“Autumn!”
The crunch of the leaves momentarily drowns out all sound. I slide sideways and am buried again. My left leg hangs out, and I draw it in toward my body, instinct telling me to hide even though I know it is silly.
“Autumn?” His voice is close now. I want to burrow deeper and wait for him to leave, but I know that that will not work. I shift upward so that I am sitting in the pile.
Finny is standing three feet in front of me, his arms crossed over his chest. He’s frowning at me.
“I spent all afternoon raking both yards,” he says. I look around. I’ve scattered half the pile on to the grass again.
“Sorry,” I say. His anger both fascinates and frightens me; I see it so rarely. For a moment, I study his stance, his narrowed eyes. I carefully remember the tone of his voice when he spoke. Everything about him is important. There is a beat of silence. He rolls his eyes and sighs.
“It’s fine,” Finny says. One corner of his mouth turns up. “That’s what I get for putting off bagging until tomorrow. I should have known an unguarded pile of leaves would be too great of a temptation for you.”
I have to look away now. It hurts for him to smile at me like that, a friendly, easy smile that says nothing in particular, and therefore tells me everything I need to know about his feelings for me.
I thought that I would have spent the rest of September, the rest of my life, avoiding Finny, but I have not. Nothing has changed. I loved him the very first morning I stood at the bus stop with him and every night I sat across a dinner table from him. It does not matter that one of us now knows; it doesn’t change anything.
“I’ll fix it,” I say. “I’ll even bag them up for you.”
“No,” he says. “It’s fine. Really.” When I look up at him, I see that his brief anger has evaporated, and his face is clear of anything but amusement. “What’s the thing people say?” Finny asks. His brow furrows again but in a different sort of way. “The more things change, the more they stay the same?”
I stumble up and try to brush myself off; suddenly I am itchy and cold. “I should clean up. I’m supposed to be ready to go when Mom and Dad get home.”
“You have leaves in your hair,” Finny says. “And in your tiara. And everywhere.”
I raise my hand and run my fingers through my hair and he does not move. The sun is gone now, and the evening shifts around us as cars’ headlights throw their light at us and pass on. I see his handsome face and his half smile and the golden lock of hair hanging in his face.
I love you, Finny, I think.
“Where are you going?” he says. I cannot help my frown.
“Family Dinner,” I say.
“Oh,” he says. My next words surprise me, but Finny does not seem startled at all.
“My father’s decided he wants us to be a regular family,” I say.
“Sounds familiar,” Finny says.
“Oh,” I say. “I heard about that.”
Finny’s father invited Finny and Angelina out for dinner. It’s scheduled for next month.
“It’s okay, I guess,” he says, and I’m glad. Okay means he isn’t hurt or resentful. Okay means he isn’t pinning too high of hopes on the man. A bit of the burden I’ve carried eases. But it won’t last forever. There will always be something I cannot protect him from. Sylvie may break his heart again. The tendons in his legs could tear at his next soccer game. Someday someone he loves will die.
My parents’ headlights flash across us.
“Have a good dinner,” he says.
“You too,” I say, and I think that he understands what I mean, because he nods. We turn away from each other without saying good-bye. I hear the crunch of the leaves under his feet fade away as I walk the long lawn toward the car.
“Were you and Finny jumping in the leaves?” Mom asks when I slide into the back seat. I look over myself to see if I’m still covered in leaves.
“No,” I say. When I close the door, the lights shut off, and I see what she must have seen—back in the shadows, someone tall and lean is pulling himself up out of the leaves and dusting himself off.
36
I am reading Wuthering Heights. It was assigned for school, and I woke up this morning and decided to read the first chapter in bed. It is late afternoon and I am still there. An hour ago, I finished the novel and fell asleep. I dreamed fitfully of Heathcliff locking me away, and when I woke, I picked the book up again and started over.
I do not think Cathy is a monster.
Jamie calls to tell me that he has a present for me. He went to a movie with Sasha this afternoon, the kind with guns and explosions that I refuse to see and Sasha is always up for. After a day spent in bed reading, I have a groggy feeling of unreality, as if I am only watching everything that is happening.
“Are you okay?” Jamie says.
“Yeah,” I say.
“You sound funny.”
“I was reading,” I say.
“Well, I’m coming over,” he says, “so try to be in one piece for me.”
After hanging up the phone, I stand in the middle of my room, unsure of what to do now. I stretch my arms above my head and my mind clears enough to think that I should get ready to see him. As I brush my hair, I think with some worry of Jamie driving in the snow, until I remember that it is a sunny autumn day; it was only snowing inside my book. It was snowing, and the narrator was seeing the remains of Cathy’s tragic mistake.
***
The sun is bright but the breeze carries the promise of a chill. Unaware that they have stayed past their season, my mother’s roses sway in this breeze and scatter a few petals among the red and gold leaves. I wonder if they can feel the cold. I wait for Jamie on the back porch steps.
I love Jamie just as much as I always have.
My love for Finny is buried like a stillborn child; it is just as cherished and just as real, but nothing will ever come of it. I imagine it wrapped up in lace, tucked away in a quiet corner of my heart. It will stay there for the rest of my life, and when I die, it will die with me.
