was once a young girl’, blah blah blah.  Margaret Atwood shreds the concept in one of her stories.”  Autumn swallowed hard, willing herself to finish her point.  “You see it far less now, unless it’s being parodied for comedic effect.”

“Bingo!  Your name is?”

“Autumn Brody,” she replied quietly.

“A pleasure to have you in the program,” he replied, continuing on. “Creative writing endeavours were once so formulaic that we literally began each story with one of a series of clichéd openers.  For the record: if you hand me a story with an earnest usage of such an opener, it’s an immediate grade level deduction in my class.  Don’t do it.  So, when we hear these sorts of lines, we assume we’re beginning a story, right?”

A collective murmuring and a nod began.

“Your homework assignment tonight will be to destroy convention.  I want a 500 to 1000 word drabble of sorts, on any topic you choose, with any number of characters.  The rough draft will be due at the beginning of class, and we’ll work towards a final version by the end of class.  The only stipulation I have about your drabble is this:  you
must
end the story with the phrase ‘It was a dark and stormy night’.  There can be no other sentence afterwards, and it must be verbatim.  You follow me?”

Genius
, Autumn thought, her mind instantly awash in a series of ideas for her piece. 
I have to get into the Media Studies building tonight.  I need atmosphere
.  As chairs slid backwards and papers rustled, it dawned on her that class was already over – and she was disappointed.  Packing up her belongings and slipping her black leather bag over her shoulder, she made her way towards the front of the room, where her professor was gathering his books and tucking them neatly into a worn briefcase on the desk.

“Um, excuse me?”

He glanced up and smiled brightly.  “Autumn!  Thank you for steering everyone in the right direction. How can I help you?”

Autumn held out her note timidly.  “I would take it to your office, but since you’re here...”

“Of course.”  He took the page and immediately unfolded it.  “Let me guess:  you have Kearney?”  As she nodded, he added, “I introduced him to that video.  It’s a mandatory presentation in my post-grad course, actually.  I would be happy to bring it to the table in this class, though; it’s a very powerful concept, especially for writing of other cultures.”

“That’s what I thought, too.”  Autumn felt herself relax slightly. 

“It may take me until next week to tug us into that direction, but I’ll definitely get to the video soon.  Thank you for suggesting it.  I’ll see if I can dig up Adichie in my disaster of a library.”  George ran a hand through his hair absently.  “I look forward to your story tomorrow.”

Mumbling thanks, Autumn slipped out into the hall, her head just a little higher now that the day was finished. 
I survived my first day at Casteel
, she thought happily. 
And other than the jerk in Biology, no one besides Logan has pissed me off yet
.  She followed the herd of students down a wide staircase, taking the three floors to ground level and pushing out onto the street.  Her homework in most classes was fairly minimal, so she’d have plenty of time to focus on her story for St. James. 
A dark and stormy night… I have to bring it to a dark and stormy night.
  Autumn was so lost in thought, she bumped into another student who’d halted in front of her to talk to friends.

“Sorry,” she blurted out quickly.  Then froze.

He looked like…

“No trouble,” the tall man before her replied, looking her over.  “Hey, are you new?”

It’s not him.  But he looks so much like him
.  “Um, yeah.  I’m sorry, I have to meet someone.”

Run, little rabbit.  Run, run, run
.

She hurried across the pavement, cutting into the quad and storming towards Ashbury, trying to talk herself down from a full-blown freak out. 
Not him, not him, it’s okay, it’s safe
.  The closer she got to her dorm, the safer she felt, and her mind steadied. 
He won’t get me here
.  She hadn’t even told Heather what school she’d transferred to, just in case
he
came around Jarvis.

A memory:  winter time, darkness.  After sunset.  A truck parked outside a familiar house.  The sleet pounded the windshield as she watched a girl buckle forward in pain.  She couldn’t save her.  Head met dashboard.  Blood grazed lips as teeth sunk into their delicate flesh.

It was a dark and stormy night
…

***

Dinner with Veronica had soothed her frazzled nerves.  They’d settled in over matching plates of Pad Thai, scribbling down the rest of their Math questions while chatting about musical theatre.  Veronica’s dream was to be on Broadway.  She was far less interested in Hollywood, although she was willing to work on films with less mainstream directors.  Tarantino was as big as she insisted she’d go – “Only because his dialogue is phenomenal!” she’d explained.  Autumn, being a voracious consumer of music, was fond of several musicals, including their mutual loves,
Les Miserables
and
Spring Awakening
.

“I’m shocked we never met at all when
Spring
was in town!” Veronica declared, scrunching her nose at a word problem.  “I rushed endlessly on weekends and even skipped class a few times for evening shows.”

“And I saw it ten times, because the stage seats and rush were so cheap,” Autumn added. 

“I got stage twice, but I wish I’d had it more often,” Veronica lamented.

“I had four shows on stage, but it was only because I got wind of the stage seats being on sale even earlier than Mirvish subscribers were told.  I pretty much had my pick.”

“Jealous!”  Veronica taped her pencil angrily on her page.  “You done question E yet?”

Autumn sighed. “I’m stuck there, too.  My brain’s not remembering this at all.”

“I know there’s a way to work it so we can get the missing angle over there,” she grumbled, pointing to it in Autumn’s book.  “But I forget the damn rule to use.”

“Screw it.  He should have taught more,” Autumn decided, shutting her book.  “Not like I didn’t try.”

“Hell yes!” Veronica slammed her book shut.  “I am free for the rest of the night!  Wanna do something?”

“I have more work to do,” Autumn admitted between bites of noodle.  “Creative Writing drabble.  Rough draft due in class.”

“Yuck!  That’s harsh for the first day.”

Autumn shrugged.  “Writing isn’t really work for me.  I usually write for a while every night anyway.  I just have to actually finish this in one day.”

Veronica sighed dramatically. “I guess I will just go sulk in my room with the latest issue of
Spin
, or see if Dora’s willing to leave her easel and watch some TV.  See you in Math?”

“I’ll be the one coughing while you’re making smart-assed remarks.”

Veronica’s hand gently brushed by Autumn’s shoulder, a friendly gesture as she carried her tray to the bins and departed.  As much as she enjoyed the hyperactive blonde’s companionship, nights were hard for Autumn.  Her thoughts grew louder when the sun set, a cacophony of voices from moments past as she struggled to focus. 

She needed to write.  She needed to bleed them out, so she could rest.

She stopped by her room to drop off the weighty Math text, clipping her shin off of a desk chair and cursing as she shoved it back into its proper place.  Taking only her notebook and two pens tucked behind her ears, Autumn set out towards the theatre, her mind shuffling together characters as she inhaled the cool air.  In a casual fishing expedition at dinner, she’d learned that the building was open to students via the main doors until seven, and a small locked side entrance until nine during the week – with special permissions added to Fobs by instructors for students requiring late access.  Lights out and lockdowns were at ten, giving Autumn the choice of returning to her room or hiding out in the building.  Tonight, she wanted to see what happened at closing to assess the odds of successfully sneaking in for the future, while she could still believably feign ignorance of policy.