One afternoon when my mother was running late and the girls had already gone, Jack claimed to be in love with Alexis based on her being so pretty and nice.
“They’re all pretty and nice,” I said. “We don’t actually know anything about any of them other than that.”
“It’s a good start,” Jack said. “And Alexis is my kind of pretty. Actually, I thought maybe you would be into her?” He checked my face. “That’s kinda why I brought it up?”
“Oh? No.” I didn’t see why he would think that.
He looked relieved that we weren’t into the same girl, but he remained suspicious.
“Yeah, well, who do you like then?” he asked.
“I mean, I don’t know any of them, dude,” I said. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I don’t know if I like any of them.”
“Okay, whatever. I know you’ve jerked off to one of them at least once by now. Which one was it?”
“Come on…” I began, and Jack punched my shoulder.
“See! Which one? Victoria, right?”
“Sylvie, you pervert.”
“Really?”
“What?”
“I didn’t think she was your type.”
I laughed. “What is ‘my type’？” and he gave me that blank look, that “Autumn” look as I’d come to think of it.
Maybe he thought I would be into Alexis because she had brown hair, brown eyes, and was about Autumn’s height. Victoria’s figure was closer to Autumn’s shape. Sylvie, blond with a willowy ballerina figure and tall enough to look me in the eyes without raising her face, is Autumn’s physical opposite in every way. Except that they are both beautiful.
“I don’t know,” I told Jack that day. “Sylvie seems like she’s…herself? And I like that.” Sylvie hadn’t gone to our middle school, and I wondered what Autumn knew about her, thought of her. Since Autumn wasn’t a cheerleader, maybe she hadn’t met her yet.
“Okay,” Jack said and went back to talking about Alexis. My interest in anyone besides Autumn, on any level, was enough for him.
I was so happy that summer. I thought that my plan was finally coming to fruition. Autumn’s cool friends liked me. She and I didn’t talk that much those summer weeks because we were both busy, so I didn’t notice that Autumn never mentioned them anymore.
What I should have noticed was that Autumn’s “friends” didn’t seem to talk about her anymore either.
five
It’s five thirty, and I’m still in my boxer shorts, still thinking about all my misjudgments. I sit on my bed, holding my phone, even though Sylvie hung up long ago. I look over at Autumn’s window. Her curtains are still closed.
Attempting to sound offhand, I type into my phone, Hey, whatcha up to?
I don’t expect a reply so quickly, so I’m happy—until I read it.
Writing.
Just the one word.
Autumn is where she wants to be right now, and that’s okay.
I get off my bed, pull a T-shirt over my head, and grab some pants. I clean my room to kill time and then head to the basement and put on a load of laundry. Back in the living room, I take down the rest of our tent, fold the blankets, and slide them into the linen closet. Autumn left half a glass of water on the coffee table. I finish it and wash and dry all our glasses.
I wish I had a dog. It would be good to have a dog that needed an evening walk. Autumn has always wanted a dog.
I go back upstairs and pick up my book. I’m not the voracious reader that Autumn is, but I almost always have a book I’m reading, slowly and steadily.
Autumn, though, I’ve seen her finish a novel, pause staring off into space for a minute like she’s receiving instructions, and then open another book. It’s as if her job is to read and she’s behind on her quota.
In elementary school, when she was particularly excited by a book, she would read it as we walked home, trusting me to make sure she didn’t run into anything. I remember being next to her and watching her cry as we walked, silent tears rolling down her cheeks, her gaze never wavering from the page. I also remember walking next to her as she laughed so hard that tears spilled out of the corners of her eyes.
I never get angry or sad or exhilarated by books the way Autumn does. It’s more of a break for me, some time spent as a detective or a spy before I go back to my real life. I usually forget a novel shortly after I’ve finished it. Books are Autumn’s real life. She is made of the stories she has read.