One of the rose petals blows across the yellow leaves and stops on the toe of my boot.
I stare at that rose petal until I hear Jamie’s car stop in the driveway. I look up and see him smiling and closing the door.
“Hello, pretty girl,” he says, and I smile back. His handsome face surprises me as if I am seeing it for the first time. He sits down next to me and nudges me with his elbow.
“You awake?” he asks. I nod. This is my life, I realize. And I haven’t made any tragic mistakes yet. I’ve made a choice, yes, but no one suffers for it but me, and in the end, all will be well.
“How was the movie?” I ask.
“Awesome. And then we went to lunch and I got you this.” He hands me a hard plastic egg, the kind that snaps together that you get for a quarter from a machine outside of cheap diners. I laugh and Jamie grins at my response. It breaks open with a cracking sound. Inside is a poorly painted rubber dinosaur. Its eyes are wide as if it has been startled awake. I laugh again.
“I’ll name it after you and keep it on my desk,” I say.
“And this,” Jamie says, and he hands me a pink bouncy ball. Before I can throw it against the steps, he holds his fist out again. Jamie opens his fingers and a wire ring with a plastic stone drops into my palm. The stone is purple and as big as one of my knuckles.
“I spent all my quarters,” he says.
It almost sparkles in the weak light. He gave me another charm for our anniversary and he spent all his quarters for me on the afternoon we were apart. I cannot lose him.
“Thank you,” I say. “I’ll treasure it forever.”
Jamie kisses me and I lean against his shoulder and listen to him talk about the movie. He does not notice that my mind is far away.
37
Norm
ally our group haphazardly trades Christmas presents the last week of school, but Angie convinced us to do something special this year. On the last day of the semester, we exchange gifts at our favorite restaurant.
Each of my friends gives me a tiara. They planned it out together and assigned colors. Two weeks before, my very first tiara slipped off my head as I ran across the school parking lot, and it was run over before I could grab it. Led by Jamie, my friends found my distress amusing, and now led by him, they each try to replace the lost favorite. Jamie gives me a shoe rack he has converted into a “tiara stand,” a cool rock that he found, and a burned CD of songs that have meaning to us.
My friends follow my suggestion to each wear the tiara they gave me so that I can better judge which is my new favorite. The waiters think we are celebrating a birthday.
I needed this; for the past few weeks, I’ve had this melancholy following me around. I’m happy today, and I think that maybe things will be better now.
I bought Alex a remote control car that does flips, Angie two vintage paperback romance novels, Noah a set of walkie-talkies, and Brooke a yellow silk scarf with brown flowers.
For Jamie, I found a Polaroid camera at a garage sale. He says he will use it to provide proof to win arguments and record important moments in his life, such as beating Noah at chess or stealing traffic cones.
I bought Sasha a rose bush, because she told me she always wanted one when she was a little girl. It’s sitting in a black plastic bucket and looks nearly dead this close to true winter. The boys laugh, but Sasha names it Judith and asks the waiter to bring another chair for it to sit in.
Sasha and Alex are real friends now, not just pretending to make things less awkward for us. Alex gives her plastic fruit, and they both laugh and will not tell us what the joke is about. Jamie vows to get it out of him later, and then to tell me.
Angie is still with Preppy Dave, and we all still like him. He’s meeting us at the movies after dinner. They are happy. They look and act so different yet something about them tells everyone they’re a couple, even if they’re just standing next to each other.
On our last double date with Noah and Brooke, we girls decided to have a double wedding. We draw sketches of our dresses on napkins and annoy the boys by making decisions every time we are together. Tonight we have agreed to have at least five swans wandering around the ceremony site, which will hopefully be in an abandoned church at midnight.
We are laughing, and I look around and I cannot believe that only a few years ago, I did not know a single one of them.
“I propose a toast,” Jamie says.
“You should stand on your chair,” Noah says.
“I think that would be the last straw for the staff,” Brooke says.
“Speech! Speech!” Alex says. Jamie raises his glass.
“To us,” he says. And we drink to that.
38
Winter hits me hard this year. There is no sky this winter and not a single leaf clinging to a single twig. The icy wind burns through my gloves and my fingers ache until they fall numb and silent.
I cannot find anything to read. I wander through the shelves of the library, and take piles of books with me, but each one disappoints after fifty pages and I let it drop to the floor.
After school, I take naps in my bed and at dinnertime get up without fixing the sheets again. By then the sun is already setting, and there is nothing to do but eat and get through as much homework as I must before going to bed. I know that I should stop sleeping through the afternoons; I’ve started waking an hour or more before my alarm, and I lay awake in the dark and watch my window go from black to gray.
That’s when I think about things that I never let myself think about during the day.
At school, I am exhausted from my early waking, and by last period, I have a terrible struggle to stay awake. My English teacher doesn’t like me as much as I think she should. When she sees me doze off twice in class, she decides that I’m not a good student no matter what I write or say in class. I stop participating in the discussions.
When I come home in the afternoon and the cold gray hours are stretching on before me, I cannot stop myself from sliding under the covers and hiding in obliviousness.
I fight with Jamie because he doesn’t understand anything I say. I hate him for not truly knowing me deep down inside, and at the end of our dates, I cling to his coat and beg him to never leave me. He says he never will.
It snows a few times, but a wet sloppy snow that collects dirt and makes puddles. It is never enough to cancel school, never enough to be beautiful.
It makes sense that Finny loves Sylvie and doesn’t miss me.
At least once a week, he and Aunt Angelina come to dinner, or we go to them, and The Mothers talk while we eat, and afterward I say I have homework and I go upstairs or cross the lawn alone. I cannot sit in silence watching television with him. I cannot bear our small talk as he passes the remote to me. He is the better one of the two of us; he always was. Perhaps he is relieved to not have me holding him back anymore. He has so many friends now. He has Sylvie. It makes sense.
My father is back to his old schedule, no more Family Dinners, and I am angry with my mother for being upset. She should have expected this, she should have known better, and I hate her for making me sad for her. I have enough without having to worry about her too.
My hands are dry and red and my lips chap. I look in the mirror and do not think I am pretty. Some days, I do not bother to wear my tiaras, until people’s comments and questions make it easier to just grab any old one on my way out the door. I do not bother to see if it matches my outfit.
I cannot write anything good. I try and I fail. I realize now that it’s all fake. It always was. I turn off my computer and rip up my paper.
I used to say to myself that I just have to get through winter, that I just have to wait. That things would get better then.
And I know that winter is supposed to end, but things are not always the way they are supposed to be.
39
My mother sits down on my bed. I am lying on my side, facing the window. If I ignore her, she might go away.
“Autumn?” she says. Her voice is low. She thinks I am sleeping. “Autumn, we need to talk.” She runs her fingers through my hair and I let her; it feels good. She keeps stroking and the bristling resentment relaxes. I sigh.
“About what?”
“Can you sit up?”
“I’m tired.”
“I’m worried about you.” I shake her hands from my hair and sit up.
“I’m fine,” I say. “I’m just having trouble sleeping at night. It will be okay when winter is over. I just have to get through winter.”
“I think it’s more than that, honey,” she says. “I’ve made an appointment with Dr. Singh.”
At first, the statement is so ordinary that I do not know why she is telling me. Dr. Singh is her psychiatrist. She sees him every few months. But she keeps looking at me.
“For me?” I say. She nods and tries to touch my hair again. I flinch away again.
“I’m not depressed,” I say. “You are.”
“I know the symptoms,” she says.
“No. You’re just projecting on me. Everything is fine. When it’s warm again, I’ll feel better. That’s the only thing that’s wrong.”
“I’ll be picking you up early on Thursday,” she says, and she starts to get up.
“I don’t need drugs,” I say. She closes the door behind her. Her footsteps going down the stairs are the only sound. At dinner she says nothing, and the next day she lets me sleep.
***
The call from the office comes fifteen minutes into English class. I begin to pack my bag as soon as the intercom beeps. I want it all to be over already.
“There isn’t any homework,” Mrs. Stevens says. “Is there so
mebody you can get notes from?”
“Yes,” I say. I am standing now.
“Who?” she says. This is why I do not like her. I suspect her of suspecting things of me.
“Finn,” I say, and then I remember Jamie and Sasha have this class too. It wouldn’t help to take it back now. Mrs. Stevens looks surprised. She likes Finny; perhaps she doesn’t think he would associate with someone like me. The scattered whispers I hear tell me that a few of my classmates are surprised too.
“I can drop them by tonight,” Finny says. I wonder if he is sort of defending me. I don’t look at either of them when I leave.
***
My mother is sitting in the office in a tailored suit with leather pumps and a clutch purse in her lap. Her ankles are crossed and the secretary is laughing with her. She rises when I open the door and smiles at me.
“Have a nice day,” the secretary says to her, smiling too. I’m sure she could never imagine the rest of my mother’s life, the medication and the fights with my father, her times in the hospital. Sometimes I admire my mother’s ability to appear perfect; today I hate it.
My mother’s shoes click evenly on the linoleum as we walk down the hall.
“What class are you missing?” she asks.
“English.”
“Oh. Sorry. Too bad it couldn’t have been math,” she says. I shrug. “I love you,” she says.
“Mom,” I say. She doesn’t say anything else.
***
The office my mother brings me to has the smallest waiting room I have ever sat inside. It reminds me of my mother’s walk-in closet, the small, windowless room where Finny and I turned out the lights and told ghost stories in the middle of the day. I sit down on one of the padded plastic chairs and my mother tells the nurse my name. I flinch at the sound; I do not belong here. Two chairs down from me, an old man is bouncing his left leg, then his right, back and forth. Every once in a while, he snaps his fingers as if someone just called bingo before him.
“Damn,” he mumbles. Across the room from us, a large black woman is weeping silently. Both of her fists are stuffed with tissues. Still sobbing, she reaches in her purse and takes out a piece of gum, scattering tissues over the gray carpet